by Mara Lynne
The clinic is closing, and from the corridor I see the lady secretary fixing herself, her bag, and some papers. I enter without permission.
“Sorry, ma’am, but we’re not receiving patients anymore.”
“Is Dr. Martin here?” My eyes recklessly search the glass-walled room and soon find a door which I think leads to Eric Martin’s office.
“Dr. Martin is leaving.”
“Can you let me talk to him even for just a couple of minutes? My dad is his patient.” My tears are welling up the corners of my eyes, and my voice is cracking up.
The stern-looking secretary stares at me with her hawk-like eye. She’s giving me the feeling that she doesn’t want me there.
“Angel?” The door opens, exposing Eric Martin in his normal clothes—a pair of trousers and black printed long sleeved polo shirt that is unbuttoned three inches from his neck.
“I need to talk to you,” I say in one breath.
“Sorry, Doctor, but I tried…” the secretary tries to defend herself.
“It’s okay, Melanie. I think I’ll take this.” Eric Martin lets me into his office.
It’s wide and has lots of medical stuff, just like what he has in their downtown family clinic.
“Doctor, please tell me I am wrong about this.” I show him the bill of laboratory tests, all shaking and anxious.
He shows me the way to his long divan.
For seconds, his attention is just on the paper, prolonging the waiting and my agony.
“Your hunch is right, Angel.” His eyes are full of remorse. “We tested your father for cancer.”
It’s just too much to handle. I let it out. I cry in front of him.
Cancer? How is it possible?
Eric Martin starts to talk, but my ears seem to shut down and just allow the voices in my head to fill my being. I try hard to focus on his mouth to try to get a grasp of what he’s saying, but it is impossible. It’s like his words and his voice don’t even exist. It’s just my reason doing all the talking.
How on earth did Dad develop cancer? Cancer of what? Is it hereditary? Did he get it from his parents or grandparents? Is it because of stress at work or the chemicals he inhaled as a plumber? There aren’t even chemicals involved in his job. It’s about water and pipes, and…
I am overthinking things again. My head starts to ache from my forehead to my occipital lobe, like a club hitting on it. My skull is just about to break. I just can’t help it. I need to know everything. I always hate to be in the dark, especially if it’s about my family. I need to know what’s happening and why these misfortunes kept happening to us. It’s the only way to find an answer — trace the root cause and solve it.
“Angel?”
Finally, Eric Martin’s voice brought me out from the profundity of mindlessness.
“Are you listening?”
I nod, still fazed and unsure.
He lets out a deep sigh, pauses for a while as though waiting for me get a grasp of myself, and says, “We need to do surgery or chemotherapy as soon as possible.”
I freeze.
“Or else…”
Chapter 10: Putting Off the Fire
I withdraw everything I have from the bank and pay it all for Dad’s pending tests and treatments. Well, not really everything as I leave a few for our daily expenses.
It’s not enough but at least, with that little money, Dad will receive the necessary treatments before we get the loan.
Cancer of the kidney.
First, he has renal failure, now he has a mass in his left kidney.
First, it’s just his kidneys’ inability to filter waste that caused complications. Now, there’s a growing malignant mass that will eat him starting from where it grows.
There are lots of treatments suggested, and all of them are scary and risky. They lower down a person’s immune system, hence the risk of infection, making it more dangerous for people who are experiencing other chronic diseases. Dad will start to lose hair and so much weight until people barely recognize him. He will never be the same again. Things will never be the same again.
“Is it your day off today, Angel?” Mom asks as she hands me a cup of coffee. Dad is sent to the radiography department for some tests, and Mom and I are left in the room. She knows what’s happening, her face says so. There are wrinkles all over, tear marks at both corners of her eyes, and dark, tired eyes. She’s just hiding it from Dad and me.
“It’s Saturday,” I answer while warming my hands with the cup. Saturdays are always my free days. Mom should have known. Maybe too much stress has made her a little absentminded.
She sat on the couch right beside me and reaches for my hand. Her grasp is tight and warm, like telling me a message that is just right to be told this way.
I know it. She’s telling me to be strong.
Her grasp tightens when I start to burst into crying. Mom buries me into her affectionate embrace.
“Remember when you said that everything will be alright?” She pats my back. “Remember when you never show us you’re crying because you don’t want us to worry? Remember when you were a little girl and other kids are laughing at you because all you had for recess were cookies and ham and cheese?”
I remember those times.
Those were the Angel Mohrs who liked to appear strong, my past self who lied just to escape the sad truth.
Angel Mohr is not strong.
She’s just a good liar.
This is the real her—the real me.
“Angel, please don’t do this to yourself. Don’t be too selfless.”
“What are you saying, Mom?” I cry. “What’s wrong with thinking about you and Dad? Do you think I’ll just let you carry all these?”
“I’m not saying that you stop. I just want you to help yourself and not think about us for a day or two. Think about yourself.” Her eyes have the sincerity and drive that I have been looking for in the past few days. This is the formidable Sarah Mohr! This is who she is, the one who has been missing for quite a time. I’m glad she’s back because I can no longer act strong and unaffected.
I cry and cry, and Mom listens and tries to calm me.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Angel. Leave a little space for fun and joy.”
“How am I going to do that, Mom? It won’t cure cancer.” I justify, shaking my head. “It won’t make Dad live long.”
“Your father will be alright,” Mom tells me confidently despite the tears threatening to fall down her cheeks. She’s not faking this strength. I can feel that she’s doing this because, in this time of crisis, it’s the only thing that will keep us afloat. Mom is naturally a strong woman. I’ve seen her battle through hard times. This is the worst, but I know that with her sane and optimistic things will be less painful.
“Go home and take a rest. Take a walk in the park with Ray. Go window shopping,” she chuckles. She obviously knows I’m literally bankrupt. Every penny I have goes into the hospital.
“For one day, Angel, have fun,” she adds while giving me one of my most favorite things in the world — her smile.
But I am a stubborn kid, and so I chose to go to the bank and play my cards there. I’m not crazy to demand things, but I am crossing my fingers that they accept my request and give me the loan I need. College dropped from the top of my priorities to the bottom of the ocean. I have Dad the first on my list now.
Mr. Eckert generously gives me his spare time to talk about the ‘possibilities.’ In my utter surprise, he leads me into one of the VIP rooms on the second floor, which I only thought of seeing in my dreams. For a while, I forget about the tons of burden I am carrying on my shoulders. It’s just what I wish to see, something that will divert my attention even for a little while.
“Come in, Ms. Mohr,” Mr. Eckert says with a slight bow.
The room is extraordinarily wide with steel gray metal columns defining its architecture as too modern and futuristic. There’s only one long couch at the center. The walls are all made
of glass that I can almost see through the other rooms.
“Sit down, Ms. Mohr.”
He sounds more like an English butler than a loan officer, so courteous and formal, but he doesn’t look like those old calculated butlers I see in British films. He’s warm, knows to smile, and definitely not too gray.
I pull my legs together to see how my pair of flats looks so plain on the marble floor. I don’t fit in here, I thought. The velvet couch looks so nice, and it makes my high-neck cotton blouse and jacket look so cheap.
Mr. Eckert shows me an envelope that contains papers and a heavy-looking steel pen.
“You’re going to grant my loan request?” I can’t keep my excitement hidden. What are those papers? They couldn’t be just props to make this meeting dramatic. What else could they be? My heart thumps every second I move close to see what’s written in there.
“I need you to sign these,” he says, moving the pen with his fingers to my side of the table.
“Oh, Mr. Eckert!” I really want to cry now.
“Please, Ms. Mohr, you need to sign these papers before you get the money.”
Thrilled and trembling, I pick up the pen and start to scribble my name on the space provided when Mr. Eckert speaks, “Are you not going to read what’s in the contract, Miss?”
“I have read four loan contracts in the past few years, Mr. Eckert. I don’t think they look different at all,” I said with confidence.
He clears his throat and turns the flap of the folder to hide the papers as though keeping them away from me. “This has different terms, ma’am,” he says in his gruff voice, his brow slightly arched.
“How is it different, Mr. Eckert?”
“The money will be at your disposal a week after today. You won’t get it immediately.”
“But that shouldn’t…”
“It’s the term agreed upon, ma’am. The bank can’t do anything about it,” he states matter-of-factly.
“Agreed by whom?”
“A benefactor who mustn’t be named.”
A benefactor? I have a benefactor?
“I thought it’s the bank lending me the money!” I try to calm myself.
“With your debts, the bank can no longer offer more charitable trust. Fortunately, a Good Samaritan is willing to shelve out a little money for your hospital fees.”
“Who is this benefactor, Mr. Eckert?”
And why is he or she helping me? I thought to myself.
“He chooses to remain anonymous, miss.”
He?
“Now, miss, if you please.” He lays the folder open once again, holding the pen toward me.
“What does this benefactor want from me?” The unexpected starts to trouble me. It’s crazy, but why do I feel Damien has something to do with this? He’s the only one who knows I badly need money.
No.
Ray, too, knows about my situation.
Damien can’t be this generous. He does good to be known. If he indeed is this Good Samaritan, he will never keep himself unnamed. That is not just Damien Etheridge.
But Ray… Ray can do this thing because he’s naturally kind. He’s my friend, and he once said he’s willing to give up his money.
It can only be Ray!
“Mr. Eckert, please tell him I won’t take his money,” I firmly say, rising from the couch with my fists on my lap and my chin held high.
“But miss!” Poor man, he is utterly surprised by my action.
“Tell him it’s his.” I think I should go to the diner and see Ray myself and give him the scolding he needs this time.
“Are you sure, Ms. Mohr?” He bobs his head sideways.
I have never been so sure in my entire life. I have rejected his offer many times. Why can’t I now? He just doesn’t learn.
There’s a knock on the door, and a dainty looking woman in a pencil skirt and printed puff-sleeved blouse enters. She turns her glare at me for a second and shifts back to Mr. Eckert.
“He’s already here, sir,” she says in her cold, anxious voice. “He’s come like he just lost a game of poker.” She is pointing her finger to the glass wall that allows us to see through the next room. There’s a tall man with his back to us standing in the middle of the room and watching the painting that hung over the hearth. He appears to be a big time client as he is in his suit. His shoulders are broad, and his stance is utterly breathtaking like he is some cover of an Italian magazine. His hair is as black as a raven and very well suits the color of his ensemble.
“He’s rather moody now. He’s angry, sir. I can’t deal with him.”
“I’ll be right there, Ms. Sayle.”
Ms. Sayle closes the door back, and Mr. Eckert continues. “I want you to think about this again, miss. I’ll leave for a while and settle some business. I’ll be in the next room. Please give me your answer when I come back. Think, Ms. Mohr.”
With that, he turns on his heels and leaves.
I turn my attention to the man in the room who doesn’t even look an inch angry. As a matter of fact, he is studying the gorgeous painting with composure, his hands in his pockets. Do rich people get mad like this? However, the moment Mr. Eckert comes in, the man hurls a stack of papers on the table to Mr. Eckert.
Well, that is mad!
If I stand here and watch what is going to happen, will they see me?
What he just did to Mr. Eckert is a horrible thing to do. Poor Mr. Eckert! He is stunned, yet he still continues explaining. The stranger mouths words, definitely so debasing that Mr. Eckert has to avoid his glare and look down. I stand transfixed at the scene in front of me. There’s nothing more embarrassing than to be watched in such a situation.
Who is this man by the way? Why does he act like he’s so important that he can even yell at Mr. Eckert?
All of a sudden, I freeze when the man turns to my direction, and our eyes meet. Within a couple of seconds, I catch a glimpse of his furious dark eyes, brows meeting in the middle, his nose flaring in revolt. My heart leaps a beat, and I reflexively turn away from him in shame.
Panic brings me out of the room running like a scared chicken. When I reach the exit of the bank, I realize that I left the papers unsigned, but I can’t go back there. I can’t. I am caught. He caught me watching him. He caught me watching his wickedness.
Maybe I should come back next time when he’s not here. I can’t help but feel so restless at the thought of him thinking of me as some meddlesome alien who freaked out for being caught. I have no idea why I fled as though I am a criminal. I am not to blame if the walls were made from glasses. I am not to blame if I see how he demeaned poor Mr. Eckert.
I am absolutely not to blame if I ran like that.
“Ray?” I am calling Ray through my phone while walking along the sidewalks of the busy city. He needs to be reprimanded for being too willful. I said no, and here he is insisting on the arrangement.
“Hello, sweetie.”
“Ray, I told you not to worry about me!” I already hear myself controlling the volume of my voice.
“Angel, for the love of God, you know I can’t! I’m your big sister!”
“You can always help me but not to the point of giving up your life savings!”
I hear air come out from his mouth.
“What are you talking about?”
My feet come to a halt.
“What am I talking about? Aren’t you my benefactor? I ask. “Aren’t you the one who went to the bank and made the loan possible?”
“Can I do that?”
Jesus! He sounds really clueless.
“You’re not joking, Ray, or are you?”
“Is it possible for me to do that, Angel? Cause if it is, I’ll straight away leave work and go to the bank and do what you said.”
“So it isn’t you?” I murmur, my body in a complete stupor.
“No, but I can do it.” His answer appears resolute.
There’s only one person who I can think of.
He can’t be.
> “R-ray.” I stutter as I shrink from the truth. “I think it’s Damien.”
“Etheridge, your benefactor?”
“Is it crazy to think about that?”
“Absolutely! Why would he even do that?”
I commence walking. Exercising my legs, I think, will release this tension inside me. I need something to divert my attention. I need to stop thinking about Damien and his unusual behavior.
“I have no idea. He’s not the charitable type, Ray!”
“Are you even sure it’s him? Maybe you’re just assuming things because, well, he’s Damien and he’s terribly rich!”
“I can’t think of anyone else!” I run my fingers through my forehead, kneading it with my palms.
“Relax, Angel,” he says. “This benefactor could be someone else. You know, some old man who’s so rich that he has to unload his vault once in a while or a dying person who has no heir to his fortune. There could be a lot of things behind this. It’s not just Damien!”
Basically, he’s saying that I am thinking too much about this annoying man.
“Speaking of Damien, he’s here again at his favorite table.”
“Let me guess, he’s with his girls.” It takes me too long to breathe freely. I want to think that it is somebody else. It will never be the same if I find out it’s him. It must be some very kind-hearted person who’s been tapped by God to help me.
“He’s alone, probably waiting for some fun.”
“Perhaps his girls find his company a little too boring.”
“By fun I meant you!”
“Seriously?”
He chuckles over the speaker. “He’s already asked me seven times about you!”
“Well, that is absolutely fun for him! Is he not tired of picking on me?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“He’s got the brains of a child. He’ll never understand.”
I turn a corner and see the entrance of the hospital.
“Or he refuses to understand.”
“Tell me that’s a joke.”
“We can never tell.”
I can only thank Ray for lying to Damien about my whereabouts. He wants some fun, and I’ll let him have it. I’ll keep him waiting for me until his eyes turn as white as snow.