Chapter 3 - The Gift of Time
At 2:00 p.m., Clara woke up in her tiny one-bedroom apartment six blocks from the hospital.
The radiator was knocking loudly against the baseboard, releasing a smell of hot iron and old paint. Her scalp still felt bruised when she brushed her hair back into a bun.
She sat at her kitchen table with a cup of instant tea, staring at the three envelopes laid out before her.
Willowbrook Memory Care – Notice of Impending Transfer.
State Student Loan Administration – Final Demand.
ComEd – Notice of Disconnection.
Total required to survive the month: $4,200.
Total available: $14.32.
She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the cool laminate of the table.
She thought about asking for overtime, but Halpern had already cut her from Friday’s schedule after the incident in the bay. She thought about calling her brother in Indiana, but he had two kids and his own mortgage to worry about.
Her phone rang.
The screen showed an unfamiliar number with a 312 area code.
Clara answered, her voice raspy from sleep. “Hello?”
“Miss Bennett?” A woman’s professional, clipped voice came through the speaker. “This is Eleanor Vance’s office at the Vance Foundation. I’m calling regarding your mother’s account at Willowbrook Memory Care.”
Clara sat up straight, her heart dropping into her stomach. “Did something happen to her? Is she sick?”
“No, Miss Bennett. Your mother is fine,” the woman replied smoothly. “I am calling to inform you that the Vance Foundation has established a medical trust in your mother’s name. The outstanding balance of $12,400 has been cleared in full as of one hour ago.”
Clara stopped breathing.
“What?” she whispered.
“Furthermore,” the woman continued, oblivious to the fact that Clara’s world had just tilted on its axis, “the foundation has underwritten a private care agreement with Willowbrook. Your mother has been moved to the East Wing suite today. All future monthly expenses, including private nursing care and physical therapy, will be covered directly by the foundation in perpetuity.”
Clara’s hand was shaking so hard she almost dropped the phone. “There... there must be a mistake. I didn't apply for a foundation grant. I don't know anyone named Vance.”
“There is no mistake, Miss Bennett. The trust was signed personally by Mr. Roman Vance. A vehicle is waiting downstairs to take you to Willowbrook if you wish to visit her today.”
Clara pulled the curtain back with one finger.
Parked on the narrow street below her building was a long, black Lincoln sedan. Standing near the rear door, holding a pair of clean leather gloves, was the large man from Bed Four—Leo.
Clara hung up the phone, pulled her coat on over her sweater, and ran down the three flights of stairs.
The winter air hit her like a wet towel, but she didn't feel the cold.
Leo saw her coming and opened the rear door of the sedan before she reached the curb.
“Miss Bennett,” he said, inclining his head slightly.
“Where is he?” Clara demanded, her chest heaving as she stood on the slush-covered pavement. “Where is Mr. Vance?”
“He is at his office on Michigan Avenue,” Leo said. “He suggested you visit your mother first.”
“I’m not getting into this car until you tell me why he did this,” Clara said, her soft voice finding a sharp, clear edge that hadn't been there twelve hours ago. “I don't take money from strangers. Especially strangers who show up with bullet wounds at two in the morning.”
Leo looked at her for a moment, his broad face completely impassive.
“You saved his life last night,” Leo said simply. “In our business, a life is worth more than twelve thousand dollars.”
“That was my job,” Clara said. “I’m a nurse.”
“And his job is paying his debts,” Leo replied. He held the door open wider. “He’s waiting for you, Miss Bennett. Please. He doesn't like to be kept waiting, but for you, he made an exception.”
May you like
Clara looked at the leather interior of the car, then at the gray sky above Chicago.
She stepped inside.
