The hospital air was a thick mix of bleach and something else, something that pretended to be clean but just smelled like dying. Every time I pulled it into my lungs, they fought back, crackling and wheezing like an old plastic bag.
"Adeline. Hey. Look at me."
The voice sliced right through the fog in my head. I dragged my eyes open. It took a minute, everything was blurry. Chloe's face swam into view. Her hand was clamped over mine, her nails perfect little shells of red polish. That blazer of hers probably cost more than my electric bill. It looked stupid next to these scratchy hospital blankets.
"You listen to me," she said, and her chin wobbled just a little. "You are not giving up. You don't get to quit. You're my person. You hear me? My person."
I managed a sort of twitch with my mouth. It was supposed to be a smile. She was my person, too. That was the whole, sad story. No mom, no dad, no brothers or sisters. Just me. I'd been so hungry for a family, I walked right into the trap of the Miller family. They didn't want a family member. They wanted a maid who wouldn't ask for a paycheck.
The door hissed open. "Adeline? Time for your radiation," the nurse chirped. Her smile was so bright it hurt to look at.
Chloe squeezed my fingers, hard. "I gotta go. Some big-shot realtor is pitching a fit. But I'll be back. Tonight. I swear." She bent down, and a cloud of her fancy perfume—all flowers and spice—washed over me. It was a smell that usually made me feel safe. She pressed her lips to my forehead. Then came the click-clack of her heels fading down the hall.
When the orderly started pushing my wheelchair, I let my head fall back and just… drifted. My life hadn't fallen apart. It had crumbled, bit by bit, for years. Three jobs. Waitressing until my feet bled, typing numbers into a computer until my eyes crossed, mopping floors after midnight. All of it just to pay for Mark's new toys. A bigger TV. A faster phone. His mom and sister, they'd just text more demands. Pick up my dry cleaning. Your meatloaf was too dry last time.
The stress ate a hole in my gut by the time I was twenty-six. When the pain would double me over, Mark would just roll his eyes and toss me a bottle of antacids from across the room.
Dr. Evans sat down with me yesterday. He used his quiet, serious voice. "Adeline, the cancer… it's very advanced. At this point, our goal is to manage it. We're looking at six months. Perhaps twelve, if the treatments are very effective. You'd need a miracle."
I didn't believe in miracles. I believed in Chloe. She was the one who brought me gossip magazines and contraband cheeseburgers. She was the one who sat with me in the bathroom at 3 a.m. when I was too sick to move. She was the only solid thing I had to hold onto.
After the radiation, I felt empty. Like someone had scooped out all my insides. Dr. Evans found me trying to sip water in the recovery area.
"Adeline, your treatment plan is set. But there's a problem with the insurance. The co-pays are… substantial. We need your husband to come down. We need to get this sorted before we can continue. We've called, but…" He spread his hands.
Ice filled my stomach. So that's where my calls had gone. Into the void. I'd texted him, my hands shaking. Please. They need payment. Nothing. He was probably glued to his game console, his headphones on, blocking out my dying world.
Okay. Fine. Two could play that game.
Putting my clothes on felt like climbing a mountain. My fingers were too stupid for the buttons. My shoes felt like they were made of lead. I scribbled my name on the discharge form, a messy loop that didn't even look like me. The Uber ride was a blur of streetlights and noise.
Our apartment building smelled like old grease and lemon-scented cleaner. I could never get that smell out of my clothes. I got the key in the lock on the third try and pushed the door open.
And there they were. Chloe's stupid black boots. Tossed right in the middle of the floor like she owned the place.
My heart did a stupid, hopeful little jump. She was here! She'd come to read him the riot act, to scream at him for abandoning me at the hospital. My Chloe. My hero.
But the apartment was dead quiet.
Then I heard it. A low laugh. A giggle. Mark's laugh. It was coming from our bedroom.
My feet started moving without me asking. The bedroom door wasn't closed all the way. I didn't open it. I just… stopped. And I listened.
Our bed was a wreck of sheets. Mark wasn't wearing a shirt. Chloe was in that little silk slip she always said was too expensive to sleep in. Her head was on his chest.
"…so clever, Mark. The insurance. How did you even come up with that?" Her voice was soft, syrupy.
He laughed. "Her old man croaked from the same thing. Seemed like a safe bet. Then she started wasting away to nothing. Looked like a strong wind would knock her over. Seemed like a sure thing."
All the air in the hallway vanished. I couldn't get a breath.
"How much is it again?" she asked. Her voice was greedy. I knew that tone. She used it when she was talking about a commission.
"Two million," he said, like he was telling her the time. "She's taking her sweet time about it, though. If she'd just get on with it, we could buy the place on Grand Avenue. Get you that diamond you're always mooning over."
The floor felt like it was tilting. I grabbed the wall.
"You know," Chloe said, drawing a lazy circle on his skin, "I was thinking I'd take her up to Eagle's Cliff this weekend. For the view. A cancer patient, all weak and dizzy… one wrong step near the edge… who would even blink?"
Something in my chest snapped. A raw, ugly noise ripped out of my throat.
I threw my whole weight against the door. It crashed into the wall. "YOU FILTH!"
They flew apart, their faces pictures of pure shock. A fire I didn't know I had left exploded inside me. I saw that stupid glass trophy from his job. I snatched it and threw it as hard as I could. It smashed against the wall right where his head had been.
"HOW COULD YOU?" I shrieked. My voice was broken glass. "YOU'RE MY HUSBAND! AND YOU… YOU WERE MY SISTER!"
"Adeline! Stop it! You've lost it!" Mark yelled, scrambling off the bed to stand in front of a now-screaming Chloe.
"LOST IT? SHE JUST SAID SHE'D PUSH ME OFF A CLIFF!"
I flew at Chloe. My hands, all bone and tendon, clawed at her. I grabbed a fistful of her smooth, expensive hair and yanked. I was so weak. My punches were nothing. But I put every bit of my broken heart into them.
"I loved you!" I cried, beating at her. "You were everything!"
"Get the hell off her, you lunatic!" Mark roared.
His hands dug into my shoulders. He shoved me. Hard.
The sound was like a firecracker. The whole world turned white, then red with agony.
The back of my head smashed into the corner of the glass coffee table. I felt something crack. I went down. A warm wetness was instantly everywhere, soaking my hair, pooling under my cheek. I was stuck. I couldn't move a muscle. All I could see was a brown water stain on the ceiling I'd been meaning to complain about.
Their voices were fuzzy, like a radio station fading out.
"Oh my god, Mark, is she…?" Chloe, sounding shrill and scared.
"She fainted," he said, and his voice was ice-cold now. No panic. "She hit her head. They're always fainting from the drugs."
"Right. Yeah," Chloe stammered, getting a hold of herself. "They're weak. No one will ask any questions."
One hot tear rolled from my eye and mixed with the blood on the floor. My eyes wouldn't close. I stared at that water stain. The last thing I heard wasn't "I'm sorry." It was the two of them, my husband and my best friend, calmly talking about their future over my dead body.
Then, nothing. Just quiet. And the pain was gone.