“Sure,” I say. “But I need you to call someone in billing for me first.”
She blinks. “Billing?”
“Billing.”
“But it's after hours. The billing office is closed.”
I look at her pleasantly. “I think this place will be just as happy to take my money no matter what time it comes in.”
She picks up the phone.
“Thank you,” I say. And then I take the selfie and sign the autograph. A small price to pay.
Very occasionally, fame is useful. Especially when I can use it on behalf of the people I love.
I give Sadie time to vent on the way home.
She needs it. She's been holding it together all day, in the trailer, in the waiting room, through the doctor's visit and her mother's complaints and all of it.
Now it's dark and we’re alone and she can finally let some of it out. So I drive and I listen and I don't try to fix anything yet.
She vents about her mother’s processed-foods-only diet that’s doing nothing good for her kidneys. The smoking she won’t quit. The medications she takes inconsistently. It’s the kind of venting you do when you love someone who makes loving them as difficult as possible.
I keep driving. Keep listening. Keep her hand in mine on the center console.
“And now,” she says, “I’m going to have a bill for tens of thousands of dollars that I have no clue how I’m gonna pay.”
“Ain’t gonna be a bill.”
“Of course there will! You think these hospitals take payment plans in the form of wishes and prayers?”
“I took care of it.”
Her eyes narrow. “What does that mean, you took care of it?”
“It means I paid it. It's done.”
“Walker.” Her voice has gone almost scared. “You can't do that.”
“Except I did.”
“You have to undo it.”
“Can't undo it. It's settled.” I keep my eyes on the road. “There's something else. I've arranged for a caregiver to come by your momma’s place every day. Starting Monday.”
The silence this time is longer.
“I can’t let you do that,” she says in a small voice.
“You can and you will.” I take her hand in mine. “Don't fight me on this. You're not going to let your momma go without what she needs out of sheer pride. You’re smarter than that.”
“It's too much.” Her voice is tight. “It will take me years to pay you back.”’
“I’ll be mad if you even try,” I say. “Let’s be real, darlin’. You know the difference between your financial situation and mine. What I just spent at that hospital? To me, that's the equivalent of buying you a soda from the vending machine.”
“That is not even close to accurate.”
“Financially speaking it is. It's like a few dollars tossed to a guitarist busking on the corner. Spare change in the sofa cushions. I’ve had accountants embezzle ten times that from me and I didn’t even notice.”
