“Where have you been?” I demanded.
She placed the box on the coffee table.
“Please don’t start.”
“You disappeared for five days!”
“I know.”
“I called you!”
“I asked you not to.”
“Do you have any idea what I thought?”
She met my eyes.
“I thought you might be frightened.”
I nearly laughed.
I’d spent five days silently accusing her of abandoning me.
Skyla opened the wooden box.
I recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to her grandmother.
Its lid was scratched, and someone had glued a damaged corner back together.
Inside, Skyla preserved her grandmother’s handwritten recipes.
She’d once described it as the one possession she’d never willingly surrender.
Now the recipe cards had been shifted aside.
Beneath them lay a thick stack of papers.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“Options.”
She settled onto the couch.
“Remember my grandmother’s friend Meryl? The woman who used to volunteer with patients?”
I nodded.
“Meryl went through a serious illness years ago. Grandma helped her get to appointments. I remembered she’d worked with a patient-support group afterward.”
Skyla pulled out a handwritten list.
“I called her. She said she could help me understand what questions we needed to ask.”
“You went to see her?”
“She lives a few hours away. I had a break from classes, and my manager approved the time off.”
She rubbed her tired eyes.
“I stayed with her. She helped me speak to a patient navigator and find organizations that might know about treatment assistance. I kept my phone off because I knew if you called, I’d spend the whole time worrying instead of getting anything done.”
I stared at the documents.
They contained phone numbers, eligibility requirements, and information about insurance appeals.
Nothing guaranteed a solution.
But every page demonstrated how seriously she’d believed my story.
“Meryl said we need the actual diagnosis and treatment estimate before anyone can tell us what’s available,” Skyla continued.
She looked directly at me.
“I know you don’t want to talk about the medical details. But we can’t keep guessing.”
I lifted the first sheet.
Her handwriting covered the margins.
ASK ABOUT SECOND OPINION.
CHECK WHETHER COST INCLUDES FOLLOW-UP CARE.
FIND OUT WHAT INSURANCE HAS DENIED IN WRITING.
“You did all this?” I breathed.
“I couldn’t find the money, Archie.” Her voice wavered. “I tried to think of something I could sell. But even if I sold everything I owned, it wouldn’t come close.”
She reached into the box again.
“Then Meryl showed me this.”
She handed me an old recipe card.
The front explained how to prepare chicken soup.
On the back, faded handwriting read:
For the days when neither of us feels brave.
“Grandma wrote that for Meryl,” Skyla said.
“She used to go with her to appointments and write down whatever the doctors said. Meryl told me she couldn’t make the illness disappear, but she could make sure her friend didn’t have to remember everything alone.”
She looked at me.
“I thought maybe I could do that for you.”
I couldn’t answer.
She touched the papers.
“I don’t have the money you’re asking for. But I found people who might help us understand what comes next.”
I looked at the worn recipe card, then at her ink-stained hands.
Five days of work, all because she’d believed me.
I tried thanking her, but my voice broke.
I covered my face and began sobbing.
