Chapter 2 - The Dying Mother
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The Boston wind was brutal that morning, whipping off the harbor and biting through the thin fabric of Erin’s wool coat. She sat on the hard plastic seat of the subway, staring blankly at her reflection in the dark glass as the train rattled toward St. Catherine’s Hospital.
Her gray uniform, bundled in a plastic bag at her feet, still smelled of old ice and humiliation.
Caroline’s words echoed in the rhythmic clatter of the train tracks. You mistake proximity for importance. Erin closed her eyes, fighting the sudden, hot sting of tears. She didn't want to be important. She just wanted to keep her mother alive.
When Erin pushed through the heavy glass doors of the oncology ward, the familiar, sterile smell of bleach and metallic medicine washed over her. She walked to room 412, her heart bracing itself the way it always did.
Mary Hale lay in the center of the mechanical bed, looking terribly small. Her skin was a translucent, fragile parchment, and the steady beep of the heart monitor was the loudest sound in the room.
“Erin, sweetie,” Mary whispered, opening her eyes as Erin approached. She offered a weak, trembling smile. “You’re here early. Did you get any sleep at the big house?”
“I got enough, Mom,” Erin lied smoothly, pulling a plastic chair to the bedside and taking her mother’s frail hand. “Mrs. Whitmore had a tough night, but she’s resting now.”
“You work too hard for them,” Mary sighed, her eyes closing again. “You should be living your own life. Not paying for mine.”
“Don't say that,” Erin said fiercely, squeezing her hand.
The door creaked open, and a tired-looking charge nurse stepped inside holding a clipboard. She offered Erin a sympathetic, entirely unhelpful smile.
“Miss Hale, do you have a moment?” the nurse asked softly.
Erin stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind her.
“It’s about the targeted immunotherapy,” the nurse said, looking down at her clipboard. “The insurance company formally denied the appeal this morning. They consider the treatment experimental at this stage of the cancer. The hospital cannot administer the next dose unless the out-of-pocket balance is cleared.”
Erin felt the air leave her lungs. “How much is the balance?”
“Fourteen thousand dollars,” the nurse replied apologetically. “And they need it by Friday, or she loses her spot in the trial.”
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Friday. The day of Nathaniel and Caroline’s wedding. Erin nodded blankly, her mind racing through numbers she already knew she didn't have. She had exactly four hundred dollars in her checking account.
“I’ll find it,” Erin whispered, staring at the sterile white floor. “Just keep her comfortable. I will get the money.”
