CHAPTER FOUR
642 Words
ROCHELLE
I say goodbye to my therapy group and pedal hard to the café for my night shift till 10 p.m.
As I lock my bike and slip on my apron, the door swings open and—
“SURPRISE!!”
Voices explode around me.
My heart stutters.
“Wh...wh-what is this?” I laugh, overwhelmed.
“It’s your birthday,” Becky smiles, pulling me into a fierce hug.
“My birthday? You… you remembered?” Tears sting my eyes, blurring everything.
“And… three months clean,” she breathes, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.
I blink, taking in the balloons, glitter, piles of cake and pastries, drinks, and wine.
A giant ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROCHELLE’ banner hangs like a dream come true.
All this—for me?
“Come here, love,” Becky coos, brushing a tear from my cheek.
“Don’t cry. You’re family now. We’re all here for you.”
They cheer, voices warm, making my chest ache.
“Thank you, Becky,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
Her arms tighten around me, her warmth a lifeline.
“Enough with the mushy stuff!” she shivers, breaking the moment.
“Let’s cut the damn cake!”
The room fills with song.
I take the knife, my hands trembling.
“HIP HIP!” Becky shouts—
And then a sickening thud.
A gasp slices the air.
I whirl around.
Becky lies sprawled, lifeless, blood trickling from the side of her head.
“BECKY!” My voice cracks as I sprint to her side.
I cradle her fragile head, panic clawing my throat.
“Someone call 911! NOW!” I scream.
“Becky, please… please wake up!”
Her stillness shatters me.
Why? Why now? Why her?
---
Minutes—or hours—later, I’m standing in a stark hospital room, facing a man in a white coat.
“Well…??” I demand, voice raw, pacing like a caged animal.
He sighs, eyes heavy with sympathy.
“Let’s talk in my office,” he says quietly, guiding me away.
Inside, the door clicks shut.
I sit, gripping the chair, breath shallow.
“Your sister…” he begins, hesitating.
“Tell me,” I press.
“Becky has gastric cancer.”
The words hit like a freight train.
“Gastric cancer?” I echo, numb.
“It’s stomach cancer,” he confirms.
“It invades the abdomen, spreading fast.”
My throat tightens.
“Why? What caused this?” I choke out.
“In her case, it’s most likely hereditary.”
I swallow hard.
“Family history?”
“We don’t know,” I whisper. “We’re orphans.”
He nods slowly.
“She’s barren. Could that be linked?”
“Indirectly, perhaps.”
I try to steady myself.
“What now? What do we do?”
“She needs treatment immediately,” he says gravely.
“No insurance,” he adds, voice low.
The room tilts.
“I can get her insurance,” I say desperately.
“That takes time. She needs care now,” he insists.
“How much?” I demand, fear clawing at me.
He meets my eyes.
“Stage III. Initial treatment costs $85,000. Chemotherapy alone is $25,000. Total expenses between $150,000 to $500,000.”
I slump back, breath gone.
Half a million dollars—words echoing like a death sentence.
“There are financial aid options,” he offers, handing me a flyer.
The American Cancer Society—a glimmer in the darkness.
I clutch the paper like a lifeline and race out.
Before leaving, I stop at Becky’s bedside.
Her pale hand lies motionless in mine.
“I swear, Becky, I’ll fix this. We’ll fight. We’ll survive.”
I press a desperate kiss to her cold skin.
Then, step away, heart pounding with a fierce, furious determination.
I will find a way. I must.
- Writer
