“Payment plans don’t save children in six months.”
He hung his head and didn’t answer. What could he say?
Noah was discharged two days later with more medication, more restrictions, and a warning not to wait too long.
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
Three weeks later, I got a lucky break.
A wealthy family needed a caregiver for an elderly woman recovering from a stroke. The pay was double what I’d ever earned.
When I arrived at the mansion, a woman in a gray uniform led me down a long hallway.
“Miss Eleanor is in the sunroom,” she said. “She doesn’t speak much since the stroke. We’ve been reading to her. She likes that.”
“And the family?” I asked.
A wealthy family needed a caregiver.
She paused. “You’ll meet them. Try not to be in the room when they’re arguing.”
“Arguing about what?”
“Money,” she said flatly. “Always money.”
That first week, I learned the players quickly.
Arthur, Eleanor’s brother and the man who’d hired me, was 81, widowed, and watched everyone like a hawk. He wasn’t bedridden yet, but I heard the staff whispering that he was dying.
His daughter, Vivien, had a honeyed smile and eyes so empty they sent a shiver down my spine.
I learned the players quickly.
Vivien came almost every afternoon, pearls clicking, lawyer in tow.
“Daddy, we just need you to sign these. It’s about Eleanor’s care plan. We’ve found a more… affordable facility.”
“Eleanor stays here,” Arthur said.
“Daddy, be reasonable. She doesn’t even know where she is. And after you’re gone—”
“She knows where she is, Vivian. She knows more than any of you.”
“We’ve found a more… affordable facility.”
One day, Vivien turned and saw me in the doorway with Eleanor’s tea tray.
“And who is this?”
“Eleanor’s caregiver,” Arthur said. “She’s been working here for a month already.”
“Hm.” Her eyes traveled over me like a cat calculating when to pounce. “How nice.”
A few weeks later, the hospital called me while I was reading to Eleanor. I excused myself and stepped out into the hallway.
My hands started shaking before I even answered.
