“Do I have to be admitted? I've got a project I need to finish.”
The doctor looked up at me. I will never forget that look as long as I live.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven years old. Heart failure, pneumonia, severe anemia. Do you understand what that means? It means if you keep pushing yourself like this, you might not make it to thirty.”
I lowered my head.
“I owe money.”
“What kind of money is worth more than your life?”
I didn't answer.
I got the prescriptions, paid for the medicine, and walked out. No admission.
At the register, my card had just over two thousand left. Eight hundred for the drugs. I gritted my teeth and paid.
The rest, I transferred to Eustace.
“This month's pay. Use it for the interest first.”
He took it.
Didn't even ask “is that enough for you to get by on”.
Sometimes, not asking is the answer all by itself.
But I refused to believe it.
The night I came home from the hospital, I took my temperature. 38.7°C.
Burning all over, yet shaking with cold. I curled up under the blanket, teeth chattering.
Eustace wasn't home. He'd been out every night that week for “business dinners”, never getting back before the small hours, reeking of alcohol and perfume.
I called him.
It rang a long time before he picked up. The background was loud on his end. Music, laughter, a woman's voice.
“Hello? Gayle?”
“I have a fever.”
“Did you take your medicine?”
“Yeah.”
“Then get some rest. I'm not done here yet. I'll be back later.”
He hung up.
Right before the line went dead, I heard a woman next to him say：“Who was that? God, it's the middle of the night—total buzzkill.”
I didn't call back to ask who she was.
Because I already knew.
I just didn't know how much strength I had left to face it.
A little after two in the morning, Eustace came home.
I heard the door open, heard him change his shoes, heard him walk into the bedroom and stop beside the bed.
He looked at me for a while.
Then he reached out and touched my forehead.
“You really do have a fever.”
He said it the way you'd note the weather—something that had nothing to do with him.
“Eustace.”
“Hm?”
“Are you hiding something from me?”
His hand pulled back from my forehead.
“No. Don't overthink it.”
“Then why do you smell like perfume?”
Silence.
Four or five seconds of it.
“Business dinner tonight. A client brought a date. Must've rubbed off.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him in the dark.
His outline was blurred, but I knew he was looking back at me.
We held each other's gaze for a few seconds.
Eustace looked away first.
“I'll go with you to the hospital tomorrow.”
“Don't bother. I'll go by myself.”
“Gayle, don't you trust me?”
You want me to trust you? Then do one thing—one—that's actually worth trusting.
I didn't say it out loud.
I turned over, putting my back to him.
Eustace didn't say anything else.
A long time later, I heard him go to the living room. Then the click of a lighter.
He never used to smoke.
When did that start?
I didn't know.
It felt like I didn't know anything anymore.
The answer came faster than I expected.
I didn't go looking for it. It came to me.
It was a Saturday. Eustace said he had to work overtime and left early in the morning.
I slept until noon, woke up so dizzy I had to brace myself against the wall just to make it to the bathroom.
The person in the mirror made me flinch. I'd lost at least ten pounds—cheekbones sharp under the skin, eyes hollow, lips cracked and peeling, dried blood crusted at the corners of my mouth.
