Ilka still had the twenty thousand dollars she’d taken from Fletcher’s desk drawer, money that could have helped her get back on her feet when she returned to Denmark. But now she hoped it was enough to cover the scan and Artie’s hospital room for the next several days. She knew his care would require much more, given how fast the bills were mounting up, which was why she brought along the envelope with the power of attorney Artie had given her, along with her passport. She was nervous, and that annoyed her. Ideally, she could waltz right in to the bank and empty his account, but what if they asked about her relationship to him? Or if they wanted information she couldn’t provide?
She shook off her thoughts and drove into the long, narrow parking lot in front of the bank.
“Yes,” she answered, “he asked me to withdraw all the money in his account.”
A young, black-haired man with steel-rimmed glasses sat behind the glass counter. With no more than a cursory glance up at her, he began counting out bills and informed her he’d need a signature. Ilka had no idea how much Artie had in his account, but she nodded when he asked if she preferred large denominations.
He tucked eleven thousand dollars in an envelope and asked if she wanted to close the account.
“No.” She stared down at the money she’d been handed; it wasn’t much compared with the bundle of bills Lydia had given her. Her bad conscience from emptying his account made her weak in the knees. Once more it hit her that Artie had used most of his savings to help her—sixty thousand dollars to buy time for her to think about what to do with the business she’d inherited. Not once had he criticized Ilka for being unable to sell it and pay him back; on the contrary, he’d suggested she keep the money as a down payment on the house, which he wanted to buy. And now when he needed it most, there was hardly any money left.
Ilka got in behind the wheel. A sense of loss overwhelmed her, crushed her; she doubted she could even make it up to Artie’s ward. Reluctantly, she started the car, but by the time she parked in front of the hospital ten minutes later, she had a plan.
“I have had it up to here,” she yelled. Several people in the ward’s hall turned and stared at Ilka standing in the office’s doorway. “I’m holding this hospital responsible if canceling Artie Sorvino’s scan—which is supposed to happen today—affects his progress and harms his chances for recovery.”
The woman she’d spoken to the day before stood up, but she couldn’t get a single word in before Ilka cut her off. “I get it, I understand your hospital needs information on the health insurance policies of their patients, and I apologize for not being able to provide it yet. I’ve spoken with the insurance company again today, but the reason I can’t get the information is that I’m not officially the owner of the funeral home that took out the policy. Several months ago, I inherited the Paul Jensen Funeral Home from my father, but the appropriate government agency hasn’t registered that yet.”
Ilka handed her the old insurance policy. “The agency is working on it, but I still don’t have a Social Security number, which means they can’t register me as the owner. And officially I’m also blocked until my work permit comes through and my visa has been approved. We all know these things take too much time, and all we can do about it is be patient. But if you’d bothered to contact Artie Sorvino’s family before canceling the scan, which by the way worried him, a lot, you’d know his treatment will still be paid for in cash.”
All this was total bullshit on her part, yet she’d worked herself up into an indignant rage. “I don’t know if you can imagine how he feels, being put through your cancellations, threatening to send him home. We’re not going to take this lying down, our lawyers will step in if this continues, these irresponsible and unethical decisions.”
“Really, I’m very sorry about all this,” the woman said. “I didn’t know you were a recent immigrant. My husband is from Greece, we’ve been through all this green card business, all the waiting. But as I said earlier, our database automatically registers if treatments can be carried out.”
“I must insist that all communication concerning his further treatment go through me,” Ilka said. “So he won’t have to worry unnecessarily and can focus on his recovery.”
She pulled the money out of her bag and asked the woman to reschedule Artie’s canceled scan. “I understand why intensive care was so expensive, when so much was done to save his life. But I’m assuming this will be enough to cover the next several days, so he doesn’t have to fear being thrown out.”
Thirty-one thousand dollars. Suddenly she remembered how much she’d promised Jeff for finding Lydia. She tried to appear as casual as possible as she peeled ten thousand off the pile, then she told the woman to keep her up to date with the expenses so she would know when the money was about to run out. “We don’t want to run into this situation again, do we.”
The woman nodded and seemed reassured, now that there was a substantial sum of money in Artie’s account again. “I’ll make a note of this in his journal, that cash has been deposited.” She sat down in front of her computer.
Ilka thanked her and reminded her about scheduling a new scan. “Will he have to wait?”
She watched impatiently as the woman’s fingers flew over the keys, then finally she leaned forward and mumbled something about rearranging the schedule. She turned to Ilka. “We can get him in this evening.”
Ilka felt like hugging her.
“We just have to have this approved by the doctor,” the woman added.
“Is there a problem?”
She shook her head. “I’ll use the authorization we already have, and I’ll note that there’s been a delay in the system.”
Ilka smiled at her; they were on the same team now. The team that doesn’t shy away from bending a few rules when necessary. “Thanks.”
She suspected the woman had seen through her, but cash spoke its own language. Now it was simply a matter of coming up with more of it to keep feeding the hungry hospital monster.
She headed down to Artie’s room. It had been hard to understand him on the phone. He’d had good reason to be afraid; the mere idea of being discharged from the hospital in his condition was absurd. Whatever the case, she was sure he was still nervous about what would happen, because he’d figured out she was lying when she told him things were going smoothly.
She peeked at him through the narrow glass window in the door. His black stocking cap was gone, and he lay on his back, though she couldn’t tell if he was asleep.
She stepped aside. Suddenly she realized she couldn’t go in there, not until she could look him straight in the eye and promise him everything would be fine.
She turned and walked back to the elevator.