EDORA's POV
The promise I had made to Pop
I will get you out of this stage
was a fire burning bright inside me. It was the only thing keeping the crushing weight of the 20k bill from making me collapse right there in the hallway. I stood up tall, took one last look through the glass at my father, and turned away from the door of Room 412.
The hospital doors slid open with a soft, whooshing sound, releasing me back into the cold night air. I walked until I was clear of the entrance, the harsh yellow light of the streetlamps making everything look lonely and sharp.
I didn't have the strength to walk all the way home. My legs ached from running, walking, and sleeping on the floor. I pulled my phone out, it was still dead, and frowned. I needed to call a cab. I found a payphone near the bus stop, a relic of an earlier time, and dug into my bag for some change. I put the coins in and called the number for a local taxi company.
The ride home was silent. I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window, watching the city lights blur. I wasn't thinking about the money or Wilson; I was just thinking about the feel of my own bed, the simple comfort of being in a place that knew me.
When the cab pulled up outside my apartment building, I paid the driver and walked up the three flights of stairs to our small, familiar door. I turned the key, and the quiet click of the lock sounded like the loudest noise in the world.
Our apartment was small, but it was ours. It smelled faintly of Pop's pipe tobacco and the coffee I used to brew every morning. It was warm and familiar, but tonight, it felt too empty.
I stepped inside. I didn't turn on the main lights, just the soft lamp in the corner. I slipped my worn backpack off my shoulder and hung it on the hook next to the door.
My first stop was the bathroom. I felt dirty, sticky with dried tears, cold from the rain, and stiff from the floor. I didn't bother turning on the shower. I just went to the sink, turned the cold water on hard, cupped my hands, and splashed it onto my face. Once, twice, three times. The icy shock was good. It woke up the tired, heavy part of my brain.
I lifted my head and looked at the reflection staring back at me in the mirror.
The girl in the glass was tired, her eyes were huge and shadowed, and her hair was a mess. But as I stared, I forced a small, sharp smile to my lips. It was wobbly, but it was there.
"You didn't take the deal," I whispered to my reflection. "You looked that arrogant monster in the eye and you walked away. You are stronger than his money, Edora. You are strong for Pop."
I kept smiling, praising myself, acting like I had won the whole fight, but deep down, a little voice was screaming that I was lying. I was dying inside, scared sick, knowing I had just turned down the only real solution I had. But I couldn't let that show. Not even to the girl in the mirror. I had to believe the lie that I was strong enough to win this without selling my soul.
I took one last look at my brave, lying reflection, nodded firmly, and walked out.
The Comfort of Home and Food
My stomach suddenly gave a painful, loud rumble. I hadn't eaten anything solid since breakfast the day before. The combination of stress, cold, and sleeplessness had burned through all my fuel.
I headed straight for the kitchen. It was small, brightly painted yellow, and smelled of the simple spices Pop liked. I didn't have the energy to cook. I opened the fridge and saw the leftovers from a small lasagna Pop had made last week. I grabbed a plate, scooped out a piece, and put it in the microwave.
While the microwave hummed, I walked over to the kitchen drawer and pulled out my phone charger. My phone needed life before I could do anything else. I plugged it in, watching the screen flicker back on with a pathetic 1% battery life.
I took the lasagna out and sat down at the small kitchen table. The food tasted bland, like warm cardboard, but I forced myself to eat every bite. I knew I needed the energy. I needed to be sharp for whatever came next. Every mouthful was a silent promise to Pop that I was refueling for the fight.
After I finished the plate, the exhaustion was like a physical weight settling on my shoulders. But I had one more thing to do before I could rest.
I picked up my phone. It had charged just enough to make a call. The first person I had to talk to was Ciara. She was more than a friend; she was my family, the closest thing I had to a sister, or even a mother sometimes. She was the manager of Beachwood Cafe, where I worked.
I scrolled to her contact and hit the call button. It rang three times, and then her familiar, warm voice answered.
"Hey! Oh my god, Edora, I was about to call you. I heard about your dad, I called the hospital, they wouldn't tell me anything. How are you? What is happening?" Her voice was high with genuine worry.
"Hey, Ciara," I said, my own voice sounding tired and thin. "I'm... I'm okay. Pop is stable. But he needs a major operation. And we need a down payment of twenty thousand dollars."
The line was silent for a shocked moment. "Twenty thousand? Edora... oh, sweetie. That's... huge. I am so sorry. How long do you have?"
"Less than 48 hours now. That's why I haven't been answering, and why I haven't been in." I took a deep breath, knowing I had to get to the point about work.
"Ciara, I won't be able to come in for a while. I need to be at the hospital, and I need to... I need to find money."
"Of course! Don't even think about the cafe, honey. We'll cover your shifts. You are on paid leave, okay? I'll make it work," she said immediately. Her kindness always hit me hard.
"You're amazing, Ciara. Thank you."
Then she got to the heart of it, her voice turning soft and serious. "Edora, please. You know I'm sitting on a little bit of savings from the cafe's good months. It's not the full amount, but I can get you five thousand dollars right now. No questions asked. You don't pay me back until you're completely settled. I mean it. I can bring it to the hospital."
The tears burned behind my eyes. I pictured her small, bustling café and the way she worried over every penny of her business. Taking her savings would mean hurting her dream.
"No, Ciara. Please. Don't worry about it," I said, the refusal firm and immediate. "I can't take your savings. That's your business, your future. You're like my mother, and I won't let you sacrifice everything for me. This is my problem. I have to figure it out."
"But honey, we are family! That money is better used saving your dad than sitting in the bank!" she pleaded.
"No. I appreciate it more than you know, but I won't do it. Please, don't even try to bring it up. Promise me you won't bring it up," I insisted, needing the boundary to stay strong.
Ciara sighed, the sound heavy and frustrated. "Fine, I promise. But I hate this. What are you going to do?"
I knew I needed to tell her about the only lead I had, even though I was ashamed of it. "I saw something earlier. A flyer. It was... well, it was for dancers at a nightclub. Cash paid daily."
The line went silent again. I could almost hear the disappointment in her voice, but she just swallowed it down. "Edora... that's dangerous. You know that's not your world."
"I know. But it's quick money, Ciara. It's not a contract marriage to some rich monster," I blurted out, instantly regretting mentioning Wilson.
"Wait, what did you just say? A contract marriage? Edora, what happened?" she demanded.
I quickly changed the subject. "Nothing. I was just stressed and imagining things. Forget I said that, please. Listen, I'm going to call the number on the flyer now, just to see if it's even a real option. If it is, I have to take it. I just wanted to let you know what I'm looking at."
"Okay," she said slowly, still sounding worried about the 'contract marriage' comment. "Call me back as soon as you know. Please. Keep me posted on everything. I love you, Edora. Hang in there."
"I will. Love you too, Ciara."
I hung up the phone, feeling the immediate absence of her warmth. I knew I had made the right choice not to take her money, but it left the fight entirely on my own shoulders.
I put the phone down, staring at the screen. The small glow felt incredibly heavy. Now was the time to call the number on the flyer. The dancer job.
I opened my notepad, found the number, and stared at it. My stomach was churning again. This was such a bad idea. But what other options did I have? None.
I took a deep breath. It's just a phone call. They can only say no.
I pressed the call button. It rang four short times, and then a man's voice, loud, rough, and sounding completely bored, answered.
"Yeah? Who's this?"
I forced my voice to sound confident, trying to sound like a professional, not a terrified, broke barista.
"Hi. My name is Edora Williams. I saw your flyer on a lamppost near St. Jude's Hospital. The one for dancers needed. I'm calling because I'm very interested in the job. I need to start immediately, and I'm ready to work as hard as possible." I spoke quickly, trying to get all the information out before he could cut me off.
The man made a loud noise, a dry, humorless laugh, on the other end.
"The dancer flyer? Yeah, kid, that's old news. Been up there for weeks. We hired two girls yesterday afternoon. Place is full up. We don't need anyone else."
My heart sank so fast it felt like it hit the floor. The hope, the tiny, desperate flame of an idea, was instantly blown out.
"Oh. I... I see. So there's no way you might need someone else? Maybe even for a trial shift?" I pleaded, hating how desperate I sounded.
"Nah. We're done. Call us next month, maybe. Bye."
Click.
The line went dead. Again. Just like the rude rich man, this man hadn't waited for me to reply, hadn't cared about what if I had a problem.
I slowly lowered the phone, feeling utterly and completely crushed. The second door I had tried to open had just slammed in my face. It was done. I was back where I started: staring at the wall, with a death sentence looming over my father.
My body felt impossibly heavy. I slowly opened my text messages and sent a quick note to Ciara.
ME: The job didn't work out. I'm wiped. See you at the cafe tomorrow morning for coffee? I need to talk.
I didn't wait for her reply. I gently placed the phone on the counter. I turned away from the kitchen and walked like a zombie toward my bedroom.
I fell onto my bed. It was soft, comforting, and smelled like home. I didn't even bother pulling the covers over myself. My eyes closed instantly. The weight of the fight, the exhaustion, and the devastating disappointment finally won. I was asleep before my head even settled properly into the pillow.