Hadshe been stalwart and cheerful? Or had that been a performance enacted for the comfort of her oblivious audience?
Earlier, she’d told him she was fine when she clearly wasn’t. He didn’t like to think of her lying to him, and he didn’t like to think of how many times she might have done so in the past without him noticing.
Brindle finished discussing his last slide and clicked off the projector. A few audience members, quiet to that point, gave another perfunctory round of applause.
One of the few remaining so-called moderate Republicans, Brindle didn’t tend toward fiery speeches or prophecies of doom. His soundbites were reasonable, conciliatory. But he voted with his uber-conservative colleagues every time, no matter how egregious their positions became or how many people—especially women, people of color, and members of the LGBTQ community—their policies hurt.
As far as James was concerned, the man was a fucking coward. Maybe he talked a good game about welcoming immigrants, but he didn’t denounce their harassment by ICE or the splitting of families by deportation or the horrific detention camps at the border. Maybe he acknowledged the importance of affordable healthcare for all, but he stood by while the Republicans drafted bill after failed bill that would strip that healthcare from millions.
Brindle was either devoid of principles or lacked the courage to fight for them. Either way: The man was a blight on Virginia and their nation. He needed to be voted out, and soon.
James sincerely hoped someone in the auditorium would ask the congressman where he’d stored his spine, and whether a good ass-kicking would help him find the key.
When Brindle opened the floor to questions, a few audience members raised their hands. Including, to his shock, Elizabeth, the woman who’d bemoaned and feared every oral presentation she’d been assigned in college and never raised her hand in their shared American lit seminars.
This. This was why she’d come, fear of public speaking be damned.
She was shaking again, her fingers squeezing so tight he heard one of his knuckles crack. But she kept her other trembling hand high in the air, gaze pinned to Brindle’s nearest roaming flunky with a microphone.
The tie-clad young man—a Young Republican from Marysburg University?—caught her eye, gave a little nod, and headed their way.
Her breath hitched, and her fingers spasmed around his.
When the kid leaned over, his outstretched hand holding the microphone, Elizabeth slowly, clumsily rose to her feet. James expected her to disentangle their hands at that point, but she didn’t. And he wasn’t letting go until he knew she was okay, whether that happened in a minute or an hour.
So he scooted forward in his chair so she didn’t have to lean to the side and held her hand as she spoke into the microphone, her voice quavering.
“My name is Elizabeth Stone, and I’m a lifelong resident of Marysburg. My question concerns your stance on healthcare.” She licked her chapped lips. “I’m very concerned about—”
“Let me stop you for a moment, Ms. Stone.” The congressman held up a hand. “I want to be clear that I understand the importance of healthcare to Virginians and all Americans. Every time I hear the story of an innocent child’s illness driving a family into bankruptcy, I grieve more than I can say.” Lips pursed, he shook his head. “Health insurance needs to be affordable and readily available. But as my presentation just demonstrated, we also have to find a solution that won’t bankrupt our government in the long term. That’s a tough challenge, but it’s one my Republican colleagues and I are more than willing to take on. We’ll keep working on it until we find the right answer. For you, and for everyone.”
He paused, clearly waiting for applause. When it didn’t come, he turned back to Elizabeth. “What’s your question, ma’am?”
She was breathing fast, but she didn’t avert her gaze from the congressman. After one more squeeze of James’s hand, she began talking again.
“Let me tell you a little about my family medical history, Congressman. My Grandma Stone died of breast cancer before I was even born. My father didn’t talk about it much, but from what I hear, she had a lump under her arm the size of a grapefruit before she went to a doctor, and by then it was too late. She was dead before my dad even graduated from college.” Her fingers had turned cold against his once more. He covered them with his free hand, surrounding her as best he could as she spoke. “Grandma Barker had a mastectomy in her late forties. She survived for a couple more decades before she got lung cancer.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Both of them were smokers, unlike my mom. And my mother never got breast cancer, although she had a few questionable mammograms over the years. My sisters haven’t had any issues either. But you can understand why I’ve always been concerned about breast cancer. Terrified of it, actually.”
He’d had no idea. None.
“Last month, I—” She paused. “I found a lump in my right breast while I was showering. But I don’t have health insurance, and I wasn’t comfortable going into debt to pay for a mammogram.”
James must have made some sort of sound, because she stopped speaking for a moment and glanced down at him. With a nod, he encouraged her to keep going, but he barely heard her next few words.
When the fuck had Elizabeth lost her insurance? And why hadn’t she said something to him? He could have paid her premium. He could have paid for a fucking mammogram. Shit, he’d havebeggedher to take his money and go to the damn doctor.
They’d been friends for decades. Unlike most of their circle, she hadn’t blinked when he’d decided to shift from teaching English to painting houses. She’d tolerated Viv’s abuse and tried to stay close to them both, even in the midst of all the alcohol-soaked drama. She brought him homemade soup when he came down with a cold or fever. She baked him cookies for every conceivable holiday—including Arbor Day, for Christ’s sake—and fed him basically every time she saw him. He figured he could blame ninety percent of his belly on her, and the other ten percent on the Rita’s frozen custard place near his house.
She’d been a steady, supportive, undemanding presence in his life almost as long as he could remember.
And she’d been without insurance and terrified, and she hadn’t fucking told him?
No. This was unacceptable. And as soon as this damn town hall ended, he was going to tell her so. Right after he held her until she stopped shaking.
“—and the radiologist said I needed a biopsy as soon as possible, but if I couldn’t afford a mammogram, how can I afford a biopsy?” Elizabeth’s voice was so shredded now, he could barely make out her words. “And if it’s cancer, how can I afford treatment without spending the rest of my life in debt? What if my lack of coverage means I don’t get the care I need?”
Even as her tears spilled over, she jabbed a finger in the congressman’s direction. “But let’s say the lump is nothing, I survive this year, and I try to get coverage next year. If the latest Republican healthcare bill passes, I won’t be able to pay for health insurance anyway, because of all my preexisting conditions.” She jerked the hand twined with James’s against the softness of her stomach. “I’m fat. I smoked for a while in my twenties and have occasional asthma. And since the abnormal mammogram is in my records now, that’ll probably disqualify me for an affordable plan too.”
