The nurse that usually takes care of my mother greets me warmly as I walk into her hospital room. “Happy birthday, sweetie. I wish we didn’t have to call you tonight. You deserve to act your age every once in a while, but you know what Dr. Johnson is like.”
“Thank you, June,” I say, trying my best to smile at her as I sit down next to my mother.
Dr. Johnson doesn’t believe in keeping my mother here when he could be using her bed for a patient that he might be able to save, but he can’t turn me away either. Not while I’m still able to pay the bills.
Eight years. My mother has been in a coma for eight years now, and I’m the only one who still believes she’ll wake up one day. I can’t help but feel like it’s a race against the clock. It’s become a question of what will run out first, the money that keeps her alive, or my mother’s remaining health.
The doctor walks into the room and nods at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man smile. “Dr. Johnson,” I say, nodding back.
“I have some difficult news to share with you,” he says, a grave expression on his face. I close my eyes, not wishing to hear it. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.
“Your mother has an infection. It’s getting harder and harder to keep her state from deteriorating. There are many costs associated with the ongoing infections, too.”
I nod, knowing what he’s going to say. “I understand, doctor. But I’m not willing to give up on my mother. I still believe she’s going to wake up. I’ll pay whatever I need to keep her alive.”
Dr. Johnson nods, and I hate the pity I see in his eyes. It’s obvious he doesn’t believe she’ll ever wake up again, and I wish I could change my mother’s doctor. I want her to be treated by someone who believes in her recovery as much as I do.
“Please sign here. I’ll send you the bill. It’s higher this month by a couple of thousand dollars,” he says eventually.
I sign the forms, authorizing her treatment and the associated costs, my eyes falling closed in resignation the second I lift the pen off the paper.
I’m relieved when I hear Dr. Johnson close the door behind him. Five thousand dollars. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have blinked twice at the amount. I used to own several handbags at least four times the price of that. Not anymore.
A year after my mother fell into a coma, my father managed to get her doctors to declare her brain-dead so he could get remarried. The day he married my stepmother was the day our insurance company informed me they’d stop paying for my mother’s treatments. I didn’t think much of it then, being a Rousseau, but I should’ve known. I should’ve seen the signs before it was too late.
I’d only been sixteen then, and within a few months I’d lost my mother, and my brother and I had been forced to live with our stepmom and her daughter. I hadn’t coped well with the way my father abandoned my mother, but I would’ve found a way to deal with it. I even would’ve played nice if my stepmother hadn’t asked my father to stop paying for Mom’s medical bills.
I thought my brother and I would be able to save Mom. I thought he’d be on my side. I couldn’t have been more wrong. My stepmother has her claws in him so deep, she’s got him convinced that all I’m doing is wasting money on a lost cause. I barely recognize Matthew anymore. I left home as soon as I turned eighteen, but he stayed.
I’m lucky that my mother set up a trust fund for me that’s allowed me to keep her alive. Until now. This time, I don’t have the money. I literally don’t have the money to keep my mother alive, and I can’t help but burst into tears.
I regret buying myself those couple of drinks at the bar earlier, even though I know it wouldn’t have made a difference. I’ve run through more than eight million dollars in hospital bills over the last six years, often paying roughly two-thousand dollars per day on days that she doesn’t have complications. Eight million dollars is the exact amount of my trust fund, and I’m at my wits’ end. The few belongings I had helped keep her alive a little longer, but I don’t know how I’ll be able to pay for next month’s bill. I have no valuables left. I’m well and truly broke.
I hold my mother’s hand, hoping she’ll squeeze my hand back. Of course, she doesn’t. Every single time my hopes are dashed, yet I never stop believing.
“Mom, please,” I whisper, sounding as broken as I feel. “Please wake up. Don’t do this to me. I really need you. I can’t give up on you now, but I’m not sure how I’m going to get enough money this month. Please wake up, Mom. Please,” I beg, trying my hardest to suppress a sob.
No matter how much I plead, she never wakes up. Part of me believes that she’ll wake up when she realizes I’m really in trouble this time, but realistically I know she won’t. If only I could harden my heart. Would life be easier if I were more like Dr. Johnson and Matthew, and faced reality and the probability of my mother’s recovery?
I rest my head on the edge of her bed, my hand desperately clutching hers. I cry my heart out, my lungs burning, and it’s not until I feel someone patting my back that I realize I’m not alone in the room. I sit up and take the tissue nurse June hands me.
“I didn’t realize you were struggling with the bills, honey.”
She pats my shoulder, her eyes laced with concern. I try my best to smile at her, but I can’t bring myself to. I can’t bring myself to pretend that I’m okay.
“How long have you been struggling, sweetie? I had no idea that it’s been hard on you financially.”
I nod and wipe at my tears, my eyes on my mother. “It gets harder every year,” I tell her honestly. “This time… this time I—” I can’t even finish the words. I can’t say what I know to be true. After years of fighting, I might… I might lose my mother. I sniff loudly, fresh tears in my eyes. Helplessness unlike anything I’ve experienced before overwhelms me and I inhale shakily, trying my best to remain positive, to keep my thoughts in check.
June takes a black business card out of her breast pocket and hands it to me, looking unsure.
“The sister of one of my other patients told me about this place,” she says, hesitating. “When she struggled to pay her sister’s bills, they helped her. I think it’s a gentlemen’s club or something like that. She… she told me they pay quite handsomely for innocent types.”
June looks devastated, and it’s obvious that she doesn’t want to be telling me this.
“I hope you won’t need to use this card. But if you do, know that there’s no shame in doing what it takes to keep someone alive.”
I nod and stare at the card. It just says Vaughn’s, with an address. No phone number or other information. The card is thick and heavy, the letters gold. It looks incredibly luxurious.
I stare at it, praying I won’t need to use it, and knowing I probably will.
