Chapter 8 - The Smuggled Letter
By the end of my first week in the hospital, the nurses had become my closest allies. They knew my medical history, but thanks to the news covering the scandal of the "Oak Brook Medical Fraud," they also knew my personal history.
They acted as a fiercely protective barrier between me and the outside world.
No unapproved visitors were allowed on the floor. No phone calls were patched through to my room.
But toxicity has a way of seeping through the cracks if you aren't careful.
On Thursday morning, a young candy striper walked into my room holding a small, crumpled white envelope.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Ms. Lawson," the girl said nervously. "A woman in the lobby asked me to bring this up to you. She said she was your aunt and that it was a family emergency."
Chloe, who was sitting by the window reading a magazine, immediately stood up, her eyes narrowing. "What woman?"
"Older, blonde hair, wearing a lot of jewelry," the girl described.
"Aunt Beatrice," I sighed. Evelyn's sister. The ultimate enabler.
Chloe snatched the envelope from the girl's hand. "Thank you. Don't bring anything else up here from anyone claiming to be family, understand?"
The girl nodded quickly and hurried out of the room.
Chloe looked at the envelope as if it were coated in poison. "Do you want me to throw it in the biohazard bin?"
"No," I said, my voice steady. "Open it."
Chloe hesitated, then ripped the seal. She pulled out a single sheet of lined paper, clearly torn from a prison notepad. The handwriting was frantic, completely lacking the elegant cursive Evelyn usually prided herself on.
Chloe read it aloud.
"Maya. Please. You have to stop this. I am your mother. I raised you. I clothed you. I put a roof over your head. The conditions in here are inhumane. The food is terrible. I haven't slept in days. You have to tell the judge it was a misunderstanding. You know I love you. You know I only wanted what was best for our family. Don't let them do this to me. Call my lawyer. Tell them you forgive me."
Chloe stopped reading, her face flushed with anger. "She doesn't even ask how the surgery went. She doesn't even ask if you're alive."
I stared at the piece of paper. A year ago, a letter like that would have broken me. I would have felt the crushing weight of guilt. I would have sacrificed my own safety to ease her discomfort, believing that if I just tried hard enough, she would finally love me.
But that girl died on the operating table.
"Tear it up," I said coldly.
"Are you sure?" Chloe asked.
"Tear it into tiny, microscopic pieces, and throw it in the trash where it belongs," I instructed.
Chloe smiled, tearing the letter exactly as I asked. The paper fluttered into the wastebasket like dead leaves.
May you like
I didn't feel an ounce of guilt. I didn't feel pity.
I felt nothing for her at all. And that nothingness was the greatest freedom I had ever experienced.
