“Did you go to trial?” I ask, because those are the only disputes I know something about, and miraculously, there have been only two. The first was ages ago, a leasing dispute when Cam opened his second shop, which became the impetus for his strategy of owning the real estate for his restaurants whenever possible.
The other was almost two years ago. A location on the outskirts of Atlanta that fell through at the last minute, a disgruntled almost-partner Cam dismissed as sour grapes. He sued, Cam won. The end.
Or so we thought.
“Hell yes, we went to trial. There is something seriously wrong with the legal system in this country when the only way to win is by having the deepest pockets. My attorney went up against a whole team of Cam’s hotshots, who buried her in paperwork and nonsense. They froze my bank accounts, put a lien on my house and intimidated my family with an armed private investigator who followed us all over town. They played every dirty trick in the book, and it worked. I’d lost before I even stepped foot in the courtroom.”
The phone rings again, and he pulls it from his pocket, but he doesn’t look. Not yet.
I keep his attention on me. “So that’s why us. That’s why this house.”
This—all of this—it’s about Cam. About resentment and animosity. The kids and me, we’re just pawns.
The phone rings for a fourth time but my questions have him too riled up. He doesn’t so much as glance down at the screen.
“Do you know what happens when your bank account is frozen? You can’t pay your bills, that’s what. You learn real quick how to space them out, to borrow money from the mortgage in order to pay the electric bill, until your bank tries to take back the house, so you swipe the phone money to pay the mortgage. My point is, that shit catches up with you eventually. They come after you then. Your house, your cars, your assets. They take everything, and they don’t stop until the only thing you’ve got left to your name is the clothes on your back and a credit score that’ll get you laughed out of every bank. They even took my daughter’s medical vest. They took her oxygen tank!”
“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.”
“I’m helpless because of Cam. Cam did this, not me. This is all his fault.”
I press my lips together and say nothing. This man’s money problems are shitty, yes. The consequences for his sick daughter are definitely tragic. Cam may have had a hand in knocking over that first domino, but I still don’t see how any of this is his fault.
I glance at my watch: twenty more minutes. I think of Baxter across the
road; my son is in the hands of the enemy. He’s in the enemy’s house. Getting to him is everything, the sun and the stars and the moon. Twenty minutes is an eternity.
I sit up straight and try to breathe and think.
Keep him talking. Survive for twenty more minutes. It’s the only way.
“Where is your daughter now?” I say.
“Don’t worry, she’s not alone. Someone’s looking out for her.”
The coconspirator auntie on the other end of the phone.
I recall his worry about the levels and numbers, that vest and oxygen tank he mentioned just now. Tanya told me all about the vest, an inflatable machine that vibrates and loosens the mucus so the patient can cough it up. It’s like physical therapy for the chest. Her niece wears it twice a day.
“How is she?”
His face fills with worry. “She needs a lung transplant. Real soon.”
“I—” I know, I was about to say, two little words that would tip him off. I know who you are. I know your third coconspirator.
She has my baby boy.
“You what?” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
His phone chirps again, the screen glowing against his masked fingers. Now, finally, he checks the screen. Smiles. Turns it around so I can see.
My heart alights, beating so suddenly that it’s almost painful.
Cam.
The man swipes a thumb across the screen and presses it to his ear. “Cam. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
At her father’s name, Beatrix jerks on her seat, her expression so hopeful it cracks open my heart. My children, both of them, love their mama. I know they do. Whenever they scrape a knee or have a nightmare, when they need a kiss or a cuddle, they come crying to me. But Cam always gets the best of them—the moments when they want to laugh or play or just sit quietly and talk. When they curl up beside him on the couch on the weekend even though they don’t give a flying fig about football. There’s no one they worship more than their father.
And now Beatrix wants nothing more than to believe that her father is about to storm the doors and save her. Save us.
Honestly, kid: ditto.
“Hang on, hang on. Let me put this on speakerphone so everybody can hear.” The man pulls the phone away and taps the screen, then holds it in a palm. “Okay, big man. How about you say that again.”
“You asshole! Listen to me, hear these words I’m about to say to you. You can hit me. You can break my bones and point a gun at my head. You can pull the trigger and blow out my brains, but you do NOT TOUCH MY WIFE.” The last bit comes out in an enraged shout, a deafening roar that rattles the windows and my bones.
The silence that descends is sticky, pulling like tar.
The man gestures to the phone in his hand. “Go ahead, Jade. This one’s all yours.”
“I’m fine, Cam. Honestly.”
“Babe, do not listen to this guy. He is lying to you, I swear. None of that stuff he told you was true. I didn’t take anything from—”
“Uh-uh-uh,” the man interrupts, his mouth millimeters from the microphone. “Yet again, you think everything is about you, but I’m here to tell you, Cam. This is about me. About all the myriad ways my life is screwed up because of you. And I hate to tell you, but now your daughter knows, too. She knows the kind of shitty man her father is.”
“This has nothing to do with them, Sebastian. This is between you and me. Let my family go.”
Sebastian. That’s his name, the almost-partner, the lawsuit instigator. Sebastian.
He holds the phone inches away from his face. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. When you reneged on our deal, you took away my ability to protect my family, which means this? This right here, right now? It’s also about yours.”
“So, what—an eye for an eye? Is that what this is?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s karma.”
“Oh come on. That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re not the only one who lost money on Oakhurst. I lost out in that deal, too, remember?”
“Let me tell you the difference, Cam.” Sebastian makes a face when he says the name, spits it through an ugly curled lip. “You lost what’s for you pocket change while I lost everything. I lost my savings, my livelihood, my house, my wife, the shirt off my back and my daughter’s. I had to declare bankruptcy, and you know what happens to your chronically sick kid when you do that? You get to swap out your health insurance with Medicaid. How do you tell your little girl that they won’t approve the lung transplant that’s supposed to save her life because you can’t afford the medication she needs to make those new lungs stick? This money you’re bringing me, it’s what you took from me plus interest, plus all the medical costs, which thanks to you, my shitty insurance doesn’t cover.”
“That...that’s absurd. What do you think the hospital is going to say when you hand them a bag of cash? You don’t think they’ll start asking questions?”
“They can ask as many questions as they want, but at least my baby will get her new lungs.”
“Sebastian, they’re going to catch you. You know that, right?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Oh, like you helped me before?” he scoffs, and his tone darkens with disgust, with fury. “Sorry, Cam, but that shit don’t fly. Your promises hold no credibility with me anymore. Zero. Not after what you did last time I came to you with a problem. Tell everybody here what you said.”
There’s a long stretch of patchy air, and then: “I’m not... I don’t remember what I said.”
But it’s a lie. Cam does remember, I can tell from the pause, the way his voice went wobbly. He knows exactly what Sebastian is talking about. He just doesn’t want to say it with me and Beatrix listening.
“Look, I’ll call the contractor and explain,” Cam says, dropping back into businessman mode. Problem solver, go-getter, get-’er-done achiever. “I’ll tell him this whole thing was my fault. I’ll get him a check first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll deliver it to him personally.”
“Don’t bother, he already got his cut from my bankruptcy attorney, and it was a hell of a lot less than the hundred grand you and I were supposed to pay him. But let’s get back to the subject at hand. We still haven’t heard the last words you said to me.”
Sebastian’s brows disappear behind the mask, expectant, and he’s got my full attention. My eyes stay trained on the phone, and I lean forward on the recliner, waiting, barely breathing. I hear Beatrix licking her lips, the creak as she shifts on the leather chair. Otherwise the room is silent.
“I...” Cam pauses to puff a frustrated breath, to clear his throat. “You have to understand. Two of my shops were bleeding cash. I had to pump every cent I owned into keeping them afloat. And it was your name on the deed, your name on the contract. I wasn’t legally bound to pay either of you a penny.”
“Let’s ask Jade what she thinks, shall we?” Sebastian stretches his arm, holding the phone between us like an offering. “Let’s say a man shakes on a business deal and assumes his partner is operating with the same honor, so he dives into an expensive renovation, fronting the costs out of his own pocket. Only the partner isn’t honorable, and he’s a no-show when it comes time to sign the partnership agreement, leaving the man with a half-finished building and a stack of unpaid bills. Shouldn’t that partner have to share the burden of the costs?”
Cam’s voice fills the room. “Not according to the law, he—”
“Shut up, Cam. I’m not talking to you. Jade?”
I inhale. Nod. “Yes. Yes, I think he should.”
I know this is what Sebastian wants to hear, but it’s also the truth. If that’s indeed what Cam did, walking away after promises were made and costs accrued, abandoning ship might be legally sound, but morally? Ethically? There’s a reason I haven’t heard any of this f
rom Cam.
“See? Jade agrees. She thinks you’re in the wrong, too. So what do you think she’ll say when she hears about the rest—”
“Sebastian, I don’t—”
“—how I came to you on my knees and with tears in my eyes, begging you to honor the verbal agreement because for my daughter it was a matter of life or death. Do you remember what you said to me then?”
Silence.
Sebastian steps closer, stopping directly under one of the nanny cams nestled in what looks like a fire alarm. He looks at me, but his words are for Cam. “I’m going to need an answer. What did you tell me?”
“I...” A pause. A frustrated groan. “I said it wasn’t my problem.”
“Not it. She. You said she wasn’t your problem. My daughter, dying in her bed because I couldn’t afford her medicine, was not your problem.”
My stomach turns. Cam’s words hit me hard, and I think I might vomit. I tell myself it’s not true, that Sebastian is stretching the truth. Cam is a man who takes care of his mother. Who passes dollar bills out the window to the homeless people begging at stoplights. Who volunteers at soup kitchens and donates his extra food to the food bank. Not someone who would tell another father—a potential business partner—his sick and dying daughter wasn’t his problem.
With a victorious grin, Sebastian flips his cell around, holds it high in the air like a trophy. “Say it again so everybody hears. Louder, this time.” On either side of the fake fire alarm, twin ceiling fans cast eerie shadows on his mask and clothes, as menacing as any monster.
“I said she wasn’t my problem.”
“Right. Just like how what happens next to your wife and daughter isn’t mine.”
“Please, Sebastian.” Cam’s voice is pleading, thick with fear. “Just...let Jade and Beatrix go, and I will make sure your daughter gets her lungs, I swear to you. I’ll pay for them myself if I have to, and we won’t involve the police. You don’t have to go to jail for this. We can work this out. Please.”
My Darling Husband Page 23