My Darling Husband(73)
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“Oh, you think?” He makes a sound, a kind of angry bark. “It’s evil is what it is. She needs those things to breathe. When I threatened to go to the police, they replaced it with an old piece of shit machine that weighs a ton, not caring that carrying anything over a pound gets her winded. You tell me how that’s fair.”
“It’s not. You’re right to be angry.”
The man seems surprised by my answer. He frowns, matching my gaze with his glare, while the phone rings one last time before flipping to voice mail.
“Damn straight I’m right. And don’t even get me started on insurance. It doesn’t get much more preexisting than cystic fibrosis, which means when we were forced to switch, none of the good ones would touch us, and the ones we could afford don’t cover half the therapies she needs to survive. Those companies make it so complicated you give up. Throw your hands up in despair. Do you know what the out-of-pocket costs are, even with decent insurance? Do you?”
“No, but I’m guessing it’s a lot,” I say, but this is where my mind is traveling: down the stairs and out the front door and down the hill and across the road, to the painted brick home across the street. Tanya Lloyd’s house. To those stories she’s always sharing of her poor, beloved niece, the one with cystic fibrosis. The one Tanya is organizing a fundraiser for, the one she just asked me to donate my time and talent to, the one who desperately needs the money to pay for the lung transplant that is this girl’s last hope.
“The FDA came out with this groundbreaking CF drug last year—a game changer, they’re calling it. Do you know what it costs? More than $300,000 a year. If you’re lucky, you’ve got insurance to cover most of that and a big, fat pot of savings to fill the gap, but what about the rest of us? We’re just supposed to sit around and watch our kids dig their own graves?”
What are the odds? Of all the little girls suffering from CF in this city, what are the odds Tanya’s niece could be the same girl as this man’s daughter? A million to one, probably.
A coincidence? Maybe.
Except I no longer believe in coincidences. Not anymore. As of today there are no more coincidences.
Especially not since I now know Tanya took Beatrix’s signs. No wonder the police haven’t come. Tanya tore down my brilliant daughter’s SOS signs before anyone could see, right before she walked out the door with Baxter.
The room spins. My lungs lock up. My skin goes hot and my blood icy cold.
Tanya has Baxter.
“And while I’m at it, here’s another disgusting fact for you. Canadians with CF live ten whole years longer than Americans. Why is that, do you reckon?”
He seems to expect an answer, so I press my hand to my churning stomach and give him one. “I’m betting it has something to do with insurance.”
“Damn straight it does. Americans love to criticize Canada’s state-run health-care system, but the only thing ours is serving are the bottom lines for the drug and insurance companies. A bunch of crooks and thieves. They don’t give the first shit about the number of bodies they have to trample over in order to get to their private planes.”
I try to talk myself out of it, scanning my memory for any other connections we might have shared. Stories of her sisters’ husbands—Dave who works in HR, Robby the banker. Her ex, Thomas, whom I’ve never met, a litigator who traded her in for a much younger, much blonder woman named Tiffani, who Tanya is certain was once a stripper. Her niece’s father, who is not a brother but a cousin—a cousin—who lives...where? Who does what? I have no idea.
Funny how in her endless babble Tanya refers to everyone she’s ever met by name, childhood friends and college pals, the neighbors and their kids, even the neighbors’ dogs and the cashiers up at Kroger. And yet she’s never once called her cousin by his. Come to think of it, I don’t know her niece’s name, either. Tanya’s only ever referred to her as “my sweet, sick niece.”
My heart stops. My mind screams.
No. Dear God, no.
The man clutches the phone in a fist, stepping closer. “I’ve spent every last penny I have to make sure my little girl stays alive. Medicines and copays and therapies, all of which my crappy insurance refuses to cover. I’m here to tell you that American insurance companies are the devil. Their existence has nothing to do with health. It’s about getting rich, pure and simple.”
“You told her you were in a kitchen. When we were downstairs, I mean, the first time you talked to her. You made it sound like you were at work.”
“Well, I lied. I haven’t worked a job in months. When could I when I’m the only parent she’s got? I spend every minute of the day and night taking care of her.”
The man studies me. Frowns. “What’s wrong?”
Is this a trick question? I open my mouth to answer, but the only sound is a clicking of my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
“Why are you all sweaty?” His eyes go squinty, taking me in. “You can stop pretending you give a shit. Your sympathy act doesn’t have me fooled, you know.”
Project calm. Pretend you don’t know. It’s the only way to make it out alive.
I force myself to breathe. “It’s not an act. I’m a parent, too. My children have spent more time than I’d like to think about today being threatened with a gun or a knife, and now my oldest is taped to a chair. I know what it’s like to feel helpless.”