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I gripped my phone, laid Claudia gently back on the hospital bed, and went to the bathroom to splash water on my face.
The woman in the mirror had red-rimmed eyes and cracked lips, like she'd aged ten years overnight.
I dried my hands and sent a message to my best friend Letitia: "The medicine Michael's taking, could you show me the packaging?"
She replied in a second with a photo. Original German packaging, batch number clear, exactly the same as what I'd looked up before. Right under it came a line:
"Didn't Lance bring you some? He said he ordered it for you too."
I didn't answer. I closed the chat and opened her social media feed.
A new post from half an hour ago. The grid of photos showed a steaming shellfish spread, Lance sitting beside her, head down, peeling shrimp for Michael, sleeves rolled to the elbow, showing the birthday watch I'd given him last year.
The caption read: "The best godfather, no contest."
I stared at that plate of glossy red lobster and thought of the timid little "Can I?" Claudia had asked, and the ache surging up in my chest nearly took my legs out from under me.
At nine that night Lance pushed the door open carrying a plastic bag and set it on the nightstand without a second thought.
"Here. Waited in line forever for this."
The bag was open. Inside were two takeout boxes, one of peeled shrimp tails, one of leftover broth and scraps, the lids not even shut all the way.
Claudia's eyes brightened and she reached for it. I pressed her little hand down, my voice very soft. "This is your leftovers, isn't it?"
His hands stopped. His brow knotted. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I didn't look at him. I picked up my phone and held Letitia's post up in front of his face.
The screen light lit up his face going rigid in an instant, and the smear of red oil he hadn't wiped off the corner of his mouth.
Lance recovered fast and threw down the bill. "Michael just got out of the hospital, we were celebrating. This meal ran a few tens of thousands, and that lobster is the best in all of Ashford. Buying somewhere else would just be a waste."
I stared at the bill, every line spelled out in black and white.
King crab, bluefin tuna, two bottles of Burgundy, plus that plate of lobster tagged "premium reserve."
Thirty-seven thousand four hundred in all.
Every item clear as day. The only thing missing was Claudia's name.
"So you brought the leftovers home for her?"
My voice shook. "She's five. She's lying in a hospital bed. And you want her to eat other people's scraps?"
Lance slapped the bill down on the table, impatient. "I already told you, no one touched that shrimp, I had the waiter pack it specially. The best shrimp in all of Ashford, why can't she eat it? You just have to blow everything out of proportion—"
"And the medicine?" I cut him off. "The vitamins you bought Claudia say it right there on the box, 'dietary supplement, not a substitute for medication.' You pulled all these strings and got that so-called imported specialty drug for two digits, and this is what it is?"
He finally went quiet, his eyes flickering, and he turned his face away.
Claudia, frightened by our voices, shrank into the blanket and called for me in a small voice.
I walked over and held her thin, trembling little body.
She tilted her face up and asked, eyes brimming, "Mommy, is it because Claudia wasn't good that Daddy won't buy me nice things?"
I shook my head and held her tighter.
Lance stood in the doorway, seeming about to say something, and in the end only tugged at his tie in frustration. "I'll go ask at the hospital again tomorrow, see if there's another option. Don't worry about the money."
"Tomorrow?" I let out a laugh. "The doctor says Claudia doesn't have a month left, and you still think there's a tomorrow?"
