Too Late To Save Your Dying Wife

Corrie didn't sleep. She spent the night on the floor of the nursery, the cold seeping into her bones, until the first grey light of dawn filtered through the window. She rose stiffly and walked back into the main house, a ghost in the opulent tomb of her marriage. She showered and stood in front of the bathroom mirror in the guest suite she had moved into recently. Her reflection was a stranger-a woman with hollows under her eyes and a terrifying pallor to her skin. She thought of her father, Arthur Howe. He was in a long-term care facility, his own health failing since the collapse of their family business. He was her only reason to keep breathing. She had to secure this money for him. It was the last thing she could do. With practiced hands, she applied makeup, a mask of health and confidence. A touch of concealer, a bit of blush, a coat of mascara. She was a soldier preparing for her final battle. She was just grabbing her purse, her keys, ready to leave for City Hall, when her phone buzzed. The caller ID read 'Maria Kowalski'-her father's primary caregiver. A knot of dread tightened in her stomach. "Corrie, honey, you need to get to the hospital. Now." Maria's voice was strained with panic. "It's your father... he had a heart attack. They're working on him." The world tilted. The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering against the hardwood floor. She snatched it back up, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Which hospital?" She didn't remember the cab ride, only the frantic prayer repeating over and over in her mind. Please be okay. Please be okay. She burst through the emergency room doors and found Maria pacing in the waiting area, her face streaked with tears. A doctor in blue scrubs, Dr. Foster, approached them, his expression grave. "Ms. Howe? Your father is in critical condition. He needs an emergency bypass surgery. Without it..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Corrie's voice trembled. "How... how much will it cost?" "The initial estimate is around five hundred thousand dollars." The number hit her like a physical blow. She swayed, grabbing the back of a chair to steady herself. Every penny she had was gone, swallowed by her father's mounting medical bills. The ten million from Clayton was her only hope. She glanced at her watch. 9:30 AM. She had to get that money. Swallowing her pride, her dignity, every last shred of it, she stepped outside into the ambulance bay and dialed Clayton's number. The humiliation was a bitter acid in her throat. He answered, his voice impatient. "What now, Corrie? I'm on my way." "Clayton, please," she begged, her voice breaking. "I need the money. Now. My father... he's in the hospital. He needs emergency surgery to live." She rushed on, the words tumbling out in a desperate torrent. "I'll take anything. Just give me the half-million for the surgery. You can keep the rest. We can change the agreement, I don't care, just please..." There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then, a cold, disbelieving laugh. "Your father?" he sneered. "Wow, Corrie. I knew you were desperate, but to invent a story like that? To use your own father's health to get money? That's a new low, even for you." "And what if he is?" Clayton's voice was cold, devoid of any sympathy. "You think I'm a fool, Corrie? This is just another one of your pathetic attempts to manipulate me, isn't it? Another one of your dramas to get what you want." "I'm not lying!" she cried, tears of frustration and terror streaming down her face. "He's here, at New York-Presbyterian, he's in the ER!" "I don't care," he said, his voice flat. "You made your choice when you decided to leave. You don't get to come crawling back when things get tough. I'm not your ATM, Corrie. And I'm certainly not bailing out your father. You want money? You should have thought of that before you walked out." The line went dead. Corrie stood frozen, the phone still pressed to her ear. His coldness, his utter lack of empathy, was a physical blow. He truly saw her as nothing more than a manipulative burden, and her father as unworthy of even a moment's consideration. All this time, the distance... it was just his contempt, his arrogance. There was no deeper meaning, just his cruel indifference. Her phone rang again, startling her. It was Dr. Foster. "Ms. Howe, we're taking your father into surgery now. We'll worry about the payment later. Our priority is to save his life." A wave of relief so profound it made her knees weak washed over her. "Thank you," she choked out. "Thank you so much." She went back inside and sat on a hard plastic chair outside the surgical wing. The hours crawled by. Each time the doors swung open, her heart leaped into her throat. Finally, the light above the door went off. Dr. Foster emerged, pulling off his surgical mask. "The surgery was a success. He's stable for now. He's a fighter." The tension in Corrie's body released all at once. She slumped forward, burying her face in her hands, and wept. But beneath the relief, the pressure was immense. Five hundred thousand dollars. And Clayton's words echoed in her mind, a poisonous whisper. He doesn't care. He'll never help. She knew then, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that he would not be at City Hall. But she had to go. She had to see it through. It was the only thing she had left.