CHAPTER 3
1645 Words
“They said, ‘When Elena sees the cost of his life, she will finally come to us.’”
For several seconds, I could only hear the quiet hum of the air conditioner.
“Come to who?” I asked.
Mrs Palmer shook her head. “The caller did not say.”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“The note does not include that information.”
“Can you give me the number?”
“It was hidden.”
I stared at the computer screen she had turned away from me.
Someone had known my father would collapse.
Someone had known he would be brought to Hartwell Medical Centre.
And that person had known the cost of his operation would force me to search for help.
My father’s warning returned.
The Vales never come unless they want something.
I gripped the hospital bill.
“I need a copy of that message.”
“I’m not permitted to print internal notes.”
“It was left for me.”
“I understand, but—”
“Then write it down.”
Mrs Palmer hesitated before taking a sheet of paper. She copied the message and handed it to me.
I folded it and placed it beside the hospital bill.
“Please tell me if the person calls again.”
“I will inform the hospital administrator.”
“No. Tell me.”
She gave a small nod.
I left the office and sat on an empty bench near the lift.
The total on the bill had not changed.
Neither had the deadline.
Noon tomorrow.
I took out my phone and called Uncle Peter again.
He answered after the fifth ring.
“Elena, I told you I will send something next week.”
“Dad may not have until next week.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot create money from nothing.”
“Can you borrow it?”
Silence followed.
“Borrow that amount?” he asked. “Who would give me such money?”
“You own land.”
“That land belongs to my children.”
“Dad is your brother.”
“And I have my own family to protect.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much can you send today?”
He named an amount that would not cover one hour in the intensive care unit.
“Send it,” I said.
“You are not even going to thank me?”
“Thank you, Uncle Peter.”
He ended the call.
I called my mother’s younger sister next.
Aunt Lydia cried when I explained the situation.
“Your father is a good man,” she said. “God will not let him die.”
“The hospital needs money, Auntie.”
“I will speak to my prayer group.”
“I need the deposit by noon tomorrow.”
“We will pray tonight.”
“Can anyone in the group help financially?”
She went quiet.
“I will ask.”
“How much can you give?”
“Elena, things have been difficult since my husband lost his contract.”
“Anything will help.”
“I may be able to send a small amount at the end of the month.”
I looked at the clock on the wall.
The end of the month might as well have been ten years away.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I called cousins, family friends and former neighbours.
Some did not answer.
Some promised to call back.
Others offered words that sounded kind but solved nothing.
Be strong.
Have faith.
God is in control.
We will remember him in our prayers.
My phone became warm against my ear.
After the twelfth call, I opened my contacts and stared at the names.
Most of them were people I had not spoken to in years.
Pride no longer mattered.
I called them anyway.
Mrs Green, my old secondary-school teacher, promised to send a little money.
My father’s former friend said he was paying his daughter’s university fees.
A neighbour who had moved away offered to share my request on social media.
Everyone wanted to help.
No one could help enough.
I added the promised amounts on the back of the hospital bill.
The total was less than one-tenth of the deposit.
My eyes burned.
I called the first bank listed on the hospital’s loan form.
A woman asked about my salary, employment history and savings.
“I work at the Blackridge Grand Hotel,” I said.
“Are you a permanent employee?”
“Yes.”
“What is your monthly income?”
I told her.
There was a pause.
“Do you own any property?”
“No.”
“Do you have a guarantor with a high income?”
“No.”
“I’m afraid you do not qualify for the amount requested.”
“My father will die without the operation.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Cross.”
“Can I take a smaller loan?”
She named an amount.
It was hardly more than what my relatives had promised.
I ended the call and tried another bank.
Then another.
One required six months of account statements.
One needed a property document.
Another said the approval process would take at least seven working days.
“My deadline is tomorrow,” I told the loan officer.
“Then this product may not be suitable for you.”
Suitable.
As if I were shopping for a dress.
I searched online for emergency medical charities.
The first organisation required a doctor’s report, proof of income and a committee review.
The second had stopped accepting applications for the month.
The third answered after I called four times.
A tired man listened while I explained my father’s condition.
“We can open a case,” he said.
“How soon can you release the money?”
“If approved, within two to three weeks.”
“He has three days.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Can you make an exception?”
“We have many patients in urgent need.”
“My father is one of them.”
“I understand.”
That word again.
Everyone understood, yet my father was still dying.
I called churches.
I called a community medical fund.
I called a radio station that sometimes helped sick people.
The woman at the radio station asked me to send photographs, hospital documents and a short video explaining our situation.
“How soon will you share it?” I asked.
“If management approves it, perhaps next week.”
I ended the call.
My battery had fallen to eight percent.
I rested my head against the wall.
People passed me without looking.
A man pushed an old woman in a wheelchair. A child slept across three chairs while his mother stroked his hair.
Every person in that hallway was waiting for someone to live.
My phone vibrated.
Uncle Peter had sent his promised money.
Aunt Lydia sent nothing.
Mrs Green sent half of what she had offered and apologised.
I added the amounts.
They looked painfully small beneath the hospital’s figure.
Maya came through the lift doors carrying two cups.
She sat beside me and handed me one.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Drink.”
I took the cup but did not lift it.
“How much have you raised?” she asked.
I showed her the total.
Her face fell.
“We can create an online fundraiser.”
“It will not raise the deposit before noon.”
“We have to try.”
“I called everyone.”
“You have not called everyone.”
I looked at her.
“Who else is there?”
She did not answer.
Because we both knew.
Vale Holdings.
I pulled the unsigned form from my bag.
“I could submit this.”
“Your father told you not to sign anything.”
“He also needs surgery.”
“You don’t know what that company debt is.”
“I don’t know if it is even real.”
Maya read the form carefully.
“What if signing it gives them control over something?”
“It says it only allows them to review his records.”
“And you trust them?”
“No.”
“Then don’t sign it until your father wakes.”
“What if he doesn’t wake before noon?”
The question silenced us.
My phone rang.
The number was hidden.
I remembered the message left before my father arrived.
My finger hovered above the screen.
“Don’t answer,” Maya said.
“What if it is the hospital?”
“The hospital number would show.”
The phone continued ringing.
I answered.
“Hello?”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then a woman’s calm voice entered my ear.
“Miss Cross, I understand you have been asking people for help.”
I stood.
“Who is this?”
“Someone who can provide the exact amount you need.”
My skin turned cold.
“How did you get my number?”
“That is not important.”
“It is to me.”
The woman gave a soft laugh.
“Banks have rejected you. Charities need more time. Your relatives have offered prayers and coins.”
I looked around the hallway.
“How do you know that?”
“Because desperate people become easy to watch.”
Maya moved closer, trying to hear.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Nothing you cannot give.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Who are you?”
“You have until midnight to decide whether your father’s life is worth one night of yours.”
The call ended.
A message appeared immediately.
It contained an address and four words.
COME ALONE. ASK NO QUESTIONS.
- Writer
