Chapter 2
ELENA
T he hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and despair. I nodded to the night nurse, Marjorie, as I passed the station. After six months of regular visits, we no longer needed words.
Each visit, the hallway seemed longer, the walk more daunting.
Each time, the same unease churned in my gut, a dislike for these walls and the smells making itself known.
I hated what hospitals meant to me now. How it was place where my mother was fighting for her life, a place where I could lose her.
I blinked, shoving the thought aside as I drew in a few deep, grounding breaths over the lilies, focusing on their scent. She needed me strong, to keep it together. I needed to be here for her, as she'd always been for me.
Mom was asleep when I entered her room, the steady beep of monitors providing grim background noise. A chill washed over me as I took in her form, my throat tightening.
She looked smaller than last week, her body disappearing into the hospital bed.
The cancer was stealing her from me, consuming her from the inside out.
Her eyes, once sky-blue like mine, now dulled by medication and pain, were peacefully closed thanks to her medication.
Her once vibrant red-brown hair had thinned, turning a dull gray that matched her skin tone.
I hated seeing her like this, a ghost of the woman who had played games with me at night, who had taught me to bake and laughed alongside me while we danced in the kitchen.
I wanted my mom back, well and smiling, full of life and energy.
But life was never fair, and I bit my lip to keep it from trembling.
I replaced the wilting lilies in the vase on her bedside table, smiling softly at the worn Harry Potter book there.
She'd asked me to bring the series in, the same ones she'd read to me, the pages creased from where we'd dog-eared them over the years, and the covers worn from our love.
Her insurance card sat in plain view beside it, a reminder of the bills piling up at home, which made my smile fade.
I sighed as I sunk into the chair beside her bed.
"Hey, Mom," I whispered, not sure whether to try to actually rouse her or not. "I got some news today."
Her breathing remained steady, shallow.
"Anthony's gone, my dad." My voice was hollow as I said the words out loud. "He died twelve years ago."
"You never really told me if he'd ever come back, you always tried to make me focus on how good our life was with just us, but I always hoped he'd come back.
You'd then tell me that he just had... a busy life, some other things he needed to handle.
" I swallowed hard. "Guess those other things were that he was married, had other kids…
" I searched her sleeping face, my chest tight.
"Did you know? Were you keeping it from me? "
Her face shifted, her brows creasing as she stirred, and my heart fluttered as her eyes slowly opened. Had she heard me? Was she upset?
"Hey, Mom." I forced brightness into my voice and took her hand while she took a moment to orient herself. Her skin felt like tissue paper, veins prominent beneath the surface.
It didn't appear she'd heard me though as she relaxed, her gaze softening as the edges of her lips curled.
"Elena. You didn't have to come today." Her smile was genuine despite everything, and guilt crept in. If she'd kept anything from me, it was to protect me. It had to be.
"Of course I did. I had to replace your flowers, right? Besides, I miss you. How are you feeling?"
"Aw, I miss you too, sweetheart." She moved to place her other hand over mine, giving it a squeeze.
"I feel better." The lie came easily to her, and I forced a smile in return.
We both pretended to believe it, it was easier than accepting the reality that she was slowly dying, battling for whatever years she could.
I thought of the photos in my bag, of the half-siblings living in luxury while my mother wasted away in a county hospital.
I wanted answers, to find out what she'd known, but I bit my tongue. I didn't want to stress her out, or cause tension between us right now. Not when she was here, when her life was no longer promised. The treatments didn't seem to be helping so far.
"The doctor mentioned a new treatment," she said, squeezing my fingers weakly. "But it's experimental. Insurance won't cover it."
My heart sank. Of course they wouldn't cover it, they'd been so difficult to get help from already, what little we'd succeeded in getting. It was like they wanted us to die sometimes. "How much?"
"Too much." She waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it."
But worry was all I did these days. Worry about the mortgage on our small house, one we'd taken out to cover her medical bills, bills that continued to grow and had eaten all her savings up.
She'd paid my tuition, having set aside money just for me from the payments my father had sent, and every day, I wished I'd never gone away to college.
That she still had the money to pay for everything. To save herself.
Instead, I'd gotten my Bachelor's degree in Accounting, wanting a strong career to grow in, one she'd supported me for Too bad her health had plummeted not long after I'd graduated and started working, and then with her diagnosis, I'd come home.
In my hometown, the only work I could get to support us was in the local accounting firm, which paid nowhere near what I'd been offered in the city.
I worked night shifts as a waitress where I could to try to stay on top of the growing bills.
The house my mother had been only years from paying off fully had been sold, and we'd downsized.
Even then, it wasn't enough, and with her cancer not going into remission, we'd had to take out a mortgage, her insurance failing her.
"I'll figure something out," I promised. I had to.
She'd been my rock, the woman who'd done everything for me, helped me become who I was, loved me with everything she'd had.
Who'd taught me to ride a bike and to cook, who'd wiped away the tears after my first high-school heartbreak, who'd read to me before bed as a child and promised to protect me always. She was everything to me. All I had.
And I had to protect her now, had to save her.
She studied my face. Even diminished by illness, she could read me better than anyone. "You look tired, sweetheart. Are you working too many hours at the firm?"
"I'm fine." I forced another smile. "Just busy with tax season." She didn't even know about my waitress job. She'd scold me and tell me to quit it if she knew, and I couldn't afford to do that.
We talked about nothing important for the next hour—where she was in her book, her favorite nurse, the show she'd started watching, my fictional problems at work.
I didn't tell her about finding my father's obituary or his other children.
She'd spent years insisting he'd loved me, us, in his way, that he was always busy.
I couldn't bear to tarnish whatever comfort those beliefs gave her now.
When visiting hours ended, I kissed her forehead and promised to return tomorrow.
"Elena," she called as I reached the door, glancing at the pink bouquet beside her. "Thank you for the lilies, they're beautiful. I also loved the pink ones."
I know.
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
Outside the hospital, I waited until I climbed into my car before I let the tears come. Fourteen years. He'd been dead for fourteen years, and we'd struggled the past few years while his "real" family lived in luxury. The injustice burned like acid in my chest.
My phone buzzed with a text from my boss, reminding me about the Johnston account due tomorrow.
I wiped my eyes and started the engine of my cheap, rusting sedan—my downgrade to help cover costs.
The life of Elena Peters didn't stop for grief or rage or the discovery of half-siblings who'd never have to worry about insurance coverage.
The unfairness of it all crushed down on me. My mother had worked hard most of my life, never complaining, never missing a bill payment. She deserved better than that damned sterile room, better than experimental treatments we couldn't afford.
"I'll figure something out," I promised her as I pulled out of the parking lot. "I always do."
It was past midnight when I finally called Ivy.
I sat on the couch we'd had since childhood, our small home too quiet and empty without my mother's presence.
I'd taken to rarely being at home if I could help it, not wanting to feel the loss of her already even though she still breathed.
I wasn't ready to lose her, and the thought was crushing.
"What's wrong, is it your mom?" Ivy answered quickly despite the ungodly hour.
She used to answer these late calls with 'someone better by dying', but ceased after my distraught call about my mother's cancer.
It was a small change, but it reminded me just how important my mom had become to her as well.
"She's still fighting, but… my father… he's dead."
Rustling sounds met me as she presumably sat up. "Wait, what?"
"Anthony. My father." The words felt strange to say out loud. "Died fourteen years ago."
"Shit, Elena." Her tone softened immediately. "I'm coming over."
"No, don't. It's late. I just... needed to tell someone."
"Are you okay?"
I laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the empty space.
I glanced at the armchair with the quilt my mom had made, her usual spot to read or do her crafts at night while I read on the couch or watched a show.
"Trent gave me photos of my half-siblings.
They're living like royalty while my mom. .." I couldn't finish.
"That fucking bastard," Ivy hissed. "Even in death, he's screwing you over."