Chapter 9: The Illness

I wake up on the hotel room floor, disoriented and shivering.

My phone is ringing—has been ringing, I realize, for a while. The screen shows twelve missed calls from the hospital. I fumble to answer it.

"Mrs. Wolfe, you missed your follow-up appointment yesterday." The nurse sounds concerned but professional. "We need those additional test results. When can you come in?"

Yesterday. I've lost a day. The last thing I remember clearly is lying on the bed, wishing I could go back and change everything. I must have fallen asleep. Or passed out. The distinction seems less important than it should.

"I'll come today," I manage.

"Are you feeling alright? You sound—"

"I'm fine. I'll be there in an hour."

I hang up before she can ask more questions.

It takes me twenty minutes to get from the floor to the shower. My legs shake. My vision blurs at the edges. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself—skin gray, eyes sunken, cheekbones too sharp.

I look like I'm dying.

Because I am.

---

The additional tests confirm what the doctor suspected.

"Acute myeloid leukemia," he says, and the words sound like a foreign language. "Aggressive form. Stage four. I'm sorry we didn't catch it earlier, but the symptoms can be subtle until—"

"How long?" I interrupt.

He pauses. "With intensive treatment—chemotherapy, possibly a bone marrow transplant if we can find a match—we could extend your life significantly. Some patients live for years—"

"How long without treatment?"

His expression shifts. "Mrs. Wolfe, I wouldn't recommend—"

"How long?"

"Six months. Maybe less." He leans forward. "But with treatment, your chances improve considerably. You're young, otherwise healthy. We should start immediately."

"How much does treatment cost?"

"Your insurance should cover most of it. Let me have our financial counselor—"

"I don't have insurance." The words taste like failure. "I'm on my husband's plan, but I'd need his authorization to use it for something this expensive."

The doctor's face falls. He understands what I'm not saying. "Mrs. Wolfe, this is your life. Surely your husband would want you to—"

"How much?" I repeat.

He sighs. "For the full treatment protocol—chemotherapy, hospital stays, potential transplant—you're looking at three to five hundred thousand dollars. Possibly more."

Three to five hundred thousand dollars.

I have eight thousand in my account.

I start laughing. I can't help it. It's so absurd. I spent my entire life giving money away—to my family, for Elena's disasters, for everyone else's emergencies—and now, when I need it to literally save my life, I have eight thousand dollars.

"Mrs. Wolfe—"

"Can I think about it?" My laughter dies. "The treatment, I mean. Can I have some time?"

"Time is something you don't have much of," he says gently. "Every week we delay decreases your chances. If you're worried about the cost, we can work with you—payment plans, charity care applications—"

"I'll figure it out." I stand, my legs unsteady. "Thank you for being honest with me."

"Please." He stands too. "Talk to your husband. Talk to your family. Don't try to handle this alone."

But I am alone. That's the point.

I've been alone my entire life, surrounded by people who needed things from me but never saw me.

Why should dying be any different?

---

I hide it for two months.

It's easier than I expected. Damien rarely looks at me, so he doesn't notice the weight loss or the exhaustion. I tell the hotel I'm taking a leave of absence for "personal reasons." I stop going to family dinners, claiming I'm busy with a new project.

Mother texts occasionally, usually to ask for money. I ignore most of them.

Elena calls once, crying about her new fiancé—some man she met in Portland who "gets her" in a way no one else does. She needs help with wedding deposits. I tell her I don't have any money to spare. She hangs up without saying goodbye.

The disease progresses exactly as the doctor predicted. Bruises bloom across my skin like dark flowers. I'm exhausted all the time. Sometimes I bleed from my nose and can't make it stop.

I research dying. Learn about hospice, about what happens to a body when the bone marrow fails, about how long it takes to drown in your own blood.

Morbid, maybe. But educational.

I make a plan. When it gets too bad, I'll check myself into a hospital under my maiden name, claim I have no family, and die quietly. They'll cremate me. Maybe scatter my ashes somewhere that doesn't matter.

It seems fitting. I lived like I didn't matter. I'll die the same way.

But then Elena gets engaged—really engaged this time, not the disaster with Marcus—and suddenly I'm expected to care.

Mother calls, actually calls instead of texting, and I'm too weak to ignore it.

"Claire, finally! I've been trying to reach you for weeks. Where have you been?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Elena's getting married! Isn't it wonderful?"

"Wonderful," I echo.

"The wedding is next month. Of course, we need your help with planning. Elena wants you to be her maid of honor—well, she wanted someone else, but that girl said no, so you're the backup. You should be grateful she still wants you involved after you've been so distant lately."

There it is. Grateful.

"Mom, I need to tell you something."

"What? Make it quick, I'm meeting with the florist in twenty minutes, and Elena is being very particular about the roses—"

"I'm sick."

Silence.

"What do you mean, sick? Like a cold?"

"Like cancer. Leukemia. Late stage."

More silence. I hear her breathing.

"Oh." A pause. "Well. That's... Are you sure? Did you get a second opinion?"

"I'm sure."

"And the treatment? When do you start?"

"I can't afford treatment."

"What do you mean you can't afford it? You're married to Damien Wolfe!"

"His insurance won't cover it without his authorization, and I haven't told him."

"Why on earth not?" Her voice rises. "Claire, this is serious. You need to tell him immediately. He'll pay for it—he has to. You're his wife."

"He doesn't owe me anything. The marriage contract doesn't cover medical expenses unless they're routine."

"Then make him owe you! Use your... your wifely influence or whatever. Cry, beg, I don't care. Get him to pay for treatment."

"I don't think it works that way."

"Then make it work!" She's almost shouting now. "Claire, you can't just die. What will people think? Elena's wedding is next month. If you're in the hospital during the wedding—"

The words hit me like a slap.

"Are you seriously worried about Elena's wedding right now?"

"I'm worried about everything! You, the wedding, what this means for the family—" She stops. Takes a breath. "I'm sorry. You're right. This is about you. When can you come by? We need to discuss this as a family."

"I'm very tired, Mom. I don't think—"

"Tomorrow. Three PM. We'll all be here. Your father needs to know, and Elena—well, she'll want to support you, of course."

She hangs up before I can refuse.

I sit there, phone in hand, and wonder why I'm surprised. Did I really expect her to ask how I'm feeling? To cry? To say she loves me?

I'm twenty-seven years old and I still haven't learned.

---

The family meeting is worse than I imagined.

They're all there when I arrive at my parents' house—Mother, Father, and Elena, who looks radiant in an engagement ring I definitely can't afford to have helped pay for.

"Claire!" Elena jumps up, hugs me. I feel her recoil slightly at how thin I've gotten, but she covers it with a smile. "Mom told us. This is crazy. Are you okay?"

"Not really," I say honestly.

Father gestures to the sofa. "Sit down. You look terrible."

I sit. They arrange themselves around me like a tribunal.

Mother starts: "We've been discussing your situation—"

"My cancer," I correct quietly.

"Your illness," she amends. "And we think the best approach is for you to talk to Damien. Explain the situation. He's a reasonable man—surely he'll understand that you need help."

"I'm not asking Damien for money."

"Why not?" Father leans forward. "He's your husband. Husbands provide for their wives. That's how marriage works."

"Our marriage doesn't work that way."

"Then make it work that way." He says it like it's obvious. "You've been too passive, Claire. Always have been. This is your life—fight for it."

"By begging my husband for half a million dollars?"

"It's not begging if you're married to him!" Elena chimes in. "Claire, you're being ridiculous. Just ask him. What's the worst that could happen?"

He could say no, I think. He could confirm, one more time, that I'm not worth saving.

But I don't say this.

"If Damien won't pay, there are other options," Mother says. "We could take out a loan—"

"No." My voice is sharp. "No more loans. I'm still paying off the last one you pressured me into."

"That was for Elena's gallery! That was different!"

"How is it different?" I'm too tired for this. "It was still my debt for someone else's dream."

"This is your life," Elena says, as if I haven't realized. "It's more important than a gallery."

"Then help me," I say quietly.

They all go still.

"What?" Mother asks.

"Help me. I need three hundred thousand dollars minimum. If you all think my life is worth saving, help me save it."

Silence.