The Return of Connor Mansfield. Beth Cornelison

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СКАЧАТЬ searched for her voice. “No,” she rasped, wanting to deny everything about her current circumstances. “No, no, no.”

      No, her daughter couldn’t be sick, couldn’t be dying. No, she didn’t have the will, the strength left to fight an insurance company for the medical coverage they’d promised. No, she wasn’t all right. She hadn’t been truly right in almost five years, since Connor died.

      Tears prickled her sinuses and dripped on her cheeks. She waved the nurse’s assistant off with a tremulous smile, then wiped her face with a thumb. “I swear to you, Mr. Orlean. If something about the claims filed by the doctors or hospital is off, I’ll do my best to get things straightened out.” She heard the rustling of papers on the other end of the phone line. “To be honest, I haven’t paid close attention to what’s been filed and where claims stood. I’ve had my hands full just taking care of my daughter. Thank God I work for family, so I can get the time off—”

      “You changed jobs?” he interrupted, his tone not quite so nasal this time.

      “Uh...yes. Last January. Just before I bought the policy. But I am employed, if that is part of your concern. I won’t miss any premium payments.”

      “I—um, no. That’s not... You’re working for Mansfield Construction? But your art...um, your file says you are an artist.”

      She wrinkled her brow. If the company wasn’t concerned about her ability to pay her premiums, then what business was it of his where she was working?

      “Yes, I do the billing and clerical duties for Mansfield Construction. They’re a small company a friend owns.” While she’d much rather be doing something with her art for a living, working for Mansfield Construction gave her a steady income, health insurance and, because the owners were her daughter’s grandparents, understanding and job security when she needed time off to take care of Savannah—a benefit that had been particularly welcome since Savannah’s diagnosis a couple months ago.

      Mr. Orlean sighed again, and another hint of the familiar whispered down her neck. She shoved to her feet, feeling a bit stronger now, past the initial shock and dread of impending doom. She peeked in the room to check on Savannah, then pulled the door closed and resumed her position in the hospital’s corridor. “If that’s all, sir, I need to get back to my child—”

      “Wait! I...” He cleared his throat again. “I still need to verify some things to satisfy the company’s questions about your policy.”

      She straightened her spine, suddenly exhausted by the man’s endless questions. “Look, Mr. Orlean, I’ve paid my premiums on time, and if your company has questions about charges filed by the hospital, you should talk to the billing department. Not me. And if you try to deny my claims based on a clerical error or technical glitch and put my daughter’s health in jeopardy, so help me, I’ll sue your company ten ways to Sunday!” All her pent-up frustrations with Savannah’s illness, her helplessness to ease her daughter’s pain, her sense of being alone in the most important battle of her life boiled over. “If you think I’m going to lie down and let you walk all over me, you’ve got another think coming!”

      A chuckle filtered through the line.

      Darby saw red. “This isn’t funny! Do you think I’m kidding?”

      “I know. I’m sorry, Darby. I...”

      She stiffened hearing him use her first name, as if they were best friends. Hearing the way his Southern accent softened the hard ar in her name to Dahr-by. The way Connor used to say her name.

      Pain clutched at her chest as Connor’s face flickered in her memory.

      In the pause of the conversation, Mr. Orlean had apparently sobered. His tone was darkly serious when he asked, “What is Savannah’s prognosis? What are the doctors telling you about her treatment options, about her...chances—”

      Darby felt the blood drain from her face. The best way she had of dealing with Savannah’s illness, the only way she had of not going stark raving mad with worry and grief and fear for her daughter, was to take things one day at a time. She couldn’t think about the long term, the odds of Savannah surviving her cancer, or she’d become so burdened with despair that she couldn’t be the mom Savannah needed now.

      “I’m not sure why that matters to you at this point. Whatever the doctors feel is necessary and best for Savannah should be covered, regardless of how long it takes or whether she—” Her voice broke, and she paused for a reinforcing breath. “Or whether she responds to the treatments.”

      “Of course. If Tri-State clears your policy after our review, we will cover—”

      “If?” Darby shrieked then, clenching her teeth, she growled, “Listen here, buster. Don’t you screw around with me! I need that coverage to save my daughter’s life!” Just saying the words brought a rush of unwanted emotion, and moisture filled her eyes again. “Don’t take away my only means to give my baby the medical care she needs!” So much for the tough-cookie act. She was begging now, tears in her voice and the words. Pitiful.

      Her shoulders slumped as she gave in to the tears, surrendering to the roller-coaster emotions that had her head spinning these past several weeks. She was a mess, and she had to pull herself together in order to be the rock, the comfort, the mother Savannah needed.

      “Please, Ms. Kent, don’t cry. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” The man’s nasally voice softened with compassion. She almost believed his sympathy was real. “This is all standard company procedure. I promise. Please know that I will do everything I can to see that all of your claims are processed in a timely manner. I want your daughter to recover. Truly I do.”

      Darby couldn’t answer. Her throat was too clogged with emotion to breathe, much less speak.

      “I’m sorry for upsetting you. I know you’re dealing with a lot.” He sighed again. “Alone.”

      She frowned. How did he know she was alone?

      “I wish...” he continued in a low voice, the nasal twang gone again. “I wish I could do...something to help. I—”

      Darby stilled. Her heartbeat slowed. Without the nasal affectation, his voice sounded so familiar. She shook her head. It was just her turbulent emotions playing with her mind. Wishing. Longing...

      “Actually, there is something you can do,” she said.

      “What’s that?”

      “Get yourself on the National Bone Marrow registry if you aren’t there already. The doctors say my baby’s best chance to beat this disease is a bone marrow transplant, but we need a donor. Her uncle was close, but not close enough.” Darby sighed. “It’s a long shot you’d be a match, but maybe you’ll be able to save some other mother’s baby.”

      Silence answered her request.

      “Mr. Orlean? Are you there?”

      “Yes...I’m—I’ll do that. I’ll get on the registry this afternoon. I swear.”

      “Good. Thank you.”

      “I...have the doctors said...would her father have been a suitable match?”

      A chill tripped down Darby’s spine, along with regret and fresh waves of grief. “Kind СКАЧАТЬ