Chapter 2
That night, I called my mother, Celia Lane.
"Mom, Michael was in an accident. We need a lot of money."
The line went dead silent for a long time.
Finally, she said, "Hold on. I'll figure something out."
On the fourth day, Celia walked into the hospital.
She handed me a little bag holding three bankbooks.
"This is all the money your dad and I have saved over the years—55 grand in total. Take it," she said.
"Mom..." I started.
"I know what you're going to say," she cut me off. "Save his life first. If he dies, what good is the money?"
My hands were shaking as I took the bankbooks from her.
"Also," she said, pulling a folded piece of paper from her pocket. "Your uncle, Aunt Sarah, and Aunt Chloe each loaned us fifteen grand. These are the IOUs. Keep them safe."
With the 45 grand added to her own 55 grand, the final sum came out to 100 grand.
As I looked through the debt notes, the handwriting varied from tidy to messy, yet they all led back to one person: Amanda Lane.
"Mom, I..."
"Stop," she cut me off with a wave. "Just tell me, is it enough?"
I shook my head.
"It's not? How much more do you need?"
"The doctors said the follow-up care could hit around 200 grand."
The color drained from her face.
"What are we going to do?"
I looked down at the white hospital tiles.
"I'm going to sell my condo."
Celia left that night.
Before she walked out the hospital doors, she suddenly pulled me into a tight hug.
She was so petite that her arms barely wrapped around my waist.
"Amanda, listen to me," she said as her voice was muffled against my shirt. "No matter what happens, you still have me."
I nodded, my throat tightening as tears pricked my eyes.
On day five, I walked into a real estate office.
My condo was bought for $275,000, but the current market value was around $600,000.
The agent reviewed my paperwork and looked up. "This is your sole property from before you were married. Are you absolutely sure you want to sell?"
"I'm sure," I said. "How fast can I get the cash?"
"Standard process takes about a month and a half. If you're desperate, we can list it under market value for a quick cash sale. Takes about three weeks."
"How much under?"
"Around $555,000."
A quick sale would mean taking a 45-grand hit.
I hesitated for exactly three seconds.
"Do it. Sell it fast."
The agent gave me a look, clearly holding something back.
"If you have something to say, just say it," I told him.
"Ms. Lane," he whispered, "I've been in this business for ten years. I've seen plenty of people sell their homes to cover medical bills. But you're selling your personal pre-marital asset to save your husband. Where is his family in all this? Why aren't they selling their property?"
I didn't answer.
I just signed my name on the listing agreement.
For the next few weeks, my life became a loop. Wake up at 6:00 AM, head to the hospital, and stand guard.
Around noon, Amber would occasionally drop by with some takeout, stay for an hour, and bolt.
She never spent a single night by that ICU door.
Michael's condition was a rollercoaster. The doctors said the brain swelling was slowly going down, but they couldn't guarantee when, or if, he would wake up.
I spent night after night sleeping on that hard bench.
The nurses all knew me by name.
"Why are you always here alone?" one asked.
"His family is busy," I replied.
"Don't you have a job?"
I just smiled and didn't answer.
I had already quit my job.
After bailing on that interview, I took an extended leave of absence.
By week two, HR called to ask when I was coming back.
I told them I didn't know. They said I either needed to take formal unpaid medical leave or quit.
"I'll just resign," I told them.
Just like that, the job I had poured five years of my life into was gone.
My steady $45,000 salary was gone.
The job making $10,000 a month was also gone.
When Celia found out, she cried on the phone.
"Amanda, are you out of your mind?"
"Mom, his life comes first," I replied.
"What about your life? Your career? Your future?" she pressed.
I stayed quiet.
I didn't have an answer.
All I knew was that Michael was lying in a coma, and I couldn't abandon him.
In the third week, the money from the sale hit my account: $555,000.
I checked my balance at the hospital ATM and took a deep breath.
With the 100 grand from my mother and the 20 grand of my own savings, I had a total of $670,000. That had to be enough to settle the score.
I walked up to the billing desk, cleared the massive outstanding balance, and pre-paid another $60,000 just to be safe.
"Your family must be doing pretty well for yourselves," the billing clerk remarked.
I gave a tight smile and said nothing.
Doing well?
I borrowed my mother's life savings.
I drained my relatives' bank accounts.
I sold off my own house, my safety net.
If that was "doing well," I would hate to see rock bottom.
Michael was in the ICU for exactly thirty-seven days.
Over that time, I bled through $150,000.
I slept on that bench for thirty-seven nights.
I dropped fifteen pounds.
On the 37th day, the doctor finally told me his vitals were stable and he was being moved to a regular room.
I stood by the ICU doors and watched them wheel him out.
Pale and still, with eyes clamped shut, he looked like a skeleton. He was a shadow of the man I once knew.
But he was alive.
I honestly thought the nightmare was over.
I really did.