Desperation

This isn’t how things are supposed to be.

It shouldn’t be her in that hospital bed, connected to the machines that beep endlessly, a myriad of tubes curving away from her motionless body. She hasn’t moved in days, except for her chest. It rises and falls with the casual cadence of her breathing, the only indication —aside from the machines measuring her vitals— that she’s alive at all.

Marcus Hanley is a mess. It’s been about a week since he changed his clothes, a little less since he took a shower back in the house he can’t stand to be in anymore. He knows people look at him from the corners of their eyes, give him a wide berth when he passes them in the hallway. He’s a ghoul; a wraith in physical form walking through the hospital.

Only the orderlies and nurses give him any attention at all. They know what it’s like for Marcus because they’ve seen it so many times before. Sometimes it’s worse, and sometimes it isn’t, but no matter what the grief is real and all-encompassing.

Marcus can’t find the way out of the darkness, no matter how hard he tries. He knows that his daughter, Victoria, wouldn’t want him to break down like this, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s never been so sad or terrified or concerned in all his life. The only way he can measure the emotions setting course through his frayed nervous system is by the same amount of happiness he felt when Victoria was born just five years before.

The emotions are different, but their effect on Marcus’s body are the same.

He sits up, running his hands through his hair. He rests his back against the thin cushion on the chair, shifting to try and find a comfortable position. In front of him, Victoria sleeps in a slumber she might not wake up from. She’s not comatose, according to the doctors. Just resting. But they can’t say when she’ll wake up. Worse, they aren’t sure what condition she’ll be in when she does.

Her brain had some swelling after the fall, the doctor had told him. It had started to minimized almost immediately, which was a good sign. But, even now, days later, she wasn’t out of the woods just yet.

“She’s a fighter,” the doctor had said, before squeezing his shoulder and walking out of the room.

That had been two days ago. Still, Victoria sleeps.

Marcus wonders about the dreams she might be having. She used to have such vivid dreams, about playing soccer, about unicorns, about her mother. Was she keeping herself entertained, making herself feel safe while she slept now?

He looks across the room. The sun is up, which means he spent another night in the chair next to Victoria’s bed. No wonder his back and legs ache. His knees creak in dispute as he stands up and starts to mill aimlessly around the room.

“You should get outside,” a voice tells him.

Victoria’s primary nurse, a young woman with stark red hair and bright green eyes named Rachel, walks into the room and stops at the machines that flank his daughter’s bed.

“Are we going to talk about the weather next?” Marcus says, a terrible attempt at a joke. He couldn’t even muster the weakest dad joke, which he didn’t take as a good sign at all.

“Oh no, no need for that. Just go check it out for yourself. You could use some fresh air,” she says. Her voice is stern, yet comforting. It makes Marcus want to actually get outside and fill his lungs with something other than sterile atmosphere.

“Will you stay with her while I’m out? Just in case?” He says, not quite yet making his way to the open door that will lead to the hallway, to the elevator, and, finally, beyond the sliding glass front doors.

“I can do that,” she says, “but I’m taking off in about 30 minutes, so Rhonda will be taking over then.”

Rhonda is a nice woman, probably a few years older than Marcus, and with a genuine, disarming smile that made everything feel not so awful.

“I’ll make it quick,” Marcus says.

“That’s not what I meant. You don’t have to rush.”

Marcus wants to tell her he knows, that he understands she’s looking out for him just as much as she’s looking out for Victoria. Instead, he thanks her, slips out of the room, and makes his way down to the first floor.

Once outside, Marcus closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath through flared nostrils. The early morning air is brisk, almost cold, but it feels good filling up his lungs. He holds it in for a moment, then another, and finally lets it out with a loud sigh.

Behind Marcus, an elderly man in a wheelchair watches him. The gentle breeze pulls at the loose strands of white hair that rim his skull.

Marcus stretches. He considers going to his car and heading home, getting a fresh set of clothes and maybe even taking a shower. His stomach grumbles, now awake and ready for sustenance. He could stop by a fast food place and pick up something to fill the growing void in his gut.

But no, that would mean he’d have to leave his daughter’s side. And this is as far as he’s willing to go now.

“You got anyone to help?” The old man in the wheelchair asks. His voice is weak on the surface, but it hides a deeper strength. The kind of voice that one can only get from years of hardship, weakened only by age.

Marcus turns around, practically jumping out of his skin. “Hot damn, I’m sorry. You scared me.”

The old man waves this off, like Marcus’s comment is an annoying fly. “You got anyone to call? Bring you some clothes and food?”

Marcus considers the question, then shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

“Who’s up there?”

“My daughter. She’s five.” Marcus isn’t sure why it matters what her age is, but he never leaves it out when he’s talking to anyone about her. He can’t remember if he’s always done that, if it’s just a mundane reaction, or something else. Is he trying to solicit a more heartfelt reaction from people? Trying to squeeze them for sympathy?

“What happened to her?” The old man has wheeled himself closer. His hands are equipped with long, bony fingers and weathered brown spots. They shake even as they sit on the tops of the chair’s wheels.

Marcus sighs. He hates this part. “It was my fault,” he starts, like he always starts. “She was playing in her room and I had to step out to go to the bathroom. I was in there for just a few seconds, but — but she managed to climb her dresser and then fell. She hit something on the way down. She…her head hit something on the way down. There was a lot of blood.”

Marcus coughs and chokes and tries to catch his breath, but the cold air feels like it’s attacking him now. Punishing him. He grasps at his chest and grabs his shirt, squeezing it. His eyes burn as moisture collects in the corners. Tears trace down his red-flushed face.

The old man in the chair waits. Watches.

The hospital’s pair of glass doors slide open. A young man, the polar opposite of the man in the chair with his dark brown hair and full beard, hurries outside. He stops when he reaches Marcus’s side.

“Marcus Hanley?”

“Yes?” Marcus says.

“My name is Scott York. I’m with the hospital’s billing department. It looks like we have a problem.”

“What problem? My insurance is just fine. We checked all of this almost a week ago.”

“Yes, but the doctor has informed us that he’s ready to move forward with surgery. To help alleviate the pressure in your daughter’s skull.”

“Wait, what? When did that happen?”

The kid from the billing department sneaks a glance back at the hospital, as if he’s asking permission from the building itself. He looks back at Marcus and puts the fake smile back on his face. “Just now, actually. I believe the doctor is looking for you.”

“Why the hell didn’t you start with that!” Marcus tries to move past the younger man, but he puts his body between the grieving father and his incapacitated daughter.

“Sir, before you go in there I think we need to clear this up.”

“Clear what up! What are you talking about?” Marcus’s hands ball into fists, tight enough to bleach his knuckles and leave fingernail impressions in his palms.

“Your insurance is fine, sir. But this particular surgery doesn’t appear to be covered by your plan. Not all of it, anyway. I won’t get into the particulars, but, you need the rest of the money before we can go through with the surgery.”

Marcus stares blankly at the young man named Scott from billing. The messenger who, Marcus has heard, shouldn’t be shot in moments like this. Marcus now understands it’s the messengers themselves who convinced the world of this.

“How much do I need?” Marcus finally says.

Scott consults the paperwork in his hands. “It looks like you’ll need at least $15,000. The final total could be more, once we hammer out all the details, but, right now, $15,000.”

Scott makes sure to look up and into Marcus’s eyes. He’s not hiding from any of this. Why should he? It’s not his fault the insurance companies aren’t in the business of keeping people, even five-year-olds, alive.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” Marcus says, even as he tries to find a way to get it. He could try to get a loan, and that may work, but how could he repay it? He could reach out to his parents, they might be willing to help. But how could they live after handing him $15,000? They weren’t exactly flush with cash, and their nest egg wasn’t as good as it should have been.

Marcus considered friends and others, but the well dried up quickly.

Fresh tears sprung to life and Marcus wiped them away quickly. He was sure that Scott had seen plenty of people cry in front of him, but he didn’t want to be another to add to the statistics.

“You can find me inside, Mr. Hanley. We can discuss options then.”

Before Marcus can respond, Scott from billing turns and walks back into the hospital. The glass doors *whoosh* behind him. The building welcomes its messenger back home.

“Marcus.”

Summoned by the man in the wheelchair, Marcus looks in his direction. He can’t find any words, so he just stares, eyelids barely blinking. He feels like he’s just been punched in the gut, all the air forced out of his lungs.

“Take this,” the old man says. He holds something in one of his shaky hands. “It will help.”

It takes Marcus a moment to realize it’s a small black notebook, like many of the ones he has at home sitting on his desk. He reaches out and takes it. “Why?”

“You’ll find what you need inside,” the old man says. He grabs the chair’s wheels and turns, making his way into the hospital, too.

Marcus watches him go, then turns to the book and opens it. A whole has been carved into the pages. Inside the recession there’s a stack of money. He counts it to find 200 one hundred dollar bills. $20,000.

His knees are weak, but he races inside to find the old man. He’s gone. So, Marcus does as he was told, finding his way to Scott’s office and putting the book down on his desk.

“Fix my daughter.”