Page 15 of For Fox Sake

I spin around. “Of course, Elaine.” My stomach twists.

I’ve been waiting for her to ask for a conversation with me. The bill for mom’s care is over a month past due.

“Ari, you go on with Bernie. I’ll be right there.”

Bernie is waiting down the hall, outside of Mom’s room. Ari runs ahead, her pink sneakers squeaking on the shiny blue linoleum.

Bernie gives me a commiserating wince before they disappear around the corner, heading to mom’s room.

I follow Elaine into her office, and she shuts the door behind us.

Crap.

She moves behind her desk, motioning for me to take a seat.

I sit in the guest chair across from her, clutching my purse in my lap, staring at the stacks of papers lined up along one edge.

Her phone, computer, and keyboard are all aligned. Her dark hair is threaded through with gray and pulled back into a neat bun. Her blue pant suit is pressed and pristine—not so much as a ball of lint to mar the surface.

I’m wearing paint-stained overalls and I haven’t shaved my legs in a week.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you know why I needed to speak with you.”

“I’m so sorry. I know the payment is late, but I’m still dealing with the trust stuff. They needed to do an accounting and the court has to review it, and they had all these delays and... I swear I’m going to have it to you as soon as I can.”

She reaches across the desk to pat my hand. “I know, sweetie.”

The trust is nearly depleted, but I don’t want to tell her that. There’s just enough in there to make Mom ineligible for any public benefits, but not enough to cover her hospital bills for the next few months.

“You know we will keep your Mom here, no matter what. We would never turn her out when she needs twenty-four-hour medical care.”

But.

She doesn’t say the word. It’s in her kind eyes, downturned lips, and tight shoulders.

If I don’t pay, they will send me to collections, eventually. We’ll reach a point where they won’t have a choice.

“I spoke with our billing department and got them to put a thirty-day hold on sending anything out in the mail, so that should buy you some time.”

I nod. They send out three delinquency notices every thirty days before they take any action to refer to collections or their legal department. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course. We miss Mia around here every day. You know we will do everything we can to help.”

My temples throb with the beginning of a headache.

Life isn’t hard enough as a single mom of a rambunctious child. I also have an aging parent with dementia and kidney disease who requires constant care.

After Dad died, his life insurance money was put into a trust, but when Mom’s health declined, we had to draw from it.

“Here’s the number to the Aging and Disability Resource Connection.” She slides a business card across the desk. “They might be able to help. It’s worth a shot.”

I pick up the card and slip it in my purse. “Right. Thanks, Elaine. I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”

She means well, but I’ve already tried everything.

They have a limit on how many people they can assist in hospice care—budget issues and whatnot—and they’ve met their maximum for the year. Someone literally has to die for Mom to move up on the list.

I exit Elaine’s office, shutting the door behind me, and then move over to the wall, leaning back against it and taking a deep breath. I hold it for a few seconds before blowing it out, attempting to relax my tight shoulders.

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