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Turning the business card over and over in my hand, I wait until the call goes through, and ask the lady who answers for the doctor who saw my mom. A certain Dr. Robert Yates, General Pathologist and specialist in autoimmune diseases, followed by several lines of certifications.
I put the card down, prepared to wait, but I’m patched through within seconds. Efficient, this center.
“Dr. Yates speaking.” The voice is deep and resonant, the tone arrogant and impatient. Typical doctor attitude, I guess. “Who’s this?”
“Ocean Storm. My mom is your patient. Sylvia Storm. You were visiting her last week, at the park trailer outside—”
“I remember the case. So you’re the son? Let me see…” I can hear some clicking. He’s probably checking files on his computer. “The probable lupus case.”
“Probable?” I jump on that. “Could it be something else?”
“Lupus is a great imitator of other diseases. We need to run several tests to make sure it’s not something else. There are signs of internal inflammation, which is why I am considering lupus as the most probable cause.”
My heart sinks. “I see.”
“Are you aware that your m
other currently doesn’t have insurance?”
“She was getting it paid via Badgercare, but her enrollment elapsed.”
“Well, these tests cost, and this is just the beginning. As soon as we know for sure what the issue is, we will need to start the treatment.”
I rub a hand over my eyes. “The tests are expensive, huh?”
“Yes, Mr. Storm. But they are crucial if we want to determine—”
“You run those tests. If my mom tells you she doesn’t have money to pay for them, ignore her. I’ll find the money.”
“I see.” A pause. “Will you be there one of these days, Mr. Storm? We could talk.”
“No, I…” Fuck, my truck is gone. The insurance people are still trying to decide if it’s a total loss and whether I’ll get any money back. “I don’t know yet.”
“When you do, call the center, and we can arrange a meeting.”
I hang up and resist the urge to throw the cell phone across the room. Can’t afford more expenses, like a new phone, just to vent my frustration at everything. Mom’s sickness, the costs I’m about to take on and the fact I miss Kayla.
I miss her, goddammit. So fucking bad. I wrap an arm around my ribcage and curse. How fucked up is it that it’s the latter that’s been driving me up the wall, more than all the other serious problems I’m about to face?
Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut and stayed with her, in her warm bed, in her warm body? She didn’t need to know about my past. We were only having fun, screwing around, getting off. Having a good time.
But I couldn’t lie to her. Couldn’t keep the truth from her.
And now here I am, needing her, and it’s all my own fault.
***
On Monday, Zane corners me at work to ask about the accident. I tell him, nothing to hide there. Explain what the insurance told me, that the car that reamed me from behind a couple of weeks ago managed to fuck up the transmission, and then the gear locked as I was racing down a wet highway. I swerved at high speed and lost control.
That’s the least of my worries right now, and Zane doesn’t need to know anything more. He’s got enough on his head with running the shop and organizing the convention. Afterward perhaps… Afterward I could tell him, ask for his advice.
I need to plan ahead, find the money to pay the medical expenses. But how do I get a huge loan with zero interest to pay?
Hey, Z-man, do you happen to know a miracle worker? Or can you pretty fucking please pay me my salary for the next couple of years in advance?
Hell. Right.
The days roll on. Time drags. Work drags. My ribs hurt. I can’t sleep at night.
