7. Cori #2
“Oh, my girl…” Her voice pitched higher before catching in her throat.
She sniffed as she continued, “I’m going to be okay, but I need to be honest with you.
” I heard muffled talking, like Rosa had a hand over the phone while someone spoke to her in the background.
“ Dios , I wanted to ease into this slowly. I’ve been thinking about it ever since we ran into each other outside Macy’s, something I was hoping to avoid, but I’ve run out of time. ”
Instantly on alert, I put the phone on speaker as I began tugging my socks up. As long as I was awake, I might as well get back to the hospital. “Run out of time for what?”
“I’m calling because I need some help.” Her thick accent grew even more pronounced with the admission.
If it had been anyone else calling me out of the blue after barely speaking for six months, on top of not communicating for the dozen years before that, I might have been suspicious about their motives.
But this was Rosa, the woman who’d helped raise me.
A woman who had been a mother to all the kids in the neighborhood.
I knew her pride. If she was asking for help, it was serious, and it was also a last resort.
“What’s the matter?”
I heard more indiscriminate arguing on her side, followed by Rosa speaking to someone else. “ Está bien dejar que ella nos ayude. No eres una carga .” To me, she simply said, “Lupe is sick.”
The words hit me like a spear. Lupe had lived with Rosa for as long as I could recall. I didn’t know the specifics of their relationship since Rosa hadn’t gone around sharing her personal life with teenagers, but I’d always assumed they were partners or wives. “Sick?”
“Cancer. First in her breast ten years ago. We caught it then. She had a surgery. But about a year ago, it came back, and now it’s…aggressive. Spread to her brain and her lymph nodes.” Rosa’s voice quivered. “She has six months. Possibly a year.”
My movements stilled as I sat down heavily on the bed. “Oh. God. Rosa, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
My mother had paid for her hard living with too many physical and mental scars to count, her body ravaged by addiction.
But in the end, it was cancer that claimed her life.
Pancreatic, mercifully quick. Three weeks from diagnosis to death.
I could only imagine how devastating it was for Rosa to watch Lupe slowly fade away.
But I wasn’t a doctor. Why was she calling me? “How can I help?”
“ Mija , I’ve been taking care of her. You know I had to.”
“Of course.”
“I kind of let things go…at the Center. I know you’ve been successful with your company.
And you mentioned when we ate the pretzels that you might be between jobs soon.
Right now, I have a finance person who does all the accounting and a part-timer who handles grants and events.
But I’ve always done most of the fundraising myself, and I haven’t been able to do as much this past year. Because of Lupe.”
“You want me to help with fundraising?”
“No, nena .” She exhaled heavily. “It’s hard for me to admit this, but I think it’s possible things are so bad we can’t be saved.
I have a few calls I can make to donors who can provide us with enough funding to sustain us for a few months, possibly through the new year.
But if you’re willing to do it gratis , I’d love to have you look at the books.
I want your opinion on whether you think there’s something I’m missing, if you think it’s possible to stay open. ”
I sank further into the mattress. The REACH—The Ronald Ernest Althurst Center for Hope, named after some long-forgotten founding donor and usually referred to simply as “the Center”—had been a staple of the neighborhood for over sixty years.
It had been my second home. The idea that it could close was unthinkable.
“Of course I’ll help.”
“When I ran into you, it seemed like a sign. If there’s a way to save it, you’ll tell me. If not, I know you’ll be honest about that too.”
Her faith in me was a gift, especially on this hard day. “I’m grateful you trust me with this. I do love the Center.”
“Of course you do, mija .” I heard the tinge of optimism in her voice. “Can you come by later this week?”
“Yes. Definitely. I’ll text you. I have some things to take care of, but I’ll make the time.”
“Okay, nena . Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”
“You too. And Rosa…”
“? Sí ?”
“Take care of yourself. And give Lupe all my love. I’m so glad you called me.”
Two things crossed my mind as I finished pulling myself together to go back to the ER.
One, a person who had probably saved my life many times over was finally giving me the chance to do something for her, and two, the opportunity was a godsend because it would give me something to focus on besides Johnny.
I needed a task to ground me, to make me feel useful and competent while I sorted out the rest of my life.
When I returned to the hospital, the person at the intake desk informed me that Johnny had woken up and that someone would be out soon to take me to see him.
I texted Deck.
ME: Hey Deck. Just letting you know Johnny is awake.
ARTURO DECKER: Thx. Want me to come?
Did I want him to come? It pained me to admit it, but I was afraid to face my brother alone right now. Even though Deck had been clear that he wanted space between us, he’d been equally clear that he wanted to help my brother.
ME: Yeah. I’d appreciate that.
ARTURO DECKER: NP. On my way.
I went to the desk and informed the person there that Arturo Decker would be coming in to see Johnny, requesting that he be directed to my brother’s room upon arrival.
She was the same woman who had been on duty when we’d arrived yesterday.
I had irritated her when I kept asking for updates, until she informed me coldly that the doctors would be with me when they could and to please stop interrupting her. She seemed no more sympathetic today.
“Is he a family member? Visitation in the ICU is for family only.”
A decade working at a tech start-up had taught me nothing if not how to remain calm when presented with a potential setback. “He’s family.”
“It says on these forms your parents are deceased and that you are Mr. Raney’s only sibling.”
I blanched. Seriously, lady, what’s with the forensic deep dive? Did they mess up your order at the coffee cart or something? If I said Deck was a cousin, would that get him in? I wasn’t willing to risk it.
“He’s my husband. He was here with me yesterday. Just went home to get cleaned up a bit.”
Her eyes narrowed, but I saw in her expression that she recollected a man had accompanied me the day before. She nodded curtly.
The nurse who took me past the emergency room beds and into the ICU seemed to be having a better day than grumpy desk lady because she said cheerfully, “I’ll bring your husband back when he gets here.”
Darn it. Apparently, we would need to make this story stick. I texted Deck.
ME: By the way, you’re my husband
ME: Only family can visit
A minute went by, and I could visualize Deck frowning.
ARTURO DECKER: Got it. I’m your husband
Rolling my eyes at the name he’d punched into my phone, I changed it quickly to “DECK” before slipping the device into my pocket.
The idea of Deck playacting as my husband would have made fourteen-year-old Cori spin out with excitement.
But twenty-nine-year-old Cori smarted from him doing so only under duress.