"Harold! Harold!" I threw myself over him, slapping his face.
No response.
His lips had gone purple. His eyes were half open, pupils unfocused, drifting apart.
I lost my mind. I grabbed my phone to call 911.
Phineas blocked me. "Mom, hold on!"
"Dad probably just needs to lie down for a bit."
"Old people get sick all the time. You don't rush to the hospital over every little thing!"
I shoved him aside, and Bridget lunged in to snatch the phone from my hand.
"Mom, why would you call an ambulance? Those aren't covered by insurance! It's hundreds of dollars a ride!"
"If it's really that bad, Phineas can just drive him. Problem solved!"
My whole body was shaking. I couldn't tell if it was rage or terror.
"Are you heartless or just stupid?"
"You drive him yourself in this condition, no medical equipment, every bump in the road, and he dies before you get there!"
I shoved Bridget so hard she hit the floor. After that, neither of them dared stop me.
I finally got through to 911.
At the hospital, the ER doctor ran through a rapid exam, then pulled me aside with a grim expression.
"The patient has a hypertensive hemorrhagic stroke. The bleed is significant. It's serious."
"You're lucky you called emergency services when you did. No delays on the road. Otherwise, he wouldn't have made it."
My legs buckled. I caught myself against the wall.
"But he's still in critical danger," the doctor continued.
"We need to operate immediately. We'll do everything we can."
"However, given his age and the volume of bleeding..."
"There is a risk of death. Your family should prepare for that possibility."
Phineas and Bridget sidled over.
"Doctor, how much is the treatment going to cost?" Phineas asked.
The doctor glanced at him. "This is a brain hemorrhage. Costs vary widely."
"Given the severity of this case, between surgery and follow-up ICU care, you're looking at several hundred thousand dollars."
Phineas's brow furrowed. He went quiet for a few seconds.
Then he asked a question I will never forget for as long as I live.
"What if we... don't treat him?"
I turned to stare at him, stunned beyond comprehension.
I knew he had no conscience. But I never imagined he could be this monstrous.
Phineas avoided my eyes, but his mouth kept moving.
"Mom, didn't you hear the doctor? The surgery might not even save him."
"What if it doesn't work? Then all that money is just gone."
"Hundreds of thousands of dollars. What am I supposed to do after that?"
Bridget crept closer, her voice dropping to a murmur. "She's right, Mom."
"Even if the surgery works, the doctor said it himself. A lot of patients end up paralyzed afterward. Some become vegetables."
"The one suffering would be Dad. The one stuck taking care of him would be you."
"Think about it. You, alone, caring for a paralyzed man day and night. Could you really handle that?"
"Maybe it's better to just..."
"Better to just what?" I turned and fixed my eyes on her.
"Better to just..." Bridget kept her head down.
"Let Dad go without so much suffering."
I looked at the two of them. And then I laughed.
I laughed for a long time. Long enough that they both started to squirm.
Then I stopped. Every trace of emotion drained from my face.
"Your father made a will a long time ago. Notarized."
"When he dies, every asset under his name — the house, the savings, the investments — all of it goes to charity."
"Not a single cent goes to either of you."
"What?!"
The color drained from their faces in unison, like someone had pulled a plug.
I looked them both in the eye and spoke slowly, one word at a time.
"If you ever want to see a single penny of that money —"
"Then you'd better pray your father survives. That he walks out of this hospital conscious and breathing."
"If he's alive, the will can be changed."
"If he dies, you get nothing."
