Page 8 of Dirty Husband

Then a woman in a cheap suit enters the room and forces a smile. "Ms. Lee, we should talk."

Worry spreads over Dad's face.

I steel my expression. To convince him everything is fine. It's possible, isn't it?

It's possible we're not totally and completely fucked.

Chapter Four

Jasmine

The head of financial aid pushes her glasses up her nose. "We want to help. We do. But we don't have the budget to do any better than this."

"Of course."

"It's still experimental. The insurance company won't pay. And we're spread thin as it is."

I press my lips together. Call upon my friendly assistant smile.

She means well. She does. She has to deliver bad news all day, every day. Of course, she keeps her feelings out of it.

Dad's prognosis is bad. If we do nothing, he'll be dead by the end of the year.

That's what the current medical science supports.

At this point, we make him comfortable. Or we seek out an experimental treatment option.

Those are new. Unproven. Expensive.

Of course, the insurance company won't cover it.

"Thank you." I use my assistant voice. Even. Calm.I'll get right on that, sir.

"This is the last appeal." She pulls up the paper on her clipboard. Taps the highlighted phrase. Legalese that meanssorry, you're fucked, Trong Lee is going to die. "Dr. Rodriguez will still take you. But he'll need a deposit upfront."

"Okay."

"That's doable?" She sets her clipboard down. Picks up another. A bill. With the total circled in red. "Twenty percent?"

Twenty percent of a lot is still a lot. Five figures. Five figures I don't have.

"I'm sure he'll hold your appointment until Monday," the administrator says. "But he'll need the deposit by the end of the business day."

"I understand."

Her expression softens for a second. She pats my shoulder. "It will be okay, Ms. Lee. You'll get through this." She offers me a soft smile, then she turns, heads back to her office.

I want to believe her.

But I don't see how I'm going to get through this.

* * *

By now,I have a familiar routine. Stay until a nurse asks me to leave. Take the subway to our place in Flushing. Fix an easy dinner. Leftover stir-fry and fresh white rice.

It's sad fixing rice for one. The minimum portion is too much. Like the rice cooker is mocking me.

All alone, again. Will your father ever come home? Will you ever invite anyone else here?