Chapter 3 #2
The ambulance lurched around a corner. Equipment rattled. Dad's hand slid sideways off his chest, and I caught it before it fell.
His fingers were cold.
"Has he been sick recently?" The paramedic didn't look up. "Any medications?"
"No. Nothing." My throat tightened. "He said he was just tired."
"When did the tremors start?"
"I don't—" I stopped. Rewound. "A few weeks. Maybe longer."
Maybe I'd just stopped noticing when they became normal.
The hospital came into view through the back windows. White concrete. Red emergency sign. People in scrubs waiting at the bay doors.
They pulled us in. Opened the doors. Swallowed us whole.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, sterile and unforgiving.
I sat in the consultation room while Dad slept two doors down, sedated and finally still.
The doctor—Dr. Chen, young enough that her voice still carried genuine concern instead of professional distance—folded her hands on the desk between us.
"It wasn't a heart attack."
Relief tried to surface. Died before reaching my throat.
"But it was a warning," she continued. Gentle.
Direct. The kind of tone that suggested she'd delivered worse news before lunch.
"His blood pressure spiked dangerously high.
Combined with the tremors you mentioned, the confusion, the fatigue—we're looking at several interconnected issues that need immediate attention. "
I nodded. Kept my hands flat on my thighs so they wouldn't shake.
"Lifestyle changes will be essential. Stress reduction. Regular monitoring." She slid a paper across the desk. Bullet points I couldn't focus on. "The good news is your father's insurance will cover this episode fully."
This episode.
"Future incidents, however…" She paused. Chose her words with visible care. "May not be covered to the same extent. Deductibles reset. Coverage limits apply after the first event. If this becomes chronic, you'll need to prepare for out-of-pocket expenses."
Numbers swam at the bottom of the page. Four figures. Five if complications arose.
"How do we prevent future incidents?" My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
"Medication. Diet modification. Reduced physical exertion and emotional stress." Dr. Chen's expression softened. "I know that's easier said than done. But your father's health depends on creating a sustainable, low-stress environment. No exceptions."
Low-stress.
In a town where the bookstore barely broke even. Where the bank called weekly. Where Dad sorted invoices he couldn't file and pretended his hands didn't tremble.
"Can I see him?"
"Of course. He'll be groggy, but awake." She stood. "We'll keep him overnight for observation. Barring complications, he can go home tomorrow."
I found Dad propped against pillows, eyes half-closed, skin paper-thin under the fluorescent wash. His gaze tracked to me when I entered.
"Told you I was fine," he mumbled. Slurred at the edges, medication softening consonants. "Fussing over nothing."
I pulled the chair close. Sat. "You collapsed, Dad."
"Just tired." His hand lifted weakly, gesture aborted halfway. "Don't need all this."
He always said that.
I took his hand. Squeezed gently.
"You're staying overnight," I said. "Doctor's orders."
His eyes drifted shut.
"We can't afford this," he whispered.
We couldn't afford not to.
Visiting hours ended at eight. A nurse touched my shoulder—kind but firm—and I left Dad sleeping under thin white blankets that smelled like bleach and something medicinal I couldn't name.
The drive home passed in fragments. Streetlights. Empty intersections. The lake dark and still beyond the guardrail.
I parked in the driveway and sat for five minutes before going inside.
The house waited, silent except for the refrigerator's hum. I pulled out vegetables Dad had bought last week. Carrots. Celery. An onion sprouting green shoots I cut away before dicing.
Soup seemed right. The kind of thing you made when someone was sick, when normal meals felt too heavy. I chopped without measuring. Added broth from a carton that expired next month. Let it simmer while I stood at the stove, stirring nothing that needed stirring.
The bowl sat untouched on the counter after I poured it. Steam curled upward, dissipating into kitchen air that tasted like worry.
I carried my laptop to the table instead.
Bills first. The stack I'd been avoiding since last week spread across the scratched wood surface—hospital invoice on top now, pristine and bloodless. Four thousand, two hundred dollars after insurance. Due within thirty days.
Calculator next. The small one with the crack across the screen that still worked if I pressed hard enough.
Rent: twelve hundred.
Utilities: two-fifty.
Bookstore lease: eight hundred.
Inventory costs: variable, but never less than three.
The hospital bill stared back, unblinking.
I opened the bank statement. Checked the bookstore account. Personal savings.
Added them.
Subtracted obligations.
The number that remained couldn't be right.
I tried again. Different order this time, like mathematics cared about sequence. Same result. Negative before I'd even counted groceries or gas or the property tax due next month.
We can't afford this., Dad's voice echoed in my head.
He'd been wrong.
We couldn't afford anything.
The soup cooled in its bowl. Grease filmed across the surface, congealing into small islands I didn't skim away.
I stared at the laptop screen. At the numbers that refused to become something else no matter how many times I recalculated. At the gap between what I had and what I needed that grew wider every time I blinked.
Books taught me stories had solutions. Real life did not.
The calculator's battery died at nine-thirty.
I didn't replace it.