Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I choke back a memory. Thinking of Mom makes Dad happy. It's not the same for me. It hurts too much. "Do you have enough to read?"
I look over the sparse room. It's decorated as much as the hospital will allow—the gold Buddha Mom kept on her dresser, a single framed photo of our family, a stack of trashy historical thrillers—but it's still sterile.
Free of warmth.
"Too much." He motions to the book sitting on his tray. "Mariah brought this yesterday." He calls the nurse by her first name. "Her husband spoke highly of the author. Said he's the next Dan Brown." He shakes his head in his dreams.
"Nothing about Da Vinci?"
He laughs and goes into one of his speeches about the wit and majesty of Angels and Demons.
It's as familiar as the taste of my morning tea. Funny, because I've heard it so many times. Because it's everything Dad believes.
I laugh along with him. Then we move into the great Dan Brown's next masterpiece.
For a while, I forget about the day, about Shepard's strange offer, the reason why we're having this conversation in the hospital.
Then a woman in a cheap suit enters the room and forces a smile. "Ms. Lee, we should talk."
Worry spreads over Dad's face.
I steel my expression. To convince him everything is fine. It's possible, isn't it?
It's possible we're not totally and completely fucked.
Chapter Four
Jasmine
The head of financial aid pushes her glasses up her nose. "We want to help. We do. But we don't have the budget to do any better than this."
"Of course."
"It's still experimental. The insurance company won't pay. And we're spread thin as it is."
I press my lips together. Call upon my friendly assistant smile.
She means well. She does. She has to deliver bad news all day, every day. Of course, she keeps her feelings out of it.
Dad's prognosis is bad. If we do nothing, he'll be dead by the end of the year.
That's what the current medical science supports.
At this point, we make him comfortable. Or we seek out an experimental treatment option.
Those are new. Unproven. Expensive.
Of course, the insurance company won't cover it.
"Thank you." I use my assistant voice. Even. Calm. I'll get right on that, sir.
"This is the last appeal." She pulls up the paper on her clipboard. Taps the highlighted phrase. Legalese that means sorry, you're fucked, Trong Lee is going to die. "Dr. Rodriguez will still take you. But he'll need a deposit upfront."
"Okay."
"That's doable?" She sets her clipboard down. Picks up another. A bill. With the total circled in red. "Twenty percent?"
Twenty percent of a lot is still a lot. Five figures. Five figures I don't have.
"I'm sure he'll hold your appointment until Monday," the administrator says. "But he'll need the deposit by the end of the business day."
"I understand."
Her expression softens for a second. She pats my shoulder. "It will be okay, Ms. Lee. You'll get through this." She offers me a soft smile, then she turns, heads back to her office.
I want to believe her.
But I don't see how I'm going to get through this.
By now, I have a familiar routine. Stay until a nurse asks me to leave. Take the subway to our place in Flushing. Fix an easy dinner. Leftover stir-fry and fresh white rice.
It's sad fixing rice for one. The minimum portion is too much. Like the rice cooker is mocking me.
All alone, again. Will your father ever come home? Will you ever invite anyone else here?
I try to shut it up by piling the entire portion onto my plate. But it still echoes through my head as I sort mail.
All alone, again.
With Dad in the hospital, we're relying on my salary alone.
I'm good with money. Smart. But I'm not a miracle worker. Even if I did max my credit cards, I wouldn't have enough to cover Dad's treatment.
I run the numbers a dozen times. Then a dozen more.
Maybe if I cut my cell phone. Or the electricity. Maybe I could stay with a friend. Only all my friendships have faded. I don't have time to stay in touch. Any request would be taking advantage.
I stack bills in a neat row. Junk mail in a pile. Magazines on the coffee table. I'm not sure who paid for these subscriptions to Cosmo and The Economist, but they make a hell of a contrast.
Thirty new ways to please your man.
Guess what: the world is falling apart. Again!
At the moment, I feel both in my core.
My world is falling apart.
Unless I find help from someone, I'm screwed. And Shep is the only one who's offering.
It's right there, in the Manila envelope between the magazines.
Jasmine in black marker.
That's Shepard's handwriting.
Not his lawyer's assistant. His.
I undo the clasp. Pull out a stack of stapled papers.
A folded paper falls from a legal document.
A note. From him.
He has something to say.