Chapter 2
With the three thousand dollars, I settled the morgue debt for two thousand, paid three thousand for the cremation fee, and handed over another three thousand to cover the camp's meal debt.
The rest was all I had to survive the next two months.
As for the urn, I dug through every pocket I had, but all I could afford was the cheapest one.
"Account number," he said.
He pulled out his phone from the inside pocket of his coat.
"Cash," I said.
He was speechless.
"The bank in town won't let me withdraw a large amount, and the ATM only allows 300 dollars a day. I can't wait five days," I explained.
He stared at me for a long moment, then turned and called out to his assistant in the distance.
The assistant jogged over and pulled out a stack of cash from his briefcase.
I counted it right in front of him.
Three thousand dollars, exactly.
"Thanks," I said.
I stuffed the money in my pocket and walked away without looking back.
This time, he didn't follow.
It wasn't until I'd walked a long way that I finally let myself glance back.
He was still standing there, his black coat standing out sharply against the endless white of the ice field.
Next to him, Maria was being helped out of the minivan by two assistants.
She was wrapped in a cashmere blanket, her ankle swathed in a bandage, leaning against his shoulder.
Ten helicopters.
Three doctors.
A cashmere blanket.
She'd twisted her ankle.
My son had been lying in the morgue freezer at the foot of the mountain for three days.
He couldn't be cremated because I couldn't afford an urn.
That three thousand dollars wasn't wages.
It was the last bit of dignity I could give my son.
To get back to town from the base camp, I had to take a bumpy two-hour bus ride to the transfer point halfway up the mountain, then hike down the mountain trail for another four hours.
It was getting dark, and there were no lights on the road.
I switched on my flashlight and stumbled down the path, my steps awkward and uneven.
The dead finger on my left hand started throbbing again, the broken bone kept shooting sharp, stabbing pain through my whole hand.
By the time I got to town, the funeral home was already closed.
I went around to the back and saw the custodian, Ramon Mathis, at the morgue, locking up.
"Lily, you're here again?" he called out.
"Yeah."
I pulled the cash from my pocket. "Ramon, can you let me keep him here for three more days? I'll get the urn tomorrow, and cremate him the day after. Is that alright?"
Ramon sighed, took the money, and counted it. "Alright. Go on in, I'll lock up a bit later."
The hallway felt endless.
One of the white fluorescent tubes was busted, giving off a weak, flickering light.
The freezer sat at the very end of the row.
I pulled open the freezer door.
Logan was lying there inside.
He was wearing the quilted jacket I'd sewn from an old sweater. It was so big on him, I had to roll up the sleeves three times.
His little face was pale, his lips turning purple, so still, it looked like he was just sleeping.
"Logan, Mommy finally made some money," I whispered.
I crouched down and touched his forehead with my stiff fingers.
It was ice-cold.
For the past three years, every time I put my life on the line up in the mountains, I had no choice but to leave him with a woman at the camp.
I was willing to do anything, even if it meant giving up my own life, to earn enough for his third surgery, but in the end, he still didn't make it.
"Tomorrow, I'll get you a pretty little urn, and then we'll leave together, okay?" I whispered.
He didn't say a word.
He would never speak again.
The last thing he ever said was, "Mommy, I'm waiting for Daddy to come home."
That night, he had a high fever, his little hands clutching the stuffed toy with "James" stitched on it.
For that third surgery, I'd just paid the last 15 thousand dollars I'd scraped together, risking my life for every single dollar.
But someone messed up the operation on purpose, and as he kept getting worse day after day, the ICU bills sucked up every cent I had left.
I was dead broke, couldn't pay the hospital fees, so I had no choice but to take him back to that drafty little rental in town.
I tried everything to cool him down, but when I called for an ambulance, they told me it'd take forty minutes to get here.
Forty minutes.
He only lasted twenty minutes.
After that, I carried him from our rented apartment all the way to the town clinic.
The doctor on duty checked his carotid artery, then just shook his head.
The whole thing was so quiet.
No one screamed. No one cried their eyes out like those dramatic scenes on TV.
I just stood there in the clinic hallway, holding him, for what felt like forever.
It wasn't until a nurse came over and said, "Are you the family? He's gone. Do you want to send him to the morgue? It's 15 dollars a day."
15 dollars a day.
My son, just three years and two months old, and the final price the world put on his life was 15 dollars a day.
I crouched in front of the freezer for half an hour, straightening his jacket collar and snuggling the stuffed toy a little tighter into his arms.
"See you tomorrow, Logan," I whispered.
When I closed the freezer door, my hand didn't shake.
Three days had passed, and I'd already gotten used to closing this door.
By the time I got back to the tent, it was almost eleven.
There was a brand-new windbreaker on my bunk. The tag was gone, and there was no name anywhere.
I knew the brand right away.