“Gretchen, it is Mom, and the doctor’s name is Dr. Randall Hayes, ID number 8824, and the surgery is an emergency appendectomy that costs nineteen thousand dollars, so deposit it into the account I sent you and hurry up,” the recording said.
I listened to it twice, backed it up to a secure drive, and stared into the darkness of my apartment knowing my family wasn’t in a medical crisis. They were just trying to squeeze the last drop of life out of me.
I put on my navy blue scrubs like a suit of armor and walked out to the parking lot where the desert night air felt like ice. As I drove toward the supposed hospital, the number kept pounding in my head.
Three weeks earlier, I had stopped by my mother’s house and seen open envelopes from several credit card companies marked with final notices of immediate payment. Tiffany had spent months building an image on social media with designer bags and expensive dinners, all financed by other people’s money.
At the reception desk of Ocean View Memorial, I calmly asked the clerk about my sister’s admission status. The woman typed into her computer, checked again, and shook her head.