Clever Girl

Chapter 37: whether flying or falling

Every time the monitor beeps, the sound of it drives me up the pale blue walls of the room, then down again until my soul smashes against the cool hospital floor. Each rigid green line of her heartbeat, the mountains and valleys, push me lower and lower into a pit of hopelessness.

It's almost two in the morning, and my mother is still here. Though the doctor believes she will be okay to leave by tonight, she hasn't been fully conscious since her arrival. This makes me super uneasy. What if she gets worse? What if she never wakes up?

Once in a while every horrible thought tangles itself with seconds of ease, making it a little hard to focus. When I drift away, there are moments when I forget where I am, but then my brain wakes me up and reminds me of what's happening. 

As the hours pass, I try to think of more way we can save, other outlets for cash, other possible jobs I can take. I'll do anything. I'm desperate. I don't care what it is or how much time it'll consume. Who else might hire a kid with no high school diploma, where the pay is decent enough to cover medical expenses? Hospital stays here can start from two grand and work their way up depending on the specialist, the condition of the patient, any medication that has to be administered, and whatever else that isn't covered under my father's basic insurance. Even public hospitals have a catch.

I hate everything. I hate everyone. How is any of this fair?

It's now seven in the morning, and my mother's awake - somewhat, since her eyes sometimes drift away and back again. I want to stay until her release, but my she makes me promise to go to school today. I owe it to her to keep her happy. I kiss her on the forehead and leave the room, but not before stopping again to look back and smile at her. What if this is the last time I see her?

Breathe, Veronica.

Stop thinking the worst. 

Everything will be okay. 

Just wait. 

But patience is a virtue I no longer possess. 

***

My mother's stay has created a thick, dark blanket of apprehension and tenseness over our household. More so than before. My father may be strong on the surface, but I can see the hopelessness in his eyes. While I've been trying to appear relaxed around Matty, I can tell he's on edge as well. He gets overly frustrated over almost everything. He may be young, but children see and feel grief, even if they don't understand every layer of it the way adults do. 

My father made me promise to review each offer from every college, to weigh my options and reach a logical, mature conclusion. How can I do that when the universe has decided to slap our existence across its face, with one heartbreak after the next? Doesn't he know that college is a business made by the rich, skewed towards the wealthy with no guarantee for success afterwards? Why waste however many years devoting my time to a system that can't promise a proper turn-around?

School feels more and more like a prison as the day goes on. The hallway walls appear closer together, and its tint looks overly gray today, like it's reflecting my own mood. 

During every break I have today, I pour every moment of my time into the last set of papers Will had given me. He's also managed to secure three senior projects, each valued at about five-hundred. I wish we were speaking, something deeper than the exchange of envelopes like some strangers passing along mail. I want to hug him and tell him that I'm grateful for everything he's done for me - that without him I wouldn't know what to do. 

Every time he approaches me to hand me another envelope, I'm tempted to dive a conversation. But every time, I hold myself back, scared it might scare him off even further. 

It's been a week since he stopped talking to me. How much more time does he need?

How long do these things usually last?

How sad is it that I have no one else to talk to? It's becoming more and more apparent to me that shutting myself off from the world has been a colossal mistake, in every way possible. Not only have I isolated myself from normal friendships, I've also made it so there's no one I can rely on. No one I can call up to tell me everything will be okay. 

Come on, Veronica. There's always Jay. Isn't there?  No. Jay won't understand. He can't help me. All he ever does is tell me how much he likes me. In fact we've only ever had two conversations that weren't about his feelings for me. Sometimes I wish we could go back to despising each other - that was less confusing and involved less emotions. And what's wrong with someone liking you? Why can't you just let him in? 

***

The accounting wing of the hospital is a small-ish square area, with light green walls and one desk sitting before a large wooden doorway. The door is closed but I can see a couple of shadowy figures moving around beyond the opalescent glass walls. 

"Hello! How can I help you?" the receptionist says in an overly cheery tone as I approach the desk. Maybe he's trying to compensate for always giving patients absurdly large medical bills. 

"I'm here to go over my mother's bill. She's about to be released. We have several past due amounts as well, but I know my dad's insurance would've covered a small portion of everything. So if I could get a full, itemized list, that would be great. Her name is Arezoo Boniadi." Nervous and dreading the final amount, I hold my breath and prepare for the worst. 

After another minute of exchanges, mainly him asking me to spell my mother's name, then requesting to see identification, he finally pulls up her account information. "Well, Miss Boniadi, it appears your mother's medical bills have been taken care of."

Did he just say what I think he said?

Am I imagining things? Is my mind so far gone that my fantasies of making everything better have somehow made their way into my waking life? No, don't be silly. You probably heard wrong. I know for a fact my dad wasn't the one who took care of it. I manage his finances and I would've noticed if thousands of dollars were deducted for any purpose. "That can't be right. That was over fifteen grand. it's probably an accounting error, like maybe you moved a decimal by mistake."

"I assure you, it's not a mistake. All owing amounts for Arezoo Boniadi have been paid in full." he confirms with a bright smile. He then prints out and hands me several pages, listing her visits, the portions my father's insurance reimbursed, and payments applied to the remaining totals. Every cent taken care of via credit card. Not mine though. Not my dad's. 

"Uhm. . . can you tell me who paid for these?" My heart is sinking. Or flying. I can't tell. 

"It was an anonymous donation. Isn't that lovely?"

"What? But you must know who this card number belongs to. I know you can't process credit card payments without a name. I need to know who paid for these. Isn't there something you can do?"

He doesn't respond for a moment, probably wondering why I'm not happy. That would be a normal reaction to such a situation, right? Happiness? Though whether flying or falling, there are no wings to control which direction I'm taking - I can't decide if I'm indeed elated, or sad, or furious at the fact that there are people out there who can afford to pay these bills at the drop of a hat. When he speaks, he's not as cheerful anymore, but rather calm and with a much lower register, "Please have a seat. I'll see what I can do."

I sit and watch as the receptionist calls someone. No matter how hard I strain my ears, I can't hear what he's saying, or catch who he's talking to. He keeps his eyes glued onto mine, possibly still curious about my state. As soon as he hangs up, I sprint up, "Well?"

"Unfortunately the person has asked that under no circumstances should we give their name. Miss Boniadi, we receive various donations such as this throughout the year. It's nothing to be alarmed about. Granted, most are not made for a specific patient, but we are grateful nonetheless, and you should be too."

"Look, I really hate to be that person, because I know you're just doing your job, but can I please speak to whoever it is that receives and reviews donations?"

There's a split second where I swear the glint in his eyes changes from cool and collected to extreme annoyance. He composes himself quickly however, and smiles again, "Of course. It may be about an hour though. He's currently in another meeting."

"That's fine. I'll wait."