At Crossroads

Sera’s Pov

The first call I made was to Diane.

We had been friends since college and she was the closest friend I had. She had a job at a marketing firm downtown, her boyfriend drove a decent car and they lived in an apartment that had a dishwasher. By my standards, Diane was doing well.

"How much?" she said.

"Whatever you can manage. Even if it's a loan, I'll pay it back."

"Sera." She sighed. "I have rent due next week. I have my own things going on for me, I also need money."

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. It's just that Martha desperately needs this. The money isn't for me. You know how Martha has been there for me, even for you when mum died. Please I have no other—"

"Jeez Sera, calm down for a minute okay? Have you tried the hospital's large bill assistance?"

"First thing I did."

Another pause. Longer this time. "Look Sera. I'm sorry about Martha. I really am. But there's nothing I can do for you right now. You need to understand that, okay?"

She hung up. 

I sat with the phone in my hand and looked at the wall for a minute, then I called the next number on my list. No time.

By evening I had called eleven people.

Three didn't pick up. Four said the same version of what Diane said. Two promised to call back and never did. One told me about a government healthcare assistance program with a fourteen month waiting list. One cried, which was kind of her, but her kindness did not cover dialysis and surgery unfortunately. 

I went to the hospital the next morning with a list of charities printed on the back of my journal paper, determined to meet the social worker again. There must be something she can do for me with this list.

She looked at the list. Then she looked at me.

"Most of these require a six to eight week application review," she said. "Two are for pediatric patients only. This one closed their funding intake last month."

"The remaining ones?"

"Competitive. They receive more applications than they can cover." She set the paper down gently. "I submitted Martha's file to the hospital's assistance fund two weeks ago. We're still waiting but I have to be honest with you. The fund is nearly depleted for this quarter."

I folded the list. "Thank you, Helen."

"Seraphina." She waited until I looked at her. "Is there any family? Anyone at all who could contribute even partially?"

I thought about Richard Hale sitting on my couch and his crazy offer. 

"No," I said. "There's no one."

I took the bus to three different bank branches that week. The first loan officer was apologetic. The second barely let me finish before shaking his head. The third looked at my account balance, my lack of collateral, and simply said I wasn't eligible for a loan.

Martha's condition dropped that Thursday.

The nurse called at six in the morning to say her blood pressure had fallen overnight and they were adjusting her medication. I had to rush to the hospital. 

Martha was awake when I arrived but she looked smaller. That was the only word for it. The illness was quietly eating her up.

She didn't ask about the money this time, she just wanted me by her side.

I sat with her for three hours. Then when she fell asleep I walked to the vending machine at the end of the corridor. I was terribly hungry but I couldn't even afford a snack.

I thought about the forty eight hours Richard had given me, which had now become thirty one.

Outside the hospital on my way out, I noticed a black sedan car. It was parked across the street, but facing the hospital directly. The engine was off but there was someone in the driver's seat.

I stood on the pavement and looked at the car. It felt like the driver was staring back at me, which unsettled me.

I walked to the bus stop without looking back.

Sitting by my laptop in the night, I tried everything I could. Including setting up an online fundraising page that managed to collect forty dollars, but most of it was from Martha's neighbour who was seventy-three years and on a fixed income herself.

I kept rearranging and recalculating the figures hoping they would produce a different answer.

They didn't.

My phone showed two missed calls from an unknown number. No voicemail.

I carefully closed my laptop.

Outside the window, the street was quiet. A dog barked somewhere down the block. I had lived in this apartment for four years and I knew every sound it made, the specific groan of the third staircase, the way the kitchen tap dripped if you didn't turn it hard enough, the particular rattle of the window in its frame when the wind was heavy…

So when it became overly quiet, I knew something was wrong.

In less than 5 seconds, the window exploded inward.

I hit the floor on instinct, glass scattering across the rug around me, my ears ringing from the sudden shrill sound. 

A big rock sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, thick and heavy, it looked like it was collected from a construction site. The curtain billowed inward through the broken frame, cold air rushing in.

I was on my hands and knees, breathing hard, when the front door shook.

A single heavy impact hit the door, like a boot.

Then it opened.

I had locked it. I knew I locked it.

Two men covered in masks stepped inside. The taller one looked around the apartment once and then walked directly to Martha's plant on the windowsill, the one I watered every day because it made her happy. He picked it up and dropped it on the floor.

The ceramic shattered, the dark soil spreading across the rug

The second man looked at me on the floor, pulled my hair till I was facing him and spoke directly in my face. "Sign the contract."

The first man picked up my picture frame, shattered it too close to my leg and said, “this," gesturing at the broken glass, the shattered pot and the cold air pouring in through the open window, "is only the beginning."

They left.

I stayed on the floor for a long time.

Martha's plant lay on its side, the small ceramic pot she had carried from our old house now in pieces around it.

I looked at my phone on the counter.

Then I got up, picked up the unknown number from my missed calls and rang it back.

It picked up on the first ring.

"Tell him. I'll sign it.”