“Morning, Ms. Hewitt,” he says, nodding at Clara. “Hello, Cassandra.” He checks the monitor, then checks his tablet, looking at us with a small grin.
“So,” he says. “We had a cancellation.”
“The surgery?” I ask, hopeful.
“The week before Christmas,” he says and nods. “Thursday. It’s sooner than we’d planned, but the team can slot it in, and in your case, sooner is better.”
Clara’s shoulders do the tiniest slump of relief. “Sooner is better,” she repeats. “What does that change on my end?”
“It moves up pre-op testing, and unfortunately, the bills.” He glances at me not because he assumes, but because he knows I’ll ask. “Billing will reach out again today, but the deposit and a portion of the projected remainder will be due beforehand. I know that’s not easy during the holidays.”
That’s ten days away.
How much?” I hear myself ask.
“Billing generally handles this, but ballpark, I’d say…” His voice fades as I hear a number with too many zeroes.
Clara nods faintly, trying to be brave. The room tilts. Ten days. Exactly the mark Damien set last night. If I stick it out, if I obey, if I please him, I’ll have what we need one day early. If I fail, Clara doesn’t get that operating room table or that chance.
I swallow the truth back down where it belongs.
“We’ll get the money,” I tell him. “No matter what.”
“Excellent. We’ll go ahead and plan the surgery.”
“I can pay the deposit now,” I blurt out, thinking of the envelope of cash from last night.
Clara glances at me suspiciously. The schedule written on the envelope burns in my brain.
Ten days.
Ten days to keep my sister alive.
Dr. Miller’s voice is gentle as he says, “I’m aware of the burden. But if we wait much longer, we risk further damage. Your ejection percentage has stayed low despite the medication. Speaking from a medical perspective, the earlier date is a blessing. From a financial perspective?—”
“A curse,” Clara says evenly.
He doesn’t argue. He tells us in careful words what the plan is. A valve repair, possible replacement. He explains the risks in detail again, the repetition dulling their edge.
He answers Clara’s questions about recovery time and mine about home care. He doesn’t rush, responding thoroughly to every inquiry. He doesn’t sugarcoat anything either, which I appreciate.
“You’re in good hands,” he says as he leaves.
The room fills with a heavy silence after Dr. Miller closes the door. The little wreath suddenly looking like it’s working overtime to bring cheer. Clara presses her lips together, then lets out a dry laugh.
“I still can’t believe insurance won’t cover any of it,” she says. “Figures. The restaurant’s plan barely covers checkups; why would I expect it to cover a valve replacement?” She tips herhead back against the pillow. “Guess I should’ve aimed for a desk job with better insurance instead of tips.”
“We’ll manage,” I say a little too quickly.
“We?” She shoots me a look, then stares at the ceiling. “I remember Christmases where ‘we’ was you sweet-talking the utility company into giving us one more week on the lights.”
“Worked most of the time,” I mutter.
“Because you were twelve and dangerous with those freckles,” she says, shaking her head. “This isn’t a utility bill, Cassie. This is surgery.”
“I know that. And I’ll get the money.”
She studies me so long that my skin begins to prickle.
