After His Fiancée Killed Our Son

The nurse at the cardiac unit desk doesn't look up when I walk in. She types something. Stops. Types again.

"I need Dr. Park," I say. "My son—"

"Dr. Park isn't available." Her voice is flat. She still doesn't look at me.

"What do you mean he isn't available? He's supposed to do the surgery. It's scheduled. I have the money—"

"He was reassigned." She glances at Charlie. Just once. Then back at her screen. "We're locating a replacement."

The floor tilts under my feet.

"Reassigned where?"

"I can't discuss—"

"When will the replacement be here?"

She doesn't answer.

A man in a gray suit appears from a side hallway. Hospital administrator badge clipped to his pocket. He won't meet my eyes either.

"Ms. Stone," he says. "The situation is being reviewed. We're doing everything we can."

"Reviewed?" My voice cracks. "My son needs surgery now. I have the money. Ten million dollars. It's right here—"

I pull the damp check from my pocket. The ink has bled into the paper. The numbers are still visible.

He glances at it. Nods once. "We'll do our best."

Then he walks away.

I stand there holding Charlie. His breathing makes a sound like wind through a crack in a window. Thin. Barely there.

A different nurse takes us to a room. White walls. Machines that beep in steady rhythms. She lifts Charlie from my arms. I don't want to let go. She's gentle about it. She lays him on the bed and attaches wires to his chest. His skin looks gray under the fluorescent lights.

"Someone will be with you soon," she says.

Then she leaves.

I sit in the chair beside the bed. I hold Charlie's hand. His fingers are so small. I count his breaths. One. Two. Three. Four.

The beeping slows.

I press the call button. No one comes.

I press it again.

The beeping slows more.

"Please," I whisper. To who, I don't know. God. The universe. Anyone. "Please."

The monitor flatlines.

The sound is long and sharp and endless.

I stand up. I don't know what to do with my hands. I touch Charlie's face. His cheek is still warm.

A doctor rushes in. Not Dr. Park. Someone younger. He checks the monitor. Checks Charlie. Presses two fingers to his neck.

He looks at me.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I don't understand the words at first. They don't make sense. I hear them. I know what they mean. But they don't connect to anything real.

"What?"

"The window for intervention passed. His heart—" He stops. Starts again. "He's gone. I'm very sorry."

Gone.

I look at Charlie. He looks like he's sleeping. His mouth is slightly open. His hand is still in mine.

"No," I say.

The doctor says something else. I don't hear it. There's a sound in my ears like rushing water.

Someone takes my elbow. A nurse. Not the same one. She guides me out of the room. Down a hallway. Into a small waiting area with vinyl chairs and a table covered in old magazines.

She hands me something. Charlie's blanket. Pale yellow. Uneven stitches. I made it when I still thought we'd have time.

I sit down.

I hold the blanket against my chest.

A sound comes out of me. Low at first. Then louder. It builds and builds until it's the only thing in the world. I'm screaming. I don't remember deciding to scream. It just happens. My throat burns. My chest feels like it's splitting open.

The nurse reaches for the blanket. I pull it away. She stops.

I scream until my voice breaks. Until there's nothing left. Then I sit in silence. The blanket is balled against my mouth. I stare at the wall.

Time passes. I don't know how much.

My phone rings.

I don't want to answer it. But my hand moves anyway. I press the screen to my ear.

"Elia." Haven's voice. Calm. Almost pleasant. Like she's calling to confirm lunch plans. "I thought you should know."

I don't say anything.

"Dr. Park was reassigned because I arranged it," she continues. "I paid the administrator to delay your case. It wasn't difficult. People are surprisingly affordable when you know their price."

My hand starts shaking.

"Your little bastard was never going to live in my world," Haven says. "He was a problem. I solved it. Consider this a mercy."

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

"Elliot will never know," she adds. "And even if he did, he'd understand. He's practical. He knows what's necessary."

My thumb finds the recording app. I press it. The red dot appears.

Haven keeps talking. She tells me about the administrator's mortgage. About the nurse she paid to delay the call. About how easy it was to move pieces around until Charlie's surgery became impossible.

She sounds bored.

When she's done, she hangs up without saying goodbye.

I sit there staring at the recording file. One minute. Forty-three seconds.

I save it.

I label it: Haven Reyes.

Then I sit very still. The blanket is still pressed against my mouth. My eyes are dry now.

Something inside me has stopped moving.