Chapter 6

Kimberly

N ight shifts are the worst. Filled with drunks who want to grope you and shout abuse, or down-on-their-luck types who just want to come in for a coffee somewhere warm. It’s eight in the morning, and I’ve been working since eleven the night before. I’m ready to crawl into bed and forget the world.

The only upside to having the night shift is that I at least had time to meet up with a very hungover Amelia for dinner before I started. Thankfully, she was understanding and, as expected, found the whole sorry story amusing. She was of course, very interested in the handsome stranger I crashed into, and is now convinced that it’s our ‘meet cute’ that we will tell our kids one day. Sometimes I think Amelia lives in a fantasy world. As though a man like Yaroslav Volkov would be interested in a girl like me.

My dreams of crawling into bed for a peaceful undisturbed rest come to a grinding halt the moment I get to my apartment My brother is standing waiting at the door.

“Hey, baby sis, how you doing? I was in the area and thought I’d swing by,” he says nonchalantly. Noah doesn’t just pop by to say hi, if he’s here that only means one thing, he wants something.

“Hi Noah, what is it this time?” I ask with a weary sigh. I don’t have the energy to pretend.

“Hey, can’t a brother visit his family without having an ulterior motive?” he pouts, mock offended.

I roll my eyes, not bothering to reply. He moves to let me open the door, following close behind me. Abigail and Gran are sitting on the sofa watching the TV. Gran’s still in her pajamas, a cup of coffee on the table in front of her.

“Hey Kim, how was work?” Abigail says to me before acknowledging my brother with a curt, “Noah.”

There’s no love lost between my brother and Abigail. Abigail thinks he’s a lazy responsibility shirker and Noah can’t believe Abigail would want to help out of the kindness of her own heart and therefore that she must have some sinister reason for helping us.

“Same old, how’s she been?” I ask nodding in Gran’s direction.

“Good so far, she’s eaten breakfast and seems quite with it this morning,” Abigail beams.

“Noah!” Gran exclaims as he goes over to her, she doesn’t even acknowledge my arrival, but when Noah bothers to grace us with his presence it’s like we’ve had a visit from the queen.

Noah, loving being the golden boy, happily chats with Gran, showing off the brand-new pair of New Balance sneakers he has on. I grit my teeth, trying not to let it get to me that we’re struggling to make ends meet, while Noah is off living his best life and spending obscene amounts of cash on frivolous purchases. Gran holds Noah’s hand in hers, the skin now wrinkled and paper-thin. She’s listening to him intently and smiling at him like he’s the messiah. I do so much for her—have given up my dreams to care for her, and yet it’s me she forgets. Noah hasn’t seen her for months and yet now he finally comes, she lights up. I shouldn’t feel jealous, the fact she remembers my brother shows that she still has some of her old memories, but it’s just so unfair.

I see Abigail out, thanking her for staying over. I always feel guilty asking her to do overnights, be she assures me she’s fine with it. She barely sleeps anyway, and our couch is comfortable, she says. With Abigail gone, I head to the kitchen to make myself a coffee. I don’t offer to make one for Noah. Sod him. It’s me who will have to deal with Gran’s meltdown the moment he disappears again.

As I’m brewing the coffee, Noah comes into the kitchen.

“So, Kim, I have a favor to ask…” he says, his voice wheedling.

And there it is. As predicted, right on time, he’s asking for something. He’s barely been here five minutes. No doubt he’ll leave the moment he gets what he came for. Gran will be heartbroken.

“That didn’t take long. What do you want?” I ask warily, turning to face him.

“I need some cash,” he says, as though I have any to give.

He grabs a peach from the fruit bowl on the counter, biting into it and then grimacing before throwing it in the trash. I bite down my irritation at this casual disrespect, if he’d taken a moment to feel it before biting, he’d have realized it wasn’t ripe yet. I’d been hoping to make a peach cobbler as a treat for Gran. She still enjoys baking, it’s one of the few things that helps bring her back to me. Now I’m going to be short on peaches and they’re not cheap.

“Me too,” I reply dryly.

“No, seriously Kimmy, I’ve got a great investment opportunity. I just need a bit of cash to kickstart it,” he says animatedly, spreading his arms wide.

Noah is forever throwing his money away on his next big idea, the next opportunity that’s going to make him rich. They all fail.

“No,” I reply, folding my arms and putting on my best, no-nonsense expression.

Noah’s expression darkens. “What do you mean no? I’ve been sending you money for the past two years, you owe me!” he spits, slamming his hands down loudly on the rickety counter causing the drying mugs there to rattle.

“No, that money has been to help me care for our sick grandmother. The one you walked out on and now never visit,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low so she won’t hear me.

“You know I’m not cut out to be a caregiver,” he retorts loudly.

Noah launches into a loud rambling tirade about why he deserves the money and why I have to give it to him. He looks wild and frenzied as he paces around the kitchen like a caged animal getting more and more worked up.

Drawn by his raised voice, Gran ambles into the kitchen. She makes a beeline for him, holding out her arms for a hug like a child. “Elijah my sweet boy, give Momma a hug!” she coos, her coherence now slipping with the stress as she confuses him for her long-dead son, our father.

She grabs ahold of Noah, clinging to him. “My baby boy!” she exclaims trying to pinch his cheeks.

“Get off me you crazy old bitch! I’m not your baby!” Noah yells, abruptly pushing her off him.

He always gets upset whenever anyone mentions Mom or Dad. No doubt this latest confusion of Gran thinking that he’s her son will upset him more than he’d care to admit. He shoves her a little too hard and she loses her footing as she stumbles backward, her head cracking against the table with an audible thump. Blood immediately wells from the wound and Gran dazedly reaches her hand up to touch it, confused and scared.

“Fuck, what did you do Noah?” I cry, rushing to her side and pressing a towel against the cut.

Noah stands stock still looking shell-shocked. “I didn’t mean to… it was an accident!” he cries guiltily, acting more like a child who’s been caught red-handed but doesn’t want to be told off than a grown man.

“Don’t just stand there, call an ambulance!” I shout at him, cradling Gran in my arms.

I can tell Gran is slowly slipping out of consciousness and I fear the worst. She’s already so sick and there’s so much blood. Panic rises in me, and I desperately try to stay calm.

Noah shakes his head, throwing Gran’s phone at me for me to make the call.

“I’m sorry,” he says before running out the door.

“Noah, you coward! Come back! Help me!” I cry out desperately.

The only answer is silence.

Pull yourself together, Kim, you’re on your own. He’s not coming back. You need to call an ambulance.

Taking a deep breath, I squash down my panic and fear and call 911. I try to concisely and clearly explain the situation to the calm operator at the end of the line who assures me an ambulance is on the way. If I had my car I could have driven her there, perhaps saving some precious time that could mean life or death, but it’s still in the impound lot. I haven’t got the money to get it back. An ambulance and emergency visit are likely to bankrupt us, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. All I want is for Gran to live.

I cradle her in my arms, humming her favorite song softly. “It will be okay, Gran. I promise,” I whisper, hoping that by saying the words it will become reality. I can’t lose her.

It can’t have been long at all, but time seems to stretch on forever, the only sound the ticking clock on the kitchen wall and my own labored breath. When the paramedics arrive, knocking on the door, I feel frozen in place, terrified to move in case it somehow causes further harm.

“Come in, it’s open. We’re in here!” I call out, my voice sounding unlike my own.

I feel as though I’m outside of my body, watching the scene unfold as they come in and gently prize me away from my grandmother, calmly checking her vitals and loading her onto a stretcher with care. I cling to her limp hand the whole time, unable and unwilling to let go. It’s only after the paramedic gently reminds me to lock the door that I realize I’m barefoot and have nothing on me. I quickly slip on some shoes and grab my purse, locking the door behind me and following the paramedics’ measured pace down the stairs. I absentmindedly wonder if the lack of a working elevator will be the thing that costs us precious lifesaving minutes.

***

The moment we arrive at the hospital, arriving in a blur of lights and sirens, the doctors meet the ambulance and rush Gran off. I was firmly but politely told I could not follow and that I was to stay in the waiting room.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting in the ER, numbly staring into space waiting for news. The hustle and bustle of activity in the hospital barely registers, it’s as though I’m adrift on a sinking life raft in the middle of the ocean.

“Miss Walsh.”

I’m pulled back into the brightly lit room, as I notice the doctor standing before me. His tired, kind face is composed yet compassionate. He must have to deal with this sort of thing all the time.

“Sorry… I was… How’s Gran?” I ask, jumping out of my seat feeling both eager and terrified to hear his response.

“She’s stable,” he confirms. “We had to perform an emergency surgery to reduce the swelling on her brain. Usually, with this type of injury, I would expect to see a complete recovery. However, given your grandmother’s medical history and condition, we won’t know for certain how the injury will impact her cognitive functions and recovery.”

I nod, taking his words in. “But she’s going to be okay, she’s not going to die?” I ask. I don’t care about anything else, as long as she lives.

He gives me a small smile, “No, she’s not going to die. Your grandmother is a fighter.”

Relief floods me and I feel as though I could cry. My legs almost buckle, I’m so happy to hear that Gran will live.

“Can I see her?” I ask, not trusting myself to believe she’s okay until I’ve laid eyes on her.

“Yes, she’s in the ICU, she’s still unconscious though and it’s unlikely she’ll wake today,” he warns me, his tone gentle.

“I don’t care, I just want to see her,” I state confidently.

He nods, “Okay. I have to go now but a nurse will be over shortly to take you to her.”

“Thank you,” I reply gratefully, holding back tears as I watch him rush off to deal with the rest of his patients.

Mercifully, a nurse appears only moments later to take me to Gran. We walk through the hospital building in silence, I think she could tell that I needed it, I’m too shell-shocked to speak. Once we get to the ICU and I see all the machinery I freeze. The nurse gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, “It looks scary, but try and ignore the noises. Talk to your grandmother, she can hear you.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice sounds hoarse.

“One of the ICU doctors will be in shortly to speak to you, I’ve got to head back to the ER now. Can I get you anything before I go?”

I smile and shake my head. I’m grateful that the nurse doesn’t linger, silently making her exit as soon as I enter the room. Gran looks so small and vulnerable, lying there in the hospital bed, a tangle of wires connected to whirring and beeping machines.

I pull the uncomfortable plastic chair over to sit by her side, taking her hand in mine and watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. Her hand feels so frail, the skin so thin. I’m reminded that, although she might be out of the woods now, things aren’t going to get any easier for her. Piece by agonizing piece, the woman who means the most to me in this world is slipping away from me. Even though she may be here in body, her spirit is eroding, being washed away by the disease that will eventually take her for good.

***

It’s been two days since the accident and emergency surgery. Gran is awake and doing well. Or at least as well as an elderly Alzheimer’s patient recovering from a head injury and surgery can be. I haven’t left her side the whole time except for toilet breaks and to grab food from the hospital canteen, bland and tasteless yet extraordinarily overpriced. I’ve been trying not to think about the cost of the surgery and hospital stay until I hear back from the insurance company, I’m just praying our insurance will cover it.

Abigail has been a godsend, coming in to sit with Gran and provide moral support, bringing in food and essentials from home for us both. She’s sat chatting away with Gran now, making her smile as I watch, feeling tired but content.

My phone rings and I glance at the display. “Abigail, will you be alright for a minute with Gran, it’s the insurance company calling,” I explain.

“Of course, we’ll be fine,” she assures me.

I step out, taking a deep breath and bracing myself as I answer the call.

“Hello, Kimberly Walsh speaking.”

“Hello Miss Walsh, I’m calling from Be Well Insurance,” the nasal tone of the customer service representative tells me, her voice weary, no doubt from a long day of dealing with pissed-off customers.

“Hello,” I reply, feeling nervous.

“I’m calling to inform you that, given the nature of the surgery and your grandmother’s condition, your current insurance plan cannot cover the full medical expenses…”

The woman continues to talk but I barely hear anything she’s saying, I feel as though I’ve been punched in the gut. I’m vaguely aware of her stating what expenses are covered, the outstanding medical bills we currently owe for Gran’s care relating to her Alzheimer’s, the excess costs, and how much we owe that isn’t covered.

“I’m sorry, did you say eighty thousand dollars?” I sputter in shock as she provides the final figure.

“Yes, ma’am, your current outstanding payments not covered by insurance come to a total of eighty thousand, nine hundred and fifty-seven dollars,” she states calmly as though we’re discussing small change here, not several years’ worth of my full annual income.

“That’s almost ninety thousand dollars!” I state incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

“But… but we can’t afford that,” I cry helplessly. “Isn’t there something you can do? I thought the whole point of having insurance is so that emergencies like this are covered.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, you only have the basic package which does not cover you for all eventualities. If you’d like to upgrade, we can…”

“No. Thank you,” I snap, hanging up the phone before she can say anything further.

I know it’s rude of me, she’s only doing her job, but I can’t listen to it for a moment longer. I know they aren’t going to help. We’re officially broke and royally screwed. There’s no way with my credit that I can get a loan that wouldn’t have ridiculous repayments that would push me further into debt. Selling the apartment isn’t an option either. Where would we live?

I pace the hallway, frantically trying to come up with a solution or think of anyone who could help, but I keep coming back to the same inevitable conclusion. I’m fucked.

If only I had a fairy godmother, or some rich relative I never knew about that could swoop in and save the day.

And then it occurs to me. Light a light switch being turned on.

I do know someone who could help us. Someone filthy rich, that owes me a favor. Admittedly this is a big favor to ask. But I’m desperate.

Shit. Where did I put his card? Why didn’t I get a new phone yet or fix mine, or even save the goddamn number on Gran’s phone?

I rush back into Gran’s room, grabbing my purse and frantically scrabbling through it, waving away Abigail’s concerns over my behavior. After the last hospital visit, I dumped all the contents of the small purse I had on me that day, into my big, day-to-day one. I just pray that the card is in here. To my relief, I find it. I slip out of the room again and hurriedly key in the number.

After a few rings, he answers. “Yaroslav Volkov speaking, who is this?” he asks politely but a little suspiciously—unsurprising since he won’t have my number saved.

“Hello, Mr. Volkov, I’m not sure if you remember me. Kimberly Walsh, Kimmy. We met when—” I start, the words coming out in a rush.

“I remember you,” he states neutrally, cutting me off.

“Right, yes well. Um, you said that if I needed help to call…” I state awkwardly, clutching the phone in my hand like a lifeline. I don’t know how to ask for such a big favor, how to even formulate the words.

“I did. I assume you calling means that a favor is already required?” he asks smoothly, his voice has a strangely calming effect on me.

“Yes. Sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do. My grandmother is in hospital, she had to have emergency surgery and the insurance won’t cover it all and so I was hoping I could get a loan from you… it’s a lot but I promise to pay back every cent. I’m a hard worker, I could work to pay it off…” I ramble.

Again, he politely but firmly cuts me off. “Which hospital is she at?”

“King Memorial Hospital,” I reply.

“I will send someone to you now,” he replies.

“Thank you,” I reply gratefully.

I’m about to launch into another speech about paying him back, when I realize he’s gone. He hung up. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or something he does normally. He doesn’t exactly strike me as one for pleasantries and idle chit-chat.

With nothing left to do but wait, I head back into Gran’s room and try not to think about the monumental debt I’m in and the fact I just promised a stranger I’d repay him with money or time that I don’t have if he’d help. I try to relax and enjoy Abigail and Gran’s company, but I feel so on edge that every time someone walks past the door, I flinch like a cat on a hot tin roof wondering if it’s Yaroslav’s man.

After an hour has passed, I start to feel anxious that perhaps he isn’t going to help after all. I go outside to grab a coffee, anything to keep busy and distract me. Just as I’m beginning to contemplate calling Yaroslav again to beg for mercy, one of the young receptionists on duty approaches me.

“Miss Walsh, there’s a man at reception asking for you. He says he’s not family… I didn’t want to let him visit without checking with you first…” he states, his voice trailing off.

I’m grateful that he didn’t give them our room number, I’d rather not have to explain everything to Gran and Abigail, and they’d definitely have questions if a strange man appeared and told them our bill had been paid.

“Thank you, is he in reception? I’ll speak with him there.”

“Yes, if you follow me, I can take you to him,” he replies gratefully, relieved to have done the right thing.

At the reception, the big brawny man from the other day who was with Yaroslav while he spoke with the police is waiting. I feel a surprising stab of disappointment that it isn’t Yaroslav himself who came. Though he is no doubt a busy man so I should hardly be surprised.

“Miss Walsh,” he says with a polite nod, like Yaroslav he has a Russian accent.

Though he is a similar height and build, albeit a bit brawnier than Yaroslav, he has none of his boss’s good looks. His dark brown hair is cut short in a buzz cut and his face reminds me of a boxer whose nose has been broken one too many times. I wonder if he is a bodyguard, he certainly looks like one.

“My name is Artem, Mr. Volkov sent me. Your grandmother’s expenses have been paid in full,” he continues.

Although it’s exactly what I asked for, I’m taken aback by this information. I’d have expected there to be a discussion about repayment first. Who spends almost ninety thousand dollars on a stranger without an agreement in place first about getting it back? It occurs to me then that I could have made a big mistake. I know nothing about the man I am now indebted to. What if he’s some sort of loan shark?

“Oh,” I say, my voice small and uncertain.

“I have instructions to take you to Mr. Volkov so you can speak face-to-face,” Artem states.

I know there’s no point fighting this. I owe him that much and more for helping.

“Okay. Just let me tell my grandmother that I’m leaving,” I reply.

He nods his assent, and I rush off to do just that, fielding the questions from Abigail and Gran with a lie that I am going home to shower and meet with Amelia. They both seem relieved that I am going, and both have expressed concern that I’ve not left since Gran arrived, so I get away without issue.

It’s only as I climb into the blacked-out SUV, and we pull away from the hospital that I wonder if not telling anyone where I am going is the smartest of ideas.