The Sloan Kettering Cancer Center smelled of bleach and despair.
Beatrix walked down the corridor, the check from Eleanor burning a hole in her pocket.
She had deposited it via mobile app that morning.
It had cleared.
She walked to the nurse's station.
"I want to upgrade her room," she told the head nurse. "And call Dr. Evans. I want the experimental treatment he mentioned."
The nurse looked at her sympathetically.
"Ms. Anderson, Dr. Evans is in with a patient. And the private rooms are fully booked."
"Please," Beatrix begged. "I have the money now."
"It's not about money, dear. It's capacity."
Beatrix felt the tears welling up.
She walked to her mother's room-a shared room with a curtain divider.
Her mother, Martha, lay there, pale and small. The oxygen mask covered half her face.
The monitor beeped rhythmically.
Beep... beep... beep.
Beatrix pulled up a plastic chair and sat down.
She took her mother's hand. It felt like dry parchment.
"I'm here, Mom," she whispered. "I'm going to get you better."
Suddenly, Martha's chest heaved.
The monitor began to wail. A high-pitched, continuous tone.
"Mom?" Beatrix screamed. "Nurse!"
A team of doctors rushed in.
"Code Blue!" someone shouted.
"Get her out!" a doctor ordered.
Beatrix was pushed into the hallway.
The door shut in her face.
She slid down the wall, burying her face in her knees.
She rocked back and forth, sobbing silently.
She was useless. All the money in the world, and she was still useless.
"Beatrix?"
The voice was familiar.
She looked up.
Carlyle was standing there.
He was wearing a black turtleneck and a long wool coat. He looked like the angel of death.
Behind him was a phalanx of doctors in white coats.
"What are you doing here?" she choked out.
Carlyle didn't answer her.
He turned to the man next to him.
"Dr. Stein," Carlyle said. "Is this the best you can do? A shared room?"
The man, clearly the Chief of Medicine, looked terrified.
"Mr. Spears, we didn't know she was... related to you."
"She is my mother-in-law," Carlyle said, his voice cold as ice. "Move her to the VIP suite. Now. And get the oncology team from Zurich on a video call."
"Yes, sir. Immediately."
The doctors scrambled like ants.
Carlyle reached down and grabbed Beatrix's arm, hauling her to her feet.
"Get up," he said. "Don't sit on the floor. It's filthy."
Beatrix pulled her arm away.
She dragged him toward the stairwell door, pushing him inside.
The concrete stairwell echoed with their breathing.
"I don't need your charity," she hissed. "I paid the bill."
"With my mother's money," he countered.
"It's a loan. I'll pay it back."
"Beatrix, stop," he said, rubbing his temples. "Your mother is dying. This isn't the time for your pride."
"Why do you care?" she yelled. "You're divorcing me! You're marrying Gene!"
"Because she's your mother!" Carlyle shouted back. "And despite what you think, I'm not a complete sociopath."
Beatrix stared at him.
"Is this for Gene?" she asked quietly. "Are you trying to buy good karma so your new marriage doesn't fail?"
Carlyle laughed. It was a bitter, sharp sound.
"Karma," he muttered. "If karma existed, I wouldn't be here."
He turned to leave.
"Where are you going?"
"To make sure they don't kill her," he said.
He opened the door, then paused.
"There's food at the nurse's station for you," he said without looking back. "Congee from that place on Canal Street. The one with the red awning."
Beatrix froze.
That was her favorite comfort food. She hadn't been there in four years.
"How did you know?" she whispered.
But the door had already closed.
She walked back to the station.
A thermal bag sat there.
She opened it. The smell of ginger and scallions wafted up.
She took a spoonful.
It was warm. It tasted like home.
She ate, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the porridge.
