The Test
She didn\u2019t say anything when she walked in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She just set it down on the kitchen table in front of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A manila envelope. Thick. Bent at the corners. Soft from being carried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And next to it, a cheap plastic shopping bag from a Dollar General. Knotted at the top.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she stepped back and stood there in the doorway of my kitchen with her arms wrapped around herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked terrible. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was wearing the same gray hoodie she\u2019d been wearing five days ago. There were dark circles under her eyes like bruises. Her lips were chapped. Her hands were red and raw.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d lost weight. In five days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSkyla,\u201d I said. \u201cWhere have you been?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She just nodded at the envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOpen it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I tipped it upside down. Things slid out onto the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A cashier\u2019s check. From a credit union in Odessa, Texas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A folded piece of yellow paper. A vehicle title. Signed over. Transferred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A printout from the University of Texas. With a red seal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A pawn ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A Greyhound bus ticket. One way. Odessa to Austin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And a binder. A cheap white three-ring binder. So stuffed with paper it wouldn\u2019t close all the way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the cashier\u2019s check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My hands started shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the pawn ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read that too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few seconds later, tears filled my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked up at her. Standing in my doorway. Exhausted. Broke. Shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSkyla,\u201d I whispered. \u201cWhat have you done?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But you need to know what I did first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You need to know what I did to make her do this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My name is Wes Calloway. I\u2019m twenty-nine years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I own a company called Ledgerline. Inventory software for restaurants. I started it in my dorm room at Rice University when I was twenty. Now we have sixty employees and an office on the fourteenth floor of a glass building on Congress Avenue in downtown Austin. Last year, a private equity firm offered to buy it for forty-one million dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I said no.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I live in a condo on Lady Bird Lake. Three bedrooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A balcony where you can watch the bats come out from under the Congress Avenue Bridge at sunset.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I drive a Tesla. I\u2019ve never once looked at the price of anything at a grocery store.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I grew up in River Oaks in Houston. My father is a commercial real estate developer. My mother sits on the boards of four charities and the Houston Museum of Fine Arts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I grew up never worrying about money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If something broke, I replaced it without checking the price.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know there was any other way to live.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla and I came from completely different worlds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I met her at a Waffle House.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two in the morning. A Tuesday. On I-35, just south of Riverside. I\u2019d been at the office until midnight dealing with a server crash. I was starving. Everything else was closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was my waitress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twenty-two years old. Dark hair pulled back in a bun with a pencil stuck through it. A name tag that said SKYLA. A yellow uniform two sizes too big. Bags under her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had a textbook open on the counter next to the coffee pot. Thick. Heavy. Fundamentals of Nursing. Highlighted in four different colors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every time she had a free second between tables, she\u2019d go back to the textbook. Read a paragraph. Highlight something. Move her lips silently like she was memorizing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She brought me my hash browns. Scattered, smothered, covered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat are you studying?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me like I was a little crazy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPharmacology,\u201d she said. \u201cExam at nine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIn the morning?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIn the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd you\u2019re working until when?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSix,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen do you sleep?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSaturday,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I came back the next Tuesday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the one after that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I always sat at the counter. I always ordered hash browns. And every week, she\u2019d have a different textbook open next to the coffee pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Anatomy and Physiology. Medical-Surgical Nursing. Pathophysiology.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the fourth Tuesday, I asked her out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She said no.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have time,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. You seem nice. But I work four nights a week here and two days at a nursing home in Pflugerville and I\u2019m taking eighteen credit hours. I literally don\u2019t have time to date.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat about coffee?\u201d I said. \u201cFifteen minutes. Between your shift and your exam.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFifteen minutes,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was almost two years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla was a nursing student at UT. In the bachelor\u2019s program. Junior year when we met.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She paid for everything herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her mother died of ovarian cancer when Skyla was sixteen. In a hospital in Odessa, Texas. Skyla sat with her every day for eight months. Holding her hand. Watching the nurses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey were the only ones who looked her in the eye,\u201d Skyla told me once. \u201cThe doctors talked to the chart. The nurses talked to her. I decided right then. That\u2019s what I\u2019m going to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her father left when she was four. She has no idea where he is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After her mother died, she lived with an aunt in Odessa for two years. Then she turned eighteen and moved to Austin with eleven hundred dollars and a 2006 Honda Civic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She worked. And she worked. And she worked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She worked evenings and weekends. The Waffle House four nights a week. A certified nursing assistant job at Heritage Oaks nursing home on Saturdays and Sundays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She drove that 2006 Honda Civic. Silver. With a dent in the passenger door and a check engine light that had been on since 2019. It constantly needed repairs. The alternator. The brakes. The starter. A guy named Rudy who ran a garage off East Riverside fixed it for her at cost because she\u2019d taken care of his mother at Heritage Oaks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She bought used textbooks. From Facebook Marketplace. From students who\u2019d graduated. Sometimes the highlighting from the last owner was so heavy she had to buy a different color highlighter just to see her own notes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She planned every paycheck. To the dollar. In a spiral notebook. Tuition. Rent. Groceries. Gas. Car insurance. Her phone bill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She lived in a studio apartment off East Oltorf with a roommate she\u2019d found on Craigslist. They shared a bed. One worked nights. One worked days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were weeks when she lived on instant ramen noodles just so she wouldn\u2019t fall behind on school fees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But in almost two years together, she never once asked me for money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not for rent. Not for groceries. Not for her car. Not for her textbooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the alternator went out on her Civic in January, she didn\u2019t tell me. She took the bus for three weeks. In the rain. I found out when I saw her standing at a bus stop on Oltorf at six in the morning, soaking wet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you call me?\u201d I said. \u201cI could\u2019ve driven you. I could\u2019ve fixed the car. It\u2019s three hundred dollars, Sky.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s three hundred dollars for you,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If I offered to help with tuition, she refused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I offered every semester. I\u2019d sit on the floor of her tiny studio apartment while she paid her bursar bill online and watch her face go tight as she typed in her debit card number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLet me pay it,\u201d I said. \u201cPlease. Just this once. It\u2019s nothing to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s exactly why I can\u2019t let you,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t understand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She closed her laptop. She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI need to know I can do this myself, Wes,\u201d she said. \u201cMy whole life, everything\u2019s been taken away. My dad. My mom. My house in Odessa. Everything. The only thing nobody can take is what I build with my own hands.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She put her hand on my cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you pay for it,\u201d she said, \u201cit\u2019s yours. I need it to be mine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have respected that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have looked at a twenty-two-year-old woman who\u2019d lost her mother and worked eighty hours a week and lived on ramen noodles and refused to take a single dollar from a man who had millions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I should have known exactly who she was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Instead, I let other people get into my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My friends kept warning me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brett, mostly. Brett Halvorsen. My roommate at Rice. Now he runs a hedge fund in Dallas. His father owns half of Highland Park.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDude,\u201d Brett said at a bar on Rainey Street last fall. \u201cThink about it. She\u2019s working at a Waffle House. She drives a car held together with duct tape. She lives in a studio with a stranger. And she\u2019s dating a guy with a forty-million-dollar company.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe doesn\u2019t take my money, Brett.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYet,\u201d he said. \u201cShe doesn\u2019t take it yet. That\u2019s the long game, man. She\u2019s playing the long game. Two years of not taking anything, you marry her, and then she takes half.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t know her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know girls like her,\u201d Brett said. \u201cA girl struggling that much has every reason in the world to stay with a guy like you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The other guys agreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tyler. Marcus. Even Jake, who\u2019d met Skyla three times and said she was the most genuine person he\u2019d ever met.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s great, Wes,\u201d Jake said. \u201cSeriously. But Brett\u2019s got a point. How do you know? How do you really know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Even my parents questioned her intentions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I brought Skyla home to Houston for Thanksgiving last year. To River Oaks. To the house I grew up in. Eleven thousand square feet. A circular driveway with a fountain. A dining room that seats twenty-four.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla wore a dress she\u2019d bought at Goodwill for eleven dollars. She ironed it twice. She brought a pie. Pumpkin. From scratch. She\u2019d made it at six in the morning after her shift at the Waffle House.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother looked at the pie the way you\u2019d look at something a dog dragged in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow sweet,\u201d she said. \u201cWe have a pastry chef. But how sweet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She set it on the kitchen counter. Nobody ate it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At dinner, my mother asked Skyla about her family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy mom died when I was sixteen,\u201d Skyla said. \u201cCancer. My dad\u2019s not in the picture.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh,\u201d my mother said. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry. And where did you grow up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOdessa.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOdessa,\u201d my mother repeated. Like it was a disease. \u201cAnd what does your aunt do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe cleans houses.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother set down her fork.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After dinner, in the kitchen, while Skyla was in the bathroom, my mother pulled me aside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJust be careful, Wesley,\u201d she said. Quietly. \u201cSome people are very good at pretending they love you until they get what they want.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom, she won\u2019t even let me pay for dinner.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what makes her smart,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father was even more direct.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He found me on the back patio later that night. With a glass of scotch. He handed me one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe knows what your family has,\u201d he said. \u201cShe knows what you have. Girls like that don\u2019t fall in love with men like you by accident.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDad\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not saying she\u2019s a bad girl,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m saying be smart. Don\u2019t let yourself be used. Protect what you\u2019ve built.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He put his hand on my shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGet a prenup,\u201d he said. \u201cAt the very least. And find out who she really is before you put a ring on her finger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The more I heard it, the more I started wondering.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not all the time. Not even most of the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But at night. When I couldn\u2019t sleep. When I\u2019d lie in my bed in my condo with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view of Lady Bird Lake. And Skyla would be at the Waffle House. Or the nursing home. Or asleep in her studio apartment, sharing a bed with a stranger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I\u2019d think: Why me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why would a girl like that, who worked so hard and wanted so little, love a guy like me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d never had to work for anything. I\u2019d never lived on ramen. I\u2019d never taken the bus in the rain because my alternator was broken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What did she see in me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the only answer my brain could come up with was the one Brett kept giving me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She sees forty-one million dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Did Skyla love me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Or my money?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I came up with a stupid test.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The stupidest thing I\u2019ve ever done in my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was Brett\u2019s idea. Sort of. He said it as a joke. At a bar in Dallas in February.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou want to know if she loves you?\u201d he said. \u201cTell her you\u2019re broke. Tell her you lost it all. Tell her you\u2019re sick and you can\u2019t pay for it. See how fast she runs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everybody laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought about it for three weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told Skyla I\u2019d been diagnosed with a serious illness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a Sunday night in March. At my condo. She\u2019d just gotten off a twelve-hour shift at Heritage Oaks. She was still in her scrubs. Purple ones. With a little cartoon of a cat on the pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was sitting on my couch eating leftover Thai food out of the container.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat down next to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSky,\u201d I said. \u201cI need to tell you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at my face. She set the Thai food down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d rehearsed it. For days. I\u2019d looked it up online. I wanted it to sound real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI went to the doctor,\u201d I said. \u201cTwo weeks ago. I\u2019ve been tired. You know I\u2019ve been tired.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That part was true. I had been tired. I\u2019d been working eighty-hour weeks on a product launch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey ran blood work,\u201d I said. \u201cSome of the numbers came back wrong. So they did more tests. A bone marrow biopsy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla went very still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey think it\u2019s something called myelodysplastic syndrome,\u201d I said. \u201cMDS. It\u2019s a blood disorder. My bone marrow isn\u2019t making blood cells right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I watched her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She knew what it was. Of course she knew. She was a nursing student. She\u2019d studied hematology last semester.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The color drained out of her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the treatment?\u201d she said. Her voice was very calm. Very careful. The voice she used at the nursing home with patients who were scared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA stem cell transplant,\u201d I said. \u201cEventually. If I can find a donor. And before that, chemo. A special kind. Not covered by insurance. An experimental protocol at MD Anderson.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hesitated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was the part I\u2019d rehearsed most.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThree hundred and forty thousand dollars,\u201d I said. \u201cFor the first year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla stared at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour insurance won\u2019t cover it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot the experimental part,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd the transplant has a huge deductible. And there\u2019s the time off work. The company\u2019s in a bad spot. We\u2019re burning cash. I can\u2019t take money out of it right now without the board finding out I\u2019m sick, and if they find out, they\u2019ll push me out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat about your parents?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was the hardest lie. I\u2019d practiced it in the mirror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy dad\u2019s money is all tied up,\u201d I said. \u201cIn real estate deals. Illiquid. He told me he can\u2019t free any of it up for at least a year. Maybe two. And my mom\u2019s money\u2019s in a trust she can\u2019t touch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have it, Sky,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t know what to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla went pale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t say anything for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she reached over and took my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her hand was ice cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow much do you need?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I named an amount I knew was impossible for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEven just to start,\u201d I said. \u201cThe first round. They need a deposit. Before they\u2019ll schedule anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTwenty thousand,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twenty thousand dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla made eleven dollars an hour at the Waffle House. Plus tips. Fifteen an hour at the nursing home. She had two thousand dollars in savings. I knew because she\u2019d told me. It was her emergency fund. She\u2019d been saving it for two years. Twenty dollars at a time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twenty thousand dollars was more money than she\u2019d ever seen in her life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I watched her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I waited for her to flinch. To let go of my hand. To say something like Oh, Wes, I\u2019m so sorry, I wish I could help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She just held my hand tighter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the next two days, she kept calling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Monday morning. Before her pharmacology class.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWes, I looked up MDS trials. There\u2019s one at MD Anderson that\u2019s free. Fully funded. The NIH is paying for it. Did your doctor tell you about that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t think I qualify,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Monday afternoon. Between classes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI called the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. They have a co-pay assistance program. Up to fifteen thousand a year. I\u2019m emailing you the application.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThanks, Sky.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Monday night. On her break at the Waffle House.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s a hospital financial counselor at MD Anderson. Her name\u2019s Patricia. I called her. She said they have payment plans. No interest. Ten years. She wants to talk to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll call her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t call her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tuesday morning. Seven a.m. Before her clinical rotation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWes. I\u2019m looking at personal loans. I don\u2019t have good credit. But my aunt might co-sign. And there\u2019s a credit union in Odessa that knows me. Maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSky, you can\u2019t take out a loan for me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause it\u2019s twenty thousand dollars. You\u2019d be paying it back for ten years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWes,\u201d she said. \u201cSo? What\u2019s ten years?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She called eleven times in two days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Doctors. Loans. Payment plans. Clinical trials. Foundations. GoFundMe. Patient assistance programs. Anything that might help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stayed up until four in the morning on Monday night researching. She texted me links at 2:14 a.m. At 3:07 a.m. At 3:51 a.m.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Tuesday, she skipped her pathophysiology lecture. The first class she\u2019d ever skipped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know that until later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have stopped it then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have stopped it on Monday morning. When she called before her pharmacology class.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have said, Sky, I\u2019m sorry. I lied. I\u2019m not sick. I was testing you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because some sick part of me wanted to see what she\u2019d do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brett had said she\u2019d run.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted to see if she\u2019d run.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, on Tuesday night, at 11:42, I got a text.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m leaving for five days. Don\u2019t call me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it four times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m leaving for five days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Don\u2019t call me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It rang once. Twice. Three times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Voicemail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hey, it\u2019s Skyla. Leave a message. Unless you\u2019re a debt collector. Then don\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Voicemail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I texted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sky? Where are you going? What do you mean, five days?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Delivered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not read.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called again at midnight. At one a.m. At two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For five days, nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Wednesday, I drove to her apartment on East Oltorf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her roommate, a girl named Destiny who worked the day shift at a dialysis center, opened the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe left last night,\u201d Destiny said. \u201cPacked a bag. Took her car. Said she\u2019d be back Sunday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid she say where she was going?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Destiny shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe was crying,\u201d she said. \u201cShe wouldn\u2019t tell me why.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Thursday, I called the Waffle House.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSkyla Danvers?\u201d the manager said. \u201cShe called in. Said she had a family emergency. Asked for five days off. First time in two years she ever asked for time off.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Friday, I called Heritage Oaks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Same thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe said it was a family emergency,\u201d the charge nurse said. \u201cShe sounded terrible.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Saturday, I called her phone again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This time, it didn\u2019t even ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A recorded message.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The number you have dialed is no longer in service.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No longer in service.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d shut off her phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By then, I was sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sure my friends and my family had been right about her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d run.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The second I told her I was sick and broke. The second she found out I couldn\u2019t pay for her future. She\u2019d packed a bag and disappeared and shut off her phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two years of refusing my money. Two years of I need to do this myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the second the money was gone, so was she.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her disappearance had confirmed every doubt in my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called Brett on Saturday night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe ran,\u201d I said. \u201cYou were right. I told her I was sick and couldn\u2019t pay for treatment, and she texted I\u2019m leaving for five days, don\u2019t call me, and then she shut off her phone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brett was quiet for a second.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTold you, man,\u201d he said. \u201cI told you. Every single time. Girls like that, the second the money\u2019s gone, they\u2019re gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou dodged a bullet, Wes,\u201d Brett said. \u201cSeriously. Imagine if you\u2019d married her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hung up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called my mother on Sunday morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m so sorry, sweetheart,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I\u2019m not surprised. I could tell. At Thanksgiving. A mother can tell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll find someone,\u201d she said. \u201cSomeone from a better background. Someone who doesn\u2019t need anything from you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat in my condo on Sunday afternoon and looked out at Lady Bird Lake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have felt relieved. Vindicated. Smart. Like I\u2019d protected myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt sick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because every few minutes, I\u2019d remember her voice on the phone at seven in the morning on Tuesday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Wes. So? What\u2019s ten years?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, on the fifth evening, the front door opened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sunday. Six-fifty p.m.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was sitting at the kitchen table. With a glass of bourbon I hadn\u2019t touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I heard the key in the lock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla had a key. I\u2019d given it to her a year ago. She\u2019d only used it twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The door opened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla walked in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked exhausted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
More exhausted than I\u2019d ever seen anybody look. And I\u2019d seen her come off a Waffle House night shift and go straight to a twelve-hour clinical rotation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Greasy. Like she hadn\u2019t washed it in days. She was wearing the same gray hoodie she\u2019d been wearing on Monday. Stained now. Wrinkled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were dark circles under her eyes. Her lips were cracked. She\u2019d lost weight. Her cheeks were hollow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her hands were red and raw. Like she\u2019d been scrubbing something. Over and over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had a backpack on one shoulder. Her old JanSport. The one with the broken zipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And she was holding a manila envelope. And a plastic shopping bag from Dollar General.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood up immediately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere have you been?\u201d I said. My voice was hard. Angry. \u201cFive days, Skyla. Five days. You shut off your phone. Destiny didn\u2019t know where you were. Your job didn\u2019t know where you were. I didn\u2019t know where you were.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She walked across the kitchen. Slowly. Like every step hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She set the envelope down on the table in front of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the Dollar General bag next to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she stepped back. She stood in the doorway. She wrapped her arms around herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOpen it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first thing was a cashier\u2019s check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From the First Basin Credit Union. Odessa, Texas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Pay to the order of: MD Anderson Cancer Center.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Memo: Patient deposit \u2014 Wesley Calloway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Amount: Nineteen thousand, six hundred and twelve dollars and 00\/100.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
$19,612.00.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nineteen thousand six hundred and twelve dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three hundred and eighty-eight dollars short of twenty thousand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI couldn\u2019t get the last three eighty-eight,\u201d Skyla said quietly from the doorway. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I tried. I\u2019ll have it by Friday. From my tips.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the next thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A vehicle title. Texas. Yellow paper. Folded in half.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
2006 Honda Civic. Silver. VIN ending in 4417.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the back, under Signature of Seller, in her neat handwriting: Skyla M. Danvers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And under Purchaser: Odessa Auto Mart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sale price: $3,100.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou sold your car,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRudy said it was worth maybe two grand in Austin,\u201d Skyla said. \u201cMy uncle has a friend in Odessa who runs a used car lot. He gave me thirty-one hundred. He said it was too much. He did it for my mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow did you get back?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nodded at the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the Greyhound bus ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
ODESSA, TX to AUSTIN, TX. One way. $67.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEleven hours,\u201d she said. \u201cThree transfers. San Angelo and Brady.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the next thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The printout from the University of Texas. With the red seal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
OFFICE OF THE REGISTRAR.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Withdrawal Confirmation \u2014 Spring Semester.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Student: Skyla M. Danvers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Program: Bachelor of Science in Nursing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tuition refund issued: $6,840.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Note: Withdrawal from the nursing cohort after the census date may require reapplication for reinstatement. Readmission to the clinical sequence is not guaranteed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou withdrew,\u201d I said. \u201cFrom nursing school.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI got sixty percent of my tuition back,\u201d Skyla said. \u201cIf I\u2019d waited another week, I\u2019d have gotten nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSky. You were seven weeks from finishing your junior year. You had your clinical placement at Dell Seton. You\u2019d waited a year for that spot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey might not let you back in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the withdrawal down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely pick up the next thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The pawn ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Permian Pawn & Jewelry. 2408 E. 8th St., Odessa, TX.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Item: 1 \u2014 Ladies\u2019 ring, 14K yellow gold, 0.6 ct. solitaire diamond. Engraved inside band: \u201cR.D. \u2014 Love always, J.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Loan amount: $3,800.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Due date: 90 days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knew that ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d seen it every single day for two years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a thin gold chain around Skyla\u2019s neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her mother\u2019s engagement ring. From her father. Before he left. Rosalind Danvers. Love always, J.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her mother wore it every day of her life. Even after he left. Even in the hospital in Odessa. Even at the end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla took it off her mother\u2019s finger the night she died. She put it on the chain. She never took it off. Not to shower. Not to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told me once that it was the only thing she had left that her mother touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSkyla,\u201d I whispered. \u201cYour mom\u2019s ring.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a loan,\u201d she said. \u201cNot a sale. I have ninety days to get it back. I\u2019ll get it back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the binder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was heavy. A hundred and forty pages, maybe. Maybe more. Handwritten. All of it. In her neat, small, slanted handwriting. With color-coded tabs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
MDS TREATMENT OPTIONS.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
CLINICAL TRIALS \u2014 TX.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE PROGRAMS.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
STEM CELL DONOR REGISTRY \u2014 HOW TO ORGANIZE A DRIVE.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
PAYMENT PLANS \u2014 MD ANDERSON.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
QUESTIONS FOR YOUR HEMATOLOGIST.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
NUTRITION DURING CHEMO.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
WHAT TO EXPECT \u2014 WEEK BY WEEK.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I flipped through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Pages and pages. Notes from phone calls. Names. Phone numbers. Patricia, MD Anderson financial counselor, ext. 4412. Very nice. Said call back Thursday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Charts. Lists. A schedule. A meal plan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the last page, there was a note. Different from the rest. Shakier. Like she\u2019d written it on the bus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Things I can do:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Drive him to every appointment (need to buy a new car first, ugh)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Learn to flush his port<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Stay with him after chemo. Nights. Can switch to day shifts at Heritage Oaks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Organize donor drive at UT. The nursing students will help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Get tested myself. 25% chance? No \u2014 not related. Try anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Don\u2019t let him see me cry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I closed the binder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t see anymore. I couldn\u2019t see anything. My eyes were full.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was one more thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Dollar General bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I untied the knot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside, wrapped in a paper towel, was a cell phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An old iPhone. Cracked screen. A purple case with a cartoon cat on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla\u2019s phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Turned off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The SIM card tray was open. Empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou sold your phone too,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI couldn\u2019t,\u201d Skyla said. \u201cNobody wants a phone that old. They offered me fifteen dollars.\u201d She almost laughed. \u201cSo I just turned off my service. It\u2019s forty-five dollars a month. That\u2019s forty-five dollars I could give you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s why you didn\u2019t answer,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s why I said don\u2019t call me,\u201d Skyla said. \u201cI knew you would. I knew if I heard your voice, you\u2019d try to talk me out of it. You\u2019d say no. You\u2019d tell me not to sell the car or touch the ring or drop out of school.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd I wasn\u2019t going to let you stop me,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the phone down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at everything spread out across my kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The check. The title. The withdrawal. The pawn ticket. The bus ticket. The binder. The phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everything she had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her car. Her savings. Her semester. Her mother\u2019s ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her whole life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On my kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For a disease I didn\u2019t have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s a note,\u201d Skyla said quietly. \u201cIn the binder. In the front pocket.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened the binder again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was a piece of paper tucked into the front pocket. Folded in half. Notebook paper. With the ragged edges still on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I unfolded it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Wes,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m sorry I left. I\u2019m sorry I didn\u2019t call. I know you\u2019re probably angry. I know you\u2019re probably scared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Here\u2019s what I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I drove to Odessa on Tuesday night. I got there at six a.m. I went to my aunt\u2019s house and slept for two hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Wednesday, I sold the car. Uncle Ray\u2019s friend Eddie at the car lot. He gave me $3,100. I cried in his office. He gave me a Coke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thursday, I went to the pawn shop. I sat in the parking lot for an hour before I could go in. I\u2019m sorry, Mom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thursday afternoon, I called UT and withdrew. I got $6,840 back. The lady on the phone asked if I was sure. I said yes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Friday, I went to the credit union. I closed my savings account. $2,317. I\u2019ve been saving that since I was eighteen. Twenty dollars at a time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I went to the Golden Corral on 42nd Street. My old job. When I was sixteen. Before Mom died. I asked if they needed somebody for the weekend. They said yes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Doubles. Sixteen hours a day. I washed dishes. The tips were $1,555.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had my uncle drive me to the credit union this morning. I got a cashier\u2019s check. It\u2019s made out to MD Anderson. So you can\u2019t spend it on anything else. (Sorry. I know you wouldn\u2019t. I just wanted to be sure.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s $19,612. I\u2019m $388 short. I\u2019ll get it. I promise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I got on the bus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know it\u2019s not enough. I know it\u2019s not even close to $340,000. But it\u2019s the deposit. It\u2019s the first step. It means they can start.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I\u2019ll figure out the rest. I\u2019ll work extra shifts. I\u2019ll take out loans. I\u2019ll do the donor drive. I\u2019ll call every foundation in Texas. We\u2019ll figure it out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You\u2019re not going to die because you can\u2019t pay for it, Wes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not while I\u2019m alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I love you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Sky<\/p>\n\n\n\n
P.S. I know you\u2019re going to try to give this back. Don\u2019t. It\u2019s not a gift. It\u2019s not charity. It\u2019s what you do when you love someone. My mom taught me that. You show up. You give what you have. You don\u2019t ask what it costs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the note down on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I cried like a baby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t mean I teared up. I don\u2019t mean my eyes got wet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I mean I put my face in my hands at my kitchen table in my condo with the floor-to-ceiling windows and I sobbed. Loud. Ugly. My whole body shaking. Like a child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stood in the doorway with her arms wrapped around herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWes,\u201d she said. \u201cHey. It\u2019s okay. It\u2019s going to be okay. We\u2019ll figure it out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She took a step toward me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d I said. Through my hands. \u201cPlease. Don\u2019t come closer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I lowered my hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At her greasy ponytail. Her stained hoodie. Her cracked lips. Her red, raw hands from washing dishes for forty-eight hours at a Golden Corral in Odessa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the empty space on her neck where her mother\u2019s ring used to hang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause I\u2019m not sick, Sky,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The kitchen was dead silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She just looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d she said finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not sick,\u201d I said again. My voice was breaking. \u201cI don\u2019t have MDS. I don\u2019t need a stem cell transplant. I don\u2019t need three hundred and forty thousand dollars. I\u2019ve never had a bone marrow biopsy in my life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stared at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI lied,\u201d I said. \u201cI made it up. All of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t say anything for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, very quietly:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t look at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the table. At the cashier\u2019s check. At the pawn ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause I wanted to know,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKnow what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you loved me,\u201d I said. \u201cOr my money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019ve replayed that moment in my head a thousand times since.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019ve replayed the silence afterward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It went on for so long I thought she\u2019d stopped breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I looked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla was standing in the doorway of my kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wasn\u2019t crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wasn\u2019t yelling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was just standing there. Very still. With her raw red hands hanging at her sides.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Looking at me like she\u2019d never seen me before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou tested me,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSky\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou told me you were dying,\u201d she said slowly. Like she was working it out. Like she was reading it off a chart. \u201cYou told me you were dying and you couldn\u2019t afford treatment. To see what I\u2019d do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry. I\u2019m so sorry. I\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhose idea was it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBrett\u2019s,\u201d she said. It wasn\u2019t a question. \u201cBrett and your mom and your dad. Girls like that. That\u2019s what they say, isn\u2019t it? Girls like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI sold my car,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her voice was so calm. That was the worst part. So calm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI sold my car. I pawned my mother\u2019s ring. I dropped out of nursing school. I closed the savings account I\u2019ve been building since I was eighteen. I washed dishes at a Golden Corral for forty-eight hours straight. I rode a Greyhound bus for eleven hours with three transfers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She took a breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI sat in a pawn shop parking lot in Odessa for an hour and talked to my dead mother,\u201d she said, \u201cand asked her to forgive me for selling the only thing she left me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor a test,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll fix it,\u201d I said. \u201cAll of it. I\u2019ll buy the ring back. Today. I\u2019ll fly to Odessa tonight. I\u2019ll buy you a car. A new one. I\u2019ll call UT. I\u2019ll get you reinstated. I\u2019ll pay for the rest of your tuition. I\u2019ll\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cStop,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou still don\u2019t get it,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cDo you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGet what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She walked to the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She picked up her mother\u2019s pawn ticket. She folded it. She put it in the pocket of her hoodie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She picked up the car title. The withdrawal. The bus ticket. The binder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She put them in her backpack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She left the cashier\u2019s check on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She picked up her phone. Her old iPhone with the cracked screen and the cartoon cat. She put it in her pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou wanted to know if I loved you or your money,\u201d she said. \u201cOkay. Here\u2019s your answer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She pointed at the check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI gave you everything I had,\u201d she said. \u201cEverything. Without asking. Without thinking twice. Because I thought you were dying. Because I loved you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her voice finally cracked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s your answer, Wes. That\u2019s the whole answer. You passed your little test. Congratulations.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSky\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut you know what I found out?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI found out you don\u2019t know me,\u201d she said. \u201cTwo years. Two years, and you don\u2019t know me at all. You thought I might be a gold digger. Me. The girl who took the bus in the rain for three weeks so she wouldn\u2019t have to ask you for three hundred dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was crying now. Silently. Tears running down her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know everything about you,\u201d she said. \u201cI know you hate cilantro. I know you\u2019re scared of hospitals because your grandfather died in one when you were nine. I know you hum Fleetwood Mac when you\u2019re nervous. I know you call your mom every Sunday even though she makes you feel small.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd you don\u2019t even know if I\u2019m a good person,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She walked to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSky, please,\u201d I said. \u201cPlease don\u2019t go. Let me fix this. Let me pay you back. Let me\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stopped. With her hand on the doorknob.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t turn around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t pay me back,\u201d she said. \u201cThat\u2019s the thing. That\u2019s the thing you\u2019ll never understand. Not everything has a price.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She opened the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKeep the check,\u201d she said. \u201cGive it to somebody who\u2019s actually dying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The door closed behind her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat at my kitchen table alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With a cashier\u2019s check for nineteen thousand six hundred and twelve dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Made out to MD Anderson Cancer Center.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Memo: Patient deposit \u2014 Wesley Calloway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know how long I sat there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sun went down over Lady Bird Lake. The bats came out from under the Congress Avenue Bridge. Millions of them. Pouring out into the purple sky like smoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t see any of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At eleven o\u2019clock, my phone buzzed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brett.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So? Did the gold digger ever show back up? LOL<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I called him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He answered on the first ring. \u201cHey, man\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe sold her car,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe sold her car, Brett. She pawned her dead mother\u2019s engagement ring. She dropped out of nursing school. She closed her savings account. She washed dishes for forty-eight hours straight at a Golden Corral in Odessa. And she rode a Greyhound bus for eleven hours to bring me a cashier\u2019s check for nineteen thousand six hundred dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brett didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMade out to MD Anderson,\u201d I said. \u201cSo I couldn\u2019t spend it on anything else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWes,\u201d Brett said slowly. \u201cI\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou were wrong,\u201d I said. \u201cYou were so wrong. My parents were wrong. I was wrong. We were all wrong about her. And I just lost the only person who ever loved me for nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brett was quiet for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry, man,\u201d he said finally. \u201cI didn\u2019t think\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cYou didn\u2019t. Neither did I.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hung up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I blocked his number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I drove to Houston the next morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To River Oaks. To the house with the fountain in the circular driveway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother was in the sunroom having coffee. My father was in his study.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I asked them both to come into the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the cashier\u2019s check on the marble island.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And the photocopies I\u2019d made. Of everything. The car title. The withdrawal. The pawn ticket. The Greyhound ticket. The note.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d made copies before she took them. I don\u2019t know why. Something told me to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother picked up the check. She read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father picked up the pawn ticket. He read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither of them said anything for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe thought I was dying,\u201d I said. \u201cBecause I told her I was. Because you told me she was after my money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother set down the check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWesley,\u201d she said. \u201cWe were only trying to protect you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFrom what?\u201d I said. \u201cFrom a girl who\u2019d sell everything she owns to save my life?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe pawned her mother\u2019s ring, Mom. Her dead mother\u2019s engagement ring. The only thing she has left. She sat in a pawn shop parking lot for an hour talking to her mother\u2019s ghost.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother put her hand over her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou said at Thanksgiving,\u201d I said, \u201csome people are very good at pretending they love you until they get what they want.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWas that about Skyla?\u201d I said. \u201cOr was that about somebody else?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother\u2019s face changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something passed between them. Something I\u2019d never seen before. Something old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother sat down at the kitchen island.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at the check for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour grandmother said that to me,\u201d she said finally. Very quietly. \u201cYour father\u2019s mother. In 1991. The night before our wedding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI grew up in Pasadena,\u201d my mother said. \u201cNot River Oaks. Pasadena, Texas. By the refineries. My father worked at the Shell plant. My mother cleaned offices downtown at night.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t know that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNobody knows that,\u201d my mother said. \u201cYour father\u2019s family made sure nobody knew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at my father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour grandmother had me followed,\u201d she said. \u201cDid you know that, Richard? Before we got engaged. She hired a private investigator. To find out who I really was. To find out if I was a gold digger.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father looked at the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI knew,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe made me sign a prenup that left me nothing,\u201d my mother said. \u201cNothing. If we\u2019d divorced in the first twenty years, I\u2019d have walked away with the clothes on my back. She told me the night before the wedding. Some people are very good at pretending they love you until they get what they want.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother\u2019s voice broke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI spent thirty-five years proving her wrong,\u201d she said. \u201cThirty-five years. Charity boards. Museum galas. Learning which fork to use. Hiding Pasadena.\u201d She looked at the pawn ticket. \u201cAnd the first time my son brings home a girl from Odessa, I said the exact same thing to her that your grandmother said to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father sat down next to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He put his hand on hers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI should\u2019ve stopped my mother,\u201d he said. \u201cIn 1991. I should\u2019ve told her to go to hell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou didn\u2019t,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t,\u201d my father said. \u201cAnd then I did the same thing to our son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They sat there at the kitchen island. My mother and my father. Holding hands. Looking at a cashier\u2019s check for nineteen thousand dollars from a girl they\u2019d decided was a gold digger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do we do?\u201d my mother whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d I said. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing you can do. There\u2019s nothing I can do. I can\u2019t buy this back. She told me that. Not everything has a price.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t try to call Skyla.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted to. Every hour. Every minute.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But she\u2019d turned her phone back on. I knew because I\u2019d checked. And she hadn\u2019t called me. And I\u2019d lost the right to call her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I did what she told me to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Give it to somebody who\u2019s actually dying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t cash her check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t. It was made out to MD Anderson. I couldn\u2019t cash it. And I wouldn\u2019t have even if I could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I drove to MD Anderson in Houston on Tuesday morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I went to the financial assistance office. On the ninth floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I asked for Patricia. Extension 4412.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was in her sixties. Gray curls. Reading glasses on a beaded chain. A photo of her grandkids on her desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow can I help you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the check on her desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She read it. Memo: Patient deposit \u2014 Wesley Calloway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked up at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you Wesley Calloway?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA young woman called me last week,\u201d Patricia said slowly. \u201cAbout you. Skyla. She called four times. She was so worried. She asked about every program we have. She said she\u2019d do anything.\u201d Patricia looked at the check. \u201cShe said she\u2019d find the money somehow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe did,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you starting treatment?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m not sick. I was never sick. I lied to her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Patricia took off her reading glasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t have to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI want to do something,\u201d I said. \u201cWith this. And with more. A lot more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told her what I wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It took two months to set up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A fund. At MD Anderson. Administered by Patricia\u2019s office. For patients with blood cancers who can\u2019t afford treatment. MDS. Leukemia. Lymphoma. For the deposits. The co-pays. The things insurance won\u2019t cover.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put in two million dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From my own money. Not my parents\u2019. Not the company\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I put in Skyla\u2019s check. Her nineteen thousand six hundred and twelve dollars. Uncashed. Framed. On the wall in Patricia\u2019s office.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The fund is called the Rosalind Danvers Fund.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After Skyla\u2019s mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t tell Skyla.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That wasn\u2019t the point.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t a gift. It wasn\u2019t a way to buy her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told me to give it to somebody who was actually dying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first patient was a man named Hector Villarreal. Fifty-four. A welder from Pasadena, Texas. Acute myeloid leukemia. His insurance denied his transplant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Rosalind Danvers Fund paid his deposit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019s in remission now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother sends him a card every month.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did something else too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something I\u2019d never done in my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I got a job.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not a real job. I still run Ledgerline. But four nights a week, from ten p.m. to four a.m., I volunteered at Dell Seton Medical Center. The hospital where Skyla was supposed to do her clinical rotation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Transport. Moving patients from their rooms to radiology and back. Pushing wheelchairs. Pushing gurneys. Fetching warm blankets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody there knew who I was. My name tag just said WES \u2014 VOLUNTEER.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pushed a seventy-year-old woman with congestive heart failure to an echocardiogram at two in the morning. She held my hand the whole way. She said I reminded her of her grandson.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pushed a nine-year-old boy with leukemia to an MRI at three a.m. He was scared of the tunnel. I sat with him and hummed Fleetwood Mac until he fell asleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pushed a man who\u2019d just been told his cancer was terminal back to his room. He didn\u2019t say anything. He just looked out the window. I sat with him for an hour after my shift ended. Neither of us said anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I learned a lot about dying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Real dying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not the kind I\u2019d made up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I learned that the people who sit by the bed at three in the morning aren\u2019t the rich ones. They\u2019re the daughters who work double shifts. The sons who drive in from Odessa. The wives who sleep in plastic chairs for weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They\u2019re the people who show up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Who give what they have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Who don\u2019t ask what it costs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I drove to Odessa in May.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To Permian Pawn & Jewelry on East 8th Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I asked about a ring. Fourteen-karat yellow gold. A point-six-carat diamond. Engraved inside the band. R.D. \u2014 Love always, J.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man behind the counter looked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAlready redeemed,\u201d he said. \u201cTwo weeks ago. The young lady came back and paid off the loan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCash,\u201d he said. \u201cSmall bills. Mostly ones and fives. Looked like tips.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course she did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d said she would.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d said, I have ninety days. I\u2019ll get it back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t believe her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She went back to work at the Waffle House. And Heritage Oaks. And she picked up a third job. Weekends. Washing dishes at a Golden Corral on Ben White Boulevard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Destiny told me. Her roommate. I ran into her at the H-E-B on Oltorf in April. She looked at me like I was something on the bottom of her shoe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe worked eighty-five hours a week for two months,\u201d Destiny said. \u201cTo get that ring back. She wouldn\u2019t take a day off. She fell asleep on the bus twice and missed her stop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s applying to get back into nursing school,\u201d Destiny said. \u201cFor the fall. She has to write an essay. About why she withdrew.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe doesn\u2019t know what to say,\u201d she said. \u201cShe doesn\u2019t want to tell them the truth. She says it\u2019s too humiliating.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wrote a letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night. To the Dean of the School of Nursing at UT.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The test. The lie. The fake diagnosis. Skyla selling her car and pawning her mother\u2019s ring and withdrawing from school. The Greyhound bus. The cashier\u2019s check.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told them it was my fault. Entirely. That she\u2019d withdrawn because a man she loved told her he was dying and she believed him. That she was the most dedicated, selfless, hard-working person I\u2019d ever met. That she\u2019d given up her education to try to save a life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That she should never have had to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I signed it. With my real name. And my company. And my phone number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I mailed it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t tell Skyla.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was readmitted in July.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To the fall cohort. With her clinical placement at Dell Seton restored.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I found out from Destiny. At the H-E-B again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe dean called her,\u201d Destiny said. \u201cPersonally. She said she\u2019d received a letter. From you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSkyla cried for an hour,\u201d Destiny said. \u201cShe said she couldn\u2019t figure out if she was angry or grateful.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhich one was it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Destiny looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBoth,\u201d she said. \u201cMostly angry. I think.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t see Skyla for eleven months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I want to tell you I didn\u2019t try. That I respected her space. That I was patient.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The truth is, I drove past the Waffle House on I-35 at two in the morning more times than I want to admit. I sat in the parking lot. I watched her through the window. With her textbook open next to the coffee pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I never went in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t deserve to sit at her counter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, in February, an envelope came.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To my office. On the fourteenth floor. Hand-addressed. No return address.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside was a card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A cheap one. From a drugstore. With a picture of a nurse\u2019s cap on the front.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You are cordially invited to the Pinning Ceremony of the University of Texas School of Nursing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Saturday, May 16.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bass Concert Hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the inside, in Skyla\u2019s neat handwriting:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Patricia from MD Anderson called me in January. She told me about the fund. And Hector. And the check on her wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The nurses at Dell Seton told me about a volunteer named Wes who works nights in transport and hums Fleetwood Mac to scared kids.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The dean showed me your letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m still angry. I might always be a little angry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I\u2019d like you to be there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 S.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
P.S. You pay for your own ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I went.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course I went.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I bought a ticket. Twenty dollars. I paid for it myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat in the back row of Bass Concert Hall. In the very last seat. Next to an old man in a cowboy hat whose granddaughter was graduating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I watched them call the names.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One by one. Young women and men in white uniforms. Walking across the stage. Having the little gold pin attached to their collar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSkyla Rosalind Danvers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She walked across the stage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In her white uniform. Her dark hair pulled back. No pencil in it this time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And around her neck, on a thin gold chain, catching the stage lights, was a ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fourteen-karat yellow gold. A point-six-carat diamond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
R.D. \u2014 Love always, J.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The dean pinned her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla turned to the audience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked out at the crowd. At the families. At the cameras.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And her eyes went to the back row.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All the way to the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To the very last seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She saw me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But she nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Afterward, outside Bass Concert Hall, on the steps, in the May heat, I waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know if she\u2019d come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She came.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She walked down the steps in her white uniform. Her aunt from Odessa was with her. A small, tired-looking woman with Skyla\u2019s eyes. And Destiny. And a group of nursing students.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told them to go ahead. She\u2019d catch up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stopped in front of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHi,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou came.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou invited me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI almost didn\u2019t,\u201d she said. \u201cI wrote that card six times.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m glad you sent the seventh.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She almost smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We stood there on the steps for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCongratulations,\u201d I said. \u201cYou did it. You\u2019re a nurse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot yet,\u201d she said. \u201cI have to pass the boards. July.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll pass.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cProbably,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou look different,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been working nights.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI heard,\u201d she said. \u201cTransport. At Dell Seton.\u201d She paused. \u201cGloria in radiology says you\u2019re the only volunteer who stays after your shift to sit with the scared ones.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI learned that from you,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked down at the ring on her chain. She touched it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI got it back,\u201d she said. \u201cIn April. Before the ninety days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know. I went to Odessa. In May. To buy it back for you. The guy said you\u2019d already redeemed it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou went to Odessa?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI wanted to fix it,\u201d I said. \u201cI wanted to fix everything. I thought if I could just buy back the ring and buy you a car and pay your tuition\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou thought you could buy it back,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was quiet for a moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd now?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNow I know I can\u2019t,\u201d I said. \u201cSome things don\u2019t have a price. Somebody told me that once.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m still angry, Wes,\u201d she said. \u201cI want you to know that. What you did. It was cruel. It was the cruelest thing anyone\u2019s ever done to me. And I\u2019ve had a lot of cruel things done to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou made me sit in a pawn shop parking lot and apologize to my dead mother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou made me believe you were dying,\u201d she said. Her voice cracked. \u201cDo you know what that was like? I watched my mother die. Of cancer. In a hospital in Odessa. For eight months. And you made me think I was going to watch you die too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry, Sky. I\u2019ll be sorry for the rest of my life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wiped her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut I read the letter,\u201d she said. \u201cTo the dean. You told them everything. You put your name on it. And your company. Everything. You told them it was your fault.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd the fund,\u201d she said. \u201cAt MD Anderson. With my mom\u2019s name on it. And my check. On Patricia\u2019s wall.\u201d She swallowed. \u201cHector Villarreal sent me a card. He\u2019s a welder from Pasadena. He said my mom saved his life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was crying now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPatricia said you put in two million dollars,\u201d she said. \u201cShe said you didn\u2019t want anybody to know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou told me to give it to somebody who was actually dying,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t mean two million dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cBut you gave everything you had. I figured I should too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Through her tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was the first time I\u2019d heard her laugh in fourteen months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I ask you something?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe nights. At Dell Seton. Transport.\u201d She looked at me. \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause I wanted to know what it\u2019s like,\u201d I said. \u201cTo sit by the bed at three in the morning. To push someone to an MRI who\u2019s scared. To be the person who shows up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd it\u2019s the hardest thing I\u2019ve ever done,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd the best.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s nursing,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not asking you to take me back,\u201d I said. \u201cI want you to know that. I\u2019m not here to ask for anything. I don\u2019t deserve anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI just wanted to see you,\u201d I said. \u201cIn your white uniform. With your mom\u2019s ring. With your pin. I wanted to see you finish what I almost took from you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m getting coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTuesday,\u201d she said. \u201cAt two in the morning. At the Waffle House on I-35. After my shift at Heritage Oaks. Before I study for boards.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFifteen minutes,\u201d she said. \u201cBetween my shift and studying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou pay for your own hash browns,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd you sit at the counter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She almost smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not promising anything, Wes,\u201d she said. \u201cFifteen minutes. That\u2019s it. We\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFifteen minutes,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s more than I deserve.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt is,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She turned to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she stopped. On the steps of Bass Concert Hall. In her white uniform.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She turned back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWes,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou never asked me,\u201d she said. \u201cIn the kitchen. After you told me the truth. You never asked.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAsked what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf I still loved you,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My heart stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t stop,\u201d she said. \u201cThat was the worst part. That\u2019s why I was so angry. I wanted to stop. I tried. For fourteen months.\u201d She touched her mother\u2019s ring. \u201cI couldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She walked away down the steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Toward her aunt and Destiny and the nursing students.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t look back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But at the bottom of the steps, she reached up and touched the gold chain around her neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
R.D. \u2014 Love always, J.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was at the Waffle House on Tuesday at one-forty-five a.m.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fifteen minutes early.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat at the counter. The same stool. Next to the coffee pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The waitress was a woman named Lorraine. Fifty-something. She\u2019d worked with Skyla for three years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re him,\u201d she said. \u201cAren\u2019t you? The rich guy. The one who told Sky he was dying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lorraine looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she poured me a cup of coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe told me she invited you,\u201d Lorraine said. \u201cI told her she was crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe might be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou hurt her,\u201d Lorraine said. \u201cBad. I watched it. She came in here every night for two months working doubles to get that ring back. She fell asleep in the walk-in cooler once. I found her on a crate of eggs at five a.m.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut she\u2019s the best person I know,\u201d Lorraine said. \u201cSo if she thinks you\u2019re worth fifteen minutes, I guess I\u2019ll give you fifteen minutes too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She set down a plate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hash browns. Scattered, smothered, covered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOn the house,\u201d Lorraine said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m supposed to pay for my own,\u201d I said. \u201cShe said.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lorraine almost smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen leave a good tip,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla came in at two-oh-four.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Still in her scrubs. Purple. With a little cartoon cat on the pocket. Her mother\u2019s ring on its gold chain around her neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She saw me at the counter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She walked over. She sat down on the stool next to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She just reached over and took one of my hash browns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFifteen minutes,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFifteen minutes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She took out her boards study guide. Thick. Highlighted in four different colors. She set it on the counter next to the coffee pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cQuiz me,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the first question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPharmacology,\u201d I read. \u201cA patient receiving chemotherapy for myelodysplastic syndrome develops a fever of 101.2. Absolute neutrophil count is 400. What is the nurse\u2019s priority action?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou picked that one on purpose,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t,\u201d I said. \u201cI swear. It was the first one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stared at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Really laughed. With her head back. In the middle of a Waffle House at two in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lorraine looked over from the grill. She shook her head. But she was smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNeutropenic fever,\u201d Skyla said. \u201cMedical emergency. Notify the provider immediately. Draw blood cultures. Start broad-spectrum antibiotics within one hour.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCorrect,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she said. \u201cI studied it for four days straight. In March. Last year. On a Greyhound bus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She took another one of my hash browns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNext question,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We went over the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fifteen minutes. Then twenty. Then forty-five.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At three-ten, she closed the study guide.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have to go,\u201d she said. \u201cI have clinicals at seven.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stood up. She picked up her backpack. The old JanSport with the broken zipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSame time next week?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My throat closed up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cSame time next week.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She started toward the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she stopped. She turned back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She reached into her pocket. She took out a five-dollar bill. Wrinkled. Soft. A tip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She put it on the counter next to my plate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor the hash browns I stole,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I watched her through the window. Walking across the parking lot in her purple scrubs. To a car. Not her old Honda. A different car. A 2011 Toyota Corolla. Silver. With a dent in the back bumper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d bought it herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course she had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I left Lorraine a fifty-dollar tip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at it. She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s too much,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSkyla would say that too,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe would,\u201d Lorraine said. \u201cShe\u2019d make you take it back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s why I\u2019m leaving before she sees it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lorraine laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s been eight months since then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla passed her boards in July. First try.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She works at Dell Seton now. On the oncology floor. Night shift. Twelve hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The floor where I volunteer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I still push wheelchairs four nights a week. From ten to four. Sometimes our shifts overlap. Sometimes I see her in the hallway at two in the morning. In her scrubs. Holding the hand of a patient. Looking them in the eye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Talking to them. Not the chart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like the nurses who took care of her mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We get coffee at the Waffle House every Tuesday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two in the morning. At the counter. I pay for my own hash browns. She steals half of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lorraine pretends to be annoyed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I haven\u2019t asked her to marry me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I haven\u2019t asked her for anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some weeks, she talks about her patients. The ones who make it. The ones who don\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some weeks, I tell her about the people I push to MRIs at three in the morning. The scared ones. The kids.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some weeks, we don\u2019t say much at all. We just sit at the counter. Drinking bad coffee. Next to each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Last Tuesday, she said something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were sitting at the counter. Two-fifteen in the morning. Rain on the windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWes,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou know what I figured out?\u201d she said. \u201cOn the bus. Coming back from Odessa. Eleven hours. Three transfers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI figured out what I\u2019d do if you actually died,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019d be okay,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019d be sad. I\u2019d be wrecked for a long time. But I\u2019d be okay. Because I\u2019d know I did everything. I gave everything I had. I showed up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at her coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what my mom taught me,\u201d she said. \u201cYou don\u2019t measure love by what you get. You measure it by what you\u2019d give.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou spent two years trying to figure out what I wanted from you,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd the answer was nothing. I didn\u2019t want anything. I just wanted to give.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She reached over and took one of my hash browns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re still paying for these,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEvery single one,\u201d she said. \u201cFor the rest of your life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At her purple scrubs. Her tired eyes. Her mother\u2019s ring on its thin gold chain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor the rest of my life,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She almost smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
People ask me sometimes what I learned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From the test. From the five days. From the manila envelope and the Dollar General bag and the cashier\u2019s check made out to MD Anderson.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They expect me to say I learned she loved me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But that\u2019s not the lesson.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lesson is this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had forty-one million dollars and I thought I was rich.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Skyla had two thousand three hundred and seventeen dollars, a 2006 Honda Civic with a check engine light, and her dead mother\u2019s engagement ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And she gave me all of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Without asking what it cost.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I spent two years trying to find out if she was worthy of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It turns out I was asking the wrong question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The whole time, the real question was whether I was worthy of her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m still not sure I am.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But every Tuesday at two in the morning, I sit at a counter in a Waffle House on I-35.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pay for my own hash browns.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I try.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The TestShe didn\u2019t say anything when she walked in. She just set it down on the kitchen table in front of me. A manila envelope. Thick. Bent at the corners. Soft from being carried. And next to it, a cheap plastic shopping bag from a Dollar General. Knotted at the top. Then she stepped back …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":23982,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23981","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23981","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=23981"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23981\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23983,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23981\/revisions\/23983"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/23982"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=23981"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=23981"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=23981"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}