I was rich, so I tested my broke girlfriend’s love by pretending…….
“You went to see her?”
“She lives a few hours away. I had a break from classes, and my manager approved the time off.”
She rubbed her tired eyes.
“I stayed with her. She helped me speak to a patient navigator and find organizations that might know about treatment assistance. I kept my phone off because I knew if you called, I’d spend the whole time worrying instead of getting anything done.”
I stared at the documents.
They contained phone numbers, eligibility requirements, and information about insurance appeals.
Nothing guaranteed a solution.
But every page demonstrated how seriously she’d believed my story.
“Meryl said we need the actual diagnosis and treatment estimate before anyone can tell us what’s available,” Skyla continued.
She looked directly at me.
“I know you don’t want to talk about the medical details. But we can’t keep guessing.”
I lifted the first sheet.
Her handwriting covered the margins.
ASK ABOUT SECOND OPINION.
CHECK WHETHER COST INCLUDES FOLLOW-UP CARE.
FIND OUT WHAT INSURANCE HAS DENIED IN WRITING.
“You did all this?” I breathed.
“I couldn’t find the money, Archie.” Her voice wavered. “I tried to think of something I could sell. But even if I sold everything I owned, it wouldn’t come close.”
She reached into the box again.
“Then Meryl showed me this.”
She handed me an old recipe card.
The front explained how to prepare chicken soup.
On the back, faded handwriting read:
For the days when neither of us feels brave.
“Grandma wrote that for Meryl,” Skyla said.
“She used to go with her to appointments and write down whatever the doctors said. Meryl told me she couldn’t make the illness disappear, but she could make sure her friend didn’t have to remember everything alone.”
She looked at me.
“I thought maybe I could do that for you.”
I couldn’t answer.
She touched the papers.
“I don’t have the money you’re asking for. But I found people who might help us understand what comes next.”
I looked at the worn recipe card, then at her ink-stained hands.
Five days of work, all because she’d believed me.
I tried thanking her, but my voice broke.
I covered my face and began sobbing.
Skyla moved closer.
“Archie?”
I shook my head, unable to stop crying.
“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
“Skyla, what have you done?!”
She reached for my hand.
“Skyla, I’m not sick.”
She stared.
“What?”
“There’s no diagnosis. No treatment.”
For an instant, relief crossed her face.
“The doctors made a mistake?”
I shook my head.
“I made it up.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Made what up?”
“All of it. I wanted to know whether you’d stay if I couldn’t afford treatment.”
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