I stared at him.
***
That morning, I had been sitting beside Lisa’s hospital bed, brushing her dark hair over one shoulder. Even in a coma, she was still my girl, the one who hated tangles in her hair. Still nineteen. Still mine.
Dr. Evans stood in the doorway with a folder pressed against his chest.
“Kirsten,” he said, “we need to talk about the neuro-rehab program.”
“I paid what I could yesterday, Dr. Evans. I can bring more on Monday.”
“The deposit is due next Friday. Without it, they will release her spot.”
I gripped Lisa’s hand. “Then hold it until Friday. Please.”
“I paid what I could yesterday.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean billing won’t bother trying.”
His face softened. “If the deposit isn’t paid, we can continue basic support until a long-term care transfer is arranged.”
“Basic support,” I repeated. “That’s what people say when they want mothers to stop fighting for their children.”
