Ill Will (30 page)

Then we went back inside. She let me work as if knowing that I needed to—needed to do the little things like scrub out the shower because the big things were so out of my control.

I didn’t sleep well and the morning came too early.

Cordelia usually does early mornings, or what I call early. It was odd to see her up but not dressed as she usually is, in something professional. Instead she was in baggy jeans and a T-shirt. She was the patient today.

She couldn’t eat breakfast, I didn’t want to.

We got in the car and drove to the doctor’s office.

We were a little early; few other people were there.

“I put all my legal documents in the top drawer of my desk,” she said. Today was the day to talk about the things we didn’t want to talk about. “Updated will, medical and legal powers of attorney. The key to the safe deposit box is also there.”

“Safe deposit box? What’s in that?”

“Some jewelry from my grandmother and mother. Stuff I don’t wear, but it has too much sentimental value to sell or give away. Copies of things like my birth certificate.”

“You know this is like carrying an umbrella—it only rains when you don’t have one,” I said.

“That’s my hope. It just makes sense to take care of everything anyway.” In a change of subject, she said, “You don’t need to come in with me if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit there and Jennifer will stick a needle in my arm.”

“If you don’t want me there, I’ll stay here. Otherwise I’ll go with you.”

She nodded, seemingly relieved I’d chosen to stay with her. They called her name and we went down a long, pale blue hall to a small office. One chair like a dentist’s was in the middle of the room. That was clearly the patient’s seat. A wooden chair was crammed in the corner of the room. That would be mine.

The wait was short. First a nurse came in to check her vital signs. Then it was the nurse and the doctor, a woman who seemed too young to be doing this. Cordelia introduced me. They did what they needed to do, a needle in her arm, a fluid dripping into her veins.

It seemed small and anticlimactic, that her fate should be decided in a cramped office, outdated art on walls a beige color that would soon need to be repainted.

All I could do was sit and watch and keep out of the way.

After a while another doctor came in, another introduction. Cordelia was too young for this, so her friends were coming around. In a concession to space, I said I’d take a walk. One of the nurses pointed me to a little lounge just down the hallway. No one else was there.

I was there only a few minutes when Lydia came by. She didn’t expect to see me and I didn’t expect to see her. It was the same building where their office was, but a different floor.

“Hi,” she said. “Is Cordelia here?”

“Yeah, down the hall. She’s has a few visitors, so I vacated the space.”

“Figures. I came by to see how she’s doing. First time can be a bitch. I had thyroid cancer about ten years ago. Not a biggie. Small tumor, they cut it out. A little chemo and a thyroid pill every day for the rest of my life and I’m right as rain.”

“Hard to be the patient when you’re supposed to be the healer.”

“That’s the other bitch. Nothing like putting on those gowns to make you feel like a speck in the universe.”

“You heard about Reginald, right?” I asked. The insurance mess was nagging at me. Maybe Lydia would be the best person to bring it up to. And I could only hope I wasn’t so unlucky to choose the person responsible.

“Yeah, I did. I don’t get it. Why didn’t he come in for treatment?”

“Supposedly he did two days before he died.”

“What?” She looked taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

She was either a top-notch actor—swindlers often are—or she truly had no idea what I was talking about. The money and training required to be a nurse practitioner would likely discourage a crook from picking this as a cover.

“Reginald had paperwork that indicated his insurance paid for a doctor’s visit two days before he died.”

“That can’t be right. That’s a bizarre mistake.”

“When I searched his house I noticed a letter from his insurance company denying service because he was coming too often. They claimed there wasn’t justification for his condition needing treatment that frequently.”

“This is not making sense.”

“When I spoke to Eugenia, the other patient, she also mentioned insurance claims for visits she said she never made. At first I blew it off.”

“Wait,” she cut in. “What are you getting at?”

“Went the same place you’re going—has to be a mistake. But it’s a huge stretch to think that I just happened to stumble over the only two patients with these kinds of mistakes. And a mistake that only goes one way.”

“Where are you going with this?” Lydia still seemed puzzled. But she was a nurse, not a private detective.

“Anyone in your office doing really well? Claimed to have come into money recently?”

She stared at me. “Yes…but…no. It was an inheritance.”

“A long illness or an uncle you’d never heard of before?”

No, she wasn’t a good actress, because the look on her face gave me the answer she didn’t want to offer me.

“No, nothing like that,” she finally replied. “You’re saying someone is deliberately submitting false insurance claims.” Her tone was defiant, as if I couldn’t possibly be really saying someone she knew was committing fraud.

“That is what I’m saying.”

“Look, we just fired that receptionist,” she said. “Maybe she did something stupid.”

“You fired her for drugs, right?”

“Yes, but drug addicts will do anything.”

“Did she work with your billing?”

Lydia was silent for a moment, before finally saying, “She wasn’t supposed to, but she might have helped out on occasion.”

“Enough to have learned your system well enough to have rigged it so she could steal money and no one would notice?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she said, “This can’t be right. Look, I’ll figure it out in the next few days. Probably some computer error that’s gotten lodged in the system. This can’t be right,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I need to get back. Let me just stick my head in and say hi to Cordelia.” She started walking down the hall.

“Call me and let me know how wrong I am.”

She turned back to look at me. “I will do that.”

Then she disappeared through the door into Cordelia’s room.

What she had told me without telling me was she was aware of someone having money that couldn’t clearly be accounted for. They had a story, of course, one people would believe because they wanted to believe—we like to think we’re smart and savvy and that we couldn’t work day after day with a crook and not notice. But criminals are good at giving us the reality we want to believe in, especially the ones who stand beside you and steal when they think you’re not watching.

Despite Lydia’s claim that she needed to get back, it was a while before she came out. She passed me again with only a bare nod.

One of the other visitors had left at the same time, so I made my way back into the office, politely knocking at the door before I entered.

“Oh, it’s you,” Cordelia said as I came in. With, I was glad to note, relief in her voice. “They mean well, talking on the latest medical advances, letting me know I can get all the Oxycontin I might want,” said with a wry grimace indicating that she really didn’t want to think about major pain killers. “But…I’m not up for a social hour.”

In the short time I’d been gone, she’d changed, looking tired now, bags under her eyes, the drip mostly empty, the poison in her. I pulled the wooden chair out of the corner, placing it close enough that I could hold her hand, the one without the needle in her arm. She closed her eyes and put her head back. But there was a downturn to her mouth and a tightness to her features that told me she was not resting.

She looked up at me, struggling for a smile as if to say,
See, this isn’t so bad, I can do it.
But the smile faded and the tired look returned to her eyes.

I held her hand until they came back in and took the needle out.

Again, it was the profound and ordinary. The palpable change in our lives measured out with a bandage on her arm, some more paperwork, another appointment. And then we were back out in the parking lot and getting in the car.

Halfway home, she reached into her bag and took out a plastic sack, holding it as if she might need it. She swallowed hard and then again, resting her head against the window.

I sped up slightly, wanting to hurry home, but not make it a jarring ride. When I looked at her again, her eyes were closed, her jaw tight.

At home, I quickly parked and jumped out to open the front door, not wanting her to wait. But she moved slowly, as if any jostle would be uncomfortable.

I held the door open. She went straight to the bathroom.

I followed her there, asking from the doorway, “What can I do?”

She was sitting on the toilet, still fully clothed, resting her head between her knees.

“Make it go away,” she murmured softly, as if not really speaking to me.

I stepped in, briefly touched her hand, then went back to the kitchen and found anti-nausea medication. Before I got back to the bathroom, I heard retching sounds.

Cordelia doesn’t like an audience when she’s sick. I’ve learned hovering behind her isn’t helpful. I filled a plastic cup with water, wet a paper towel, and placed them next to her, and then withdrew to the kitchen.

I started to do the dishes, then decided I’d put away the ones in the dishwasher, then decided wiping the counters down was quieter so I could listen if she needed me. And finally gave up, leaning miserably against the counter, unable to do anything but listen to her throwing up.

She finally emerged, wiping her face with the paper towel. “I’m sorry, I messed up my clothes,” she said, a euphemism meaning that her vomiting stomach had kicked her bladder into emptying. Two orifices and one toilet means something’s going to get messy. She shook her head slowly as if ashamed.

“That’s okay, we needed to do laundry anyway,” I said. “Let’s get you changed.”

“I can do it in a little bit.” But she moved slowly, as if empty of energy and afraid that any movement would start the nausea again. I helped her out of her clothes. Was about to wash her off when she took the wet rag out of my hand. “Let me do that,” she said, hastily washing her face again, then between her legs down to her knees.

I took her soiled clothes directly out to the washing machine and returned to find her still standing naked in the kitchen.

“They say it gets better over time,” she said and tried to smile, barely getting one edge of her lip to curl up. Then softly, talking to herself as much as to me, “This will pass. It’ll get better.”

“Yes, it will. Can you eat anything?” I asked.

She grimaced and shook her head. “Let me lie down for a while. I think just closing my eyes and resting will help.” With that she went to the bedroom and got in bed, covering her eyes with her arms, taking shallow breaths as if to calm her stomach.

I refilled the glass of water and placed it and the anti-nausea meds beside her on the bedside table. She murmured a thanks, covered herself with the blanket as if she was cold. I left, leaving the door cracked open so I would hear her if she needed.

I busied myself with cleaning the bathroom, back to the kitchen, dishes washed, put away. All the little things that I could control.

Then I broke down crying, trying to do it softly so she wouldn’t notice.

She slept most of the afternoon, or at least rested. She did have another round of nausea in the midafternoon, but none after that and was even able to eat some of the chicken soup for supper. In the morning, she downed the anti-nausea stuff with coffee and some toast. Even with resting most of the day before and going to bed early last evening, she still looked tired and pale in the morning.

“Can’t you take the day off?” I asked.

“I could, but…”

“But what? You have to prove you’re tough?”

She sighed. “It’s not tough, it’s vulnerable. I’m working a temp position; if I can’t work enough to make it worth their while, they can fire me. If I get fired, I lose my insurance. And right now…”

I finished for her, “You need your insurance.”

“Yeah, so I have to push through as best I can. I never thought I’d have to worry about this.”

“I could look into seeing if there is any way I can get you on mine,” I offered. I had looked into it at one point, mostly out of curiosity. The answer was no. We had to be married and we couldn’t be legally married in this state. It hadn’t really mattered at the time; Cordelia had better insurance than I did. But that had been a while ago, and maybe things had changed.

“I think it’ll be okay. Brandon and Lydia will advocate for me, I think, keeping me on after Tamara returns. There is enough work. But kindness can only go so far. If I can’t work at all, I’m no use to them.”