“I’m sorry, dear,” my mother said, her voice a soft tremor that barely rose above the hum of the air conditioning. “My son… he said the wire transfer should have cleared this morning. There must be a delay with the bank.”
Standing over her was Brenda Vance.
Brenda was the Head Nurse of the surgical wing, but she carried herself like she owned the zip code. Her scrubs were so stiff with starch they crunched when she moved, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it seemed to pull the corners of her eyes into a permanent sneer. She wasn’t looking at a patient; she was looking at a nuisance.
“The ‘son’ story again, Clara?” Brenda sighed, a sound full of theatrical exhaustion. She didn’t lower her voice. In fact, she seemed to project it so the entire waiting room—filled with nervous families and coughing toddlers—could hear. “We’ve heard about this mysterious, successful son for three weeks. Meanwhile, your account is fifteen thousand dollars in the red. This is a private facility, not a county dumping ground.”
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