Chapter 4
The tenth year, the final package.
It arrived on December 23rd and was smaller, lighter.
"Miss, this box feels different from the others," the delivery guy remarked as he set it on the doormat.
"Just leave it there," I replied, the same words I'd used for a decade.
No opening, no second glance, straight to the trash the moment I had the chance.
That night, while hauling garbage down to the bin, the box slipped off the edge and crashed to the ground with a sharp crack.
It split open, and a clear plastic bag tumbled out.
I bent to pick it up, and the second my fingers brushed the plastic, I froze.
Inside lay a blue-covered medical record.
I snatched it up, flipping it open.
"Richard Grant, male, 58 years old. Gastric adenocarcinoma, Stage IV. Multiple lymph node metastases. Palliative care recommended," I murmured.
"Palliative care" spelled no cure, no hope.
I squatted beside the trash can, staring at the words as a bitter winter wind whipped around me, rustling the pages.
As I turned to the next page, my eyes fixed on the admission date: September 15th.
He'd been in the hospital for three months.
Tucked in the crease of the last page was a note, written in Richard's shaky handwriting.
His hand must have been trembling so badly that he could barely hold the pen.
[Sarah, I know you won't open this. But what if you do? I might not have much time left this time. I don't ask for your forgiveness. I just want to see you one more time.]
I crouched there, the cold wind cutting through my collar and sending chills down my spine, but no tears came.
As I stared at those words, "I just want to see you one more time," one question burned in my mind.
He'd been in the hospital for three months, and Mary hadn't told a soul.
Not even his own brothers. Why?
*****
Train tickets for the next day were booked in minutes.
It was the first time I'd gone back in ten years.
Not for Richard, but for that unspoken "why."
Mary had hidden her husband's terminal illness from everyone for three months, and it didn't add up.
A woman hiding her husband's death sentence for that long? She had to be hiding something more.
Upon reaching Westwood City Central Hospital, I headed straight for the seventh floor of the inpatient wing.
A quick question at the nurse's station gave me his room number. "Richard Grant? He's at Room 718."
I pushed the door open, and my breath caught in my throat.
Three beds filled the room, and the one by the window held a man unrecognizable as the father I'd once known.
He was gaunt, his hair snow-white, cheeks sunken so deeply his cheekbones jutted out.
An IV needle stuck in his hand, his knuckles covered in bruising from repeated pricks.
He didn't look 58—he looked 78.
The creak of the door made him turn, and when his eyes met mine, he froze for three long seconds before his lips parted. "Sarah?"
His voice was a whisper, so soft I could barely hear it, like he feared I'd vanish if he spoke too loudly.
"Sarah... You're here." His eyes turned teary-eyed, glistening with unshed tears.
I stood rooted in the doorway, staring.
Ten years had passed, but he'd aged more than a decade.
"Who's taking care of you?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Mary... she comes now and then."
"How often is 'now and then'?" I pressed.
He fell silent, and the patient in the next bed shot him a sympathetic glance, as if he wanted to speak up but didn't dare.
I said to the man, "Excuse me, how often does his family come by?"
He sighed, shaking his head. "In the past two weeks, she's been here twice. Each time, she stayed less than half an hour."
Two visits in two weeks, less than thirty minutes total.
My eyes flicked to the nightstand: a chipped thermos, a crumpled bag of crackers, a bottle of water. No fruit, no clean clothes, nothing a decent family member would bring for a patient.
"What do you eat?" I asked.
"The nurse's aide... picks up meals from the hospital cafeteria for me," Richard replied.
"Who pays for the aide?"
Again, silence—a heavy, guilty silence.
"Where's your pension card?" I asked, changing the topic.
Richard. stared at his hands, his voice barely audible. "With Mary."
I took a deep breath and asked, "How much is your monthly pension?"
"Two thousand dollars."
"How much does she actually give you?" I asked.
"It's enough, I guess," Richard muttered.
"How much exactly?" I pressed.
"A hundred."
A hundred dollars out of two thousand dollars.
"When did this start?" I asked.
"After I retired... it's been this way ever since."
He'd retired six years ago.
Six years, nineteen hundred dollars a month siphoned off by Mary, which was nearly 140 thousand dollars total.
"Who's paying for your medical bills?" I asked.
"Insurance covers part... the out-of-pocket stuff..." Richard trailed off, hesitating. "Mary said we're tight on money, told me not to bother with the expensive meds."
Don't bother with the expensive meds for stage IV stomach cancer? That was ridiculous.
"How much have you paid for your hospitalization fees?" I asked.
"A three-thousand-dollar deposit."
I asked, "Where did you get that money?"
Richard fell silent again, and after a long, painful pause, he mumbled, "I... saved up some secret stash."
Secret stash? The money was scraped together from his 100-dollar monthly allowance, penny by penny.
"Do you know she transferred the apartment?" I asked.
Richard jerked his head up, stunned. "What?"
"You don't know?" I asked.
He looked at me, his eyes lost and bewildered. "W-What transfer?"
The last sliver of hope I'd clung to shattered.