She spoke quickly and excitedly, and her face turned crimson. Then she took a deep breath, looked out the window, and relaxed her shoulders. “Of course, I understand why he’s like this,” she said. “And it’s hard to blame him.”
She sat in the chair near the bed. For a few moments, she just sat there with her head lowered. Her words and actions had captured my full attention. I was holding my breath in anticipation of the next outburst, but she began in a low, soft tone.
“We lost our younger daughter, Alena, to acute leukemia three years ago. We took her to the best doctors and the best hospitals in the country, but we couldn’t save her. You can have all the money in the world, Sasha, and still not be happy. Anyway, Donald doesn’t want to lose Kiera, too. I don’t, either, but I think that his always finding ways to excuse her misbehavior will lead to us losing her. It’s like a slow disease, just getting worse and worse. You’re probably too young to understand all of this,” she added, and sighed. “Forgive me for throwing it all at you like this, especially at this time when you’re soaked in your own horrible trouble.”
I didn’t say anything.
She looked at me again, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe you’re not too young to understand what I’m saying. Children who live harder lives grow up faster. I’m sure you’ve seen more than your share of the dark side, and now look at what’s happened to you. I’m sorry. I really am, and I’m going to do whatever I can to make things better.”
“My mother’s dead,” I said. “They told me she died instantly.”
Her whole face seemed to tremble. She understood that I meant there was no way to make my mother better, there was no nice room for her or expert doctors to fix her injuries. No one could promise her anything anymore, so Mrs. March couldn’t make things much better for me. Mrs. March looked as if she would cry and did turn away to dab her eyes with her handkerchief.
I certainly didn’t feel sorry for her. I didn’t care how unhappy she was or what terrible things had happened to her. Maybe that was mean, but I didn’t feel like feeling sorry for anyone else except Mama and myself at the moment. Did she expect me to say it wasn’t her daughter’s fault? Had she come here and done all this for me so I would forgive her daughter and help her feel better?
“It’s terrible. I know,” she said, still looking away. “That poor woman. On top of struggling just to exist.” She sighed and turned back to me. “How did the two of you end up living on the street? I see so many people pushing carts and sleeping in tents or just under something. Some of the
m look so young. I can’t help but look at them and wonder how in the world they ended up the way they are, especially in this great country. Are there many children out there like you all over?”
“I don’t know. We’ve been only here. We never left after we were turned out on the street. Mama said it would be the same for us no matter where we went, and at least it wasn’t cold here so much.”
She blew through her lips and shook her head as she looked at me. “You should be in school, going to parties, not worrying about where your next meal is coming from or where you will sleep. What did you two do, just beg?”
“No, my mother wouldn’t beg. She sold her calligraphy, and I sold lanyard key chains on the beach. I made them myself.”
“Calligraphy?”
“It’s Chinese writing.”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled.
We heard a knock on the door. A tall man in a black suit and blue tie stood there. He had thick gray hair and ebony eyes, a gray and black well-trimmed goatee, and a Hollywood tan. I thought he might be her husband. He looked just as wealthy.
“I received your message while I was still at the orthopedic convention at Shutters, Jordan. I came as soon as I could get away.”
“Thank you, Michael. This,” she said, turning back to me, “is the young girl I want you to treat, Sasha Porter.”
He nodded and showed Mrs. March a clipboard in his right hand. “I picked up her file on the way.”
“This is Dr. Milan, Sasha. Please, let him examine you.”
He stepped into my room and, without saying hello or even smiling at me, took the blanket off my right leg and looked at the cast. He shook his head.
“What?” Mrs. March asked.
“It’s not set high enough. I see this sort of sloppy work all the time. I’ll have to redo this. I’m sorry,” he told me.
“Did you see the X-rays, Michael?”
“Yes.”
“How bad is the break?”
“It’s pretty serious, in a bad place, Jordan. I’ll do the best I can, but nine times out of ten, for someone her age, there is a residual effect when it’s that high up.”
“Do what you can, Michael. I mean it,” she said firmly. “Think of her as you would my daughter,” she told him.
I was surprised that she could speak to a doctor so sternly, but he didn’t seem upset. He nodded.