“There’s progress about the money.”
Her eyes sharpen. She’s thirty going on forever, the girl who turned into a parent at eighteen because she had to. “You’ve been to the financial counselor again.”
“Yes,” I say. That part is true. “And I’ve been making calls. There’s a loan being processed.”
Clara’s mouth sets in a line that means she’s trying to be polite but failing. “A loan.”
“It’s not predatory,” I tell her. “It’s a decent rate. It’ll bridge us, and then?—”
“And then you’ll be paying for me for the next decade.” She squeezes my hand. “You didn’t spend four years getting that degree and working your way into that boutique just to feed a bank because my heart decided to be dramatic.”
“It’s not dramatic,” I say, sharper than intended. “It’s failing.”
Her expression softens. “I know.” She takes a breath, letting it out slowly. Gallows humor flickers. “I keep telling it to get it together, but it’s very disobedient.”
“What do they call it again?” I ask even though I already know the answer. I want to hear it said out loud, so the words have to be shared between us and not just echoing in my head.
She lifts a shoulder. “The working theory is that I was unknowingly born with a cardiomyopathy, and now it’s all grown up and feral. Plus, there’s a valve that’s been leaking for a while.” She purses her lips. “Severe regurgitation they call it, as if I’m a faucet.”
“That’s not?—”
“It’s just a word.” She taps her sternum. “It means the door doesn’t close right, and blood goes backwards. The pump gets tired, then the rest of me does too.”
“And the surgery?—”
“Mitral valve repair, if they can manage it.” She’s quoting, being careful. “Replacement, if they have to. They’ll put me on the machine, they’ll stop my heart, they’ll fuss with it, and then they’ll ask it to wake up again. You know, easy peasy.”
My hands are trembling. I tuck them under my thighs. “They’ll fix it.”
“They’ll improve it,” she corrects. I’m not sure if that’s realism or a safety trick, so we don’t get crushed by hope. “That’s the plan.”
It’s like the horrible future is pressing its face against the window from outside. I can see it, and I can also see the man whose presence from last night is still somehow wrapped around me like a blanket. I feel his ribbon, ridiculous and real.
“You said a loan,” Clara’s voice shatters my thoughts. “How far along in the process?”
“It’s moving.” I avoid answering the question directly. “I talked to a woman yesterday. She said we should know within a week, but she says it’s almost certain.”
God, I hate lying to my sister. But there’s not a chance I’m telling her the truth about my agreement with Damien Kozlov.
“A week.” She looks at the little wreath on the door. “Do you think it’ll be clear by New Year’s? The financial counselor has been noisy about deductibles and maximums.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say. “It’ll clear in time.”
She studies me. “Cassie,” she says firmly, a warning and a plea. “Don’t sell your future to fix me.”
“I’m not. I’m… choosing.”
She squeezes my hand gently. “I do want to live.” She says it without drama, like telling me she wants tea with lemon. “But I don’t want your future to be the price.”
“You raised me,” I reply. “The return on investment is terrible, if I don’t return the favor.”
“That’s not how family works.” Her smile is genuine and brave. “We’re not a ledger.”
I think of The Velvet Ledger and have to swallow a laugh.
“It’s being handled. Let me take care of it.”
The door opens before she can answer. Dr. Miller walks in. He has a gentle kindness that makes people trust him. He’s middle-aged, his hair graying at the temples. He probably jogs before sunrise every morning, then reads to his kids every night.
