Part 2: Five Days
I called her immediately.
She didn’t pick up.
I texted her.
Where are you going?
No reply.
For two days, she’d been fiercely determined to help me.
Now she was gone.
My father’s warnings came flooding back.
I pictured her deciding that a sick boyfriend with no money wasn’t worth the burden.
On the second day, I tried calling again.
Straight to voicemail.
I almost reached out to my friends to admit they’d been right.
But something stopped me.
Maybe embarrassment.
Or maybe I couldn’t stand hearing them pat themselves on the back.
On the third day, I spotted a note Skyla had stuck to my refrigerator weeks earlier.
EAT BREAKFAST BEFORE YOUR MEETING. COFFEE IS NOT BREAKFAST.
Beneath it, she’d sketched a ridiculously bad little egg.
I stood there staring at it.
That small gesture didn’t fit the selfish woman I’d been imagining.
Neither did the evenings she’d spent helping me rehearse presentations.
Or the afternoon she’d driven across town just because I’d mentioned feeling lonely.
None of those things had cost much money.
And yet I’d hardly appreciated any of them.
By the fourth day, I felt no satisfaction at all.
Instead, I checked my phone every hour.
I had no idea where Skyla was.
But I also knew that demanding an explanation from her was hypocritical when I’d made up something so serious.
The realization was uncomfortable, and I kept trying to push it away.
Five evenings after her message, I was sitting in my living room when a key turned in the front door.
Skyla walked in, looking completely worn out.
Her hair was pulled back carelessly, her jacket was rumpled, and a small wooden box was tucked under her arm.
“Where have you been?” I demanded.
She set 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 almost laughed.
I’d spent five days silently accusing her of abandoning me.
Skyla opened the wooden box.
I knew it right away.
It had belonged to her grandmother.
The lid was scratched, and someone had glued a broken corner back on.
Inside, Skyla kept her grandmother’s handwritten recipes.
She’d once told me it was the one possession she would never willingly give up.
Now the recipe cards had been pushed to one side.
Underneath them lay a thick stack of papers.
“What is all this?” I asked.
“Options.”
She sank 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 held phone numbers, eligibility requirements, and information about insurance appeals.
Nothing in them promised a solution.
But every page showed how seriously she’d taken my story.
“Meryl said we need the actual diagnosis and treatment estimate before anyone can tell us what’s available,” Skyla continued.
She looked straight at me.
“I know you don’t want to talk about the medical details. But we can’t keep guessing.”
I picked up the first sheet.
Her handwriting filled 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 gave directions for making 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 to thank her, but my voice cracked.
I covered my face and started sobbing.
Skyla scooted closer.
“Archie?”
I shook my head, unable to stop crying.
“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
“Skyla, what have you done?!”
She took my hand.
And suddenly I understood that letting her comfort me without confessing would only deepen my betrayal.
“Skyla, I’m not sick.”
