Chapter 6 Blood Debt
[Freya]
I knew that look. I'd seen it on doctors' faces throughout my training when they were about to deliver the worst kind of news. I'd practiced that same expression in the mirror, preparing for the day when I would have to be the one to destroy someone's world with a few carefully chosen words.
I took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
"Dr. Harper, I need to discuss your mother's prognosis with you."
"The neurological tests show no improvement. Her brain activity remains minimal." He hesitated for a moment. "We believe she's entered a persistent vegetative state."
The words hung in the air between us like a death sentence.
"These cases can be... difficult," Dr. Salvatore said, his voice softening. "Many families in your position choose to let go. No one would judge you if you decided that was the most compassionate choice."
My head snapped up, eyes locking with his. "Are you suggesting I pull the plug on my mother?"
"I'm merely stating that continuing life support indefinitely, with no reasonable expectation of recovery..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It's a burden many wouldn't choose to bear."
"Well, I'm not 'many,'" I said firmly. "She's my mother. She sacrificed everything for me. I'm not giving up on her."
He studied me for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. "What about the financial aspects? Long-term care facilities are extremely expensive."
"I'll figure it out," I said, even as my mind raced through the impossibility of the situation.
"If you need financial assistance," he said quietly, "I would be happy to help you personally. From my own funds."
I stared at him, genuinely shocked. We barely knew each other—I was just a new intern at his hospital. Why would he offer his own money for something so personal and expensive?
"No," I said firmly, shaking my head. "She stays here. I'll find a way to pay for it myself."
"Freya," he said, my first name sounding strangely intimate in his formal voice. "This isn't about pride. The costs could be substantial, and your resident's salary won't begin to cover it. I have more than enough money, and I want to help you. Please let me do this."
"I said no," I repeated, meeting his gaze directly. "I appreciate the offer, Dr. Salvatore, but this is my responsibility. Not yours."
His jaw tightened, and his brows knitted together in obvious frustration. He drew himself up to his full height, shoulders stiffening as he reassumed his professional demeanor. "As you wish. But the offer stands, should you reconsider."
That evening, I sat at my kitchen table with a stack of papers—bank statements, property documents, anything that could be converted to cash. The apartment was small and run-down, but it was in a decent neighborhood. If I sold it, I could cover Mom's medical expenses for maybe six months. I didn't know where I'd live afterward—maybe a park bench, becoming just another homeless person in scrubs—but I didn't care.
I didn't care if she never woke up. I just wanted her to stay alive, to stay with me. Even unconscious, she was still my mother. Still the person who had raised me and loved me unconditionally.
On Sunday, I was researching real estate agents on my laptop when someone pounded on the door, the metallic echo reverberating through my small apartment.
"Freya! Open up! I know you're in there!"
The voice was unfamiliar but demanding. I approached cautiously, peering through the peephole of my security door. Beyond it, through the bars of the exterior metal gate that served as a second barrier in our building, stood a middle-aged man, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot.
"Who is it?" I called through the double barrier, not touching either lock.
"It's your father. Marcus Lewis," he said, pressing his face closer to the metal grate. "Open these damn doors, would you? We need to talk."
I froze, my hand gripping the door frame. "My father?"
He was nothing like I'd imagined—shorter than I'd expected, with thinning brown hair and the slightly desperate look of someone who'd been drinking.
"Fifteen years," I said slowly, my voice echoing in the narrow hallway between us. "Fifteen years and now you show up?"
"I've been thinking about you and Celeste," he said, attempting a sympathetic smile that looked more like a grimace. "Just wanted to reconnect with my family. See how you're doing."
I rolled my eyes, already moving to slide the cover over the peephole. "Save it. I'm not interested in whatever bullshit you're selling."
"Wait, wait!" he called out, his voice suddenly desperate. "Look, kid, I'm not here for a family reunion. The truth is... I need help."
"Help?" I paused, peering through the peephole again.
"I've got a new family now. Wife, two kids." His voice softened. "They're good kids, Freya. Your half-siblings. They've been asking about their big sister the doctor."
"Cut to the chase, Marcus."
He sighed dramatically. "We're going through a rough patch. I hate to even ask, but family helps family, right? I know I wasn't there for you, and I regret that every day, but I'm trying to be better now."
"Let me guess," I said flatly. "You gambled away everything again? Some things never change."
His face hardened. "Look, those kids are your blood too. You're making doctor money now. You've got an obligation to help."
"Are you insane?" I stepped back from the peephole. "You abandoned us when I was eight years old. You never paid a cent in child support. Mom worked three jobs to put me through school while you were off starting your new perfect family."
He started spouting some bullshit through the double barriers about making mistakes and how blood was thicker than water. "I'm still your father, for God's sake. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
"Get out," I interrupted. "Get away from my door right now."
"Listen, you ungrateful little—" he growled, his face reddening as he pressed against the metal gate.
"No, you listen," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "My mother is fighting for her life right now. She's the only parent I've ever had. I'm already drowning in hospital bills trying to keep her alive. You think I have money to spare? You should be offering to help me, not the other way around!"
"What happened to Celeste?" Marcus asked, his tone casual, as if inquiring about a distant acquaintance. "Let me guess—finally OD'd on that junk she was always taking?"
"You pathetic, judgmental hypocrite," I spat back through the door. "You don't get to show up after fifteen years and criticize her. She sacrificed everything for me while you were nowhere to be found. How dare you!"
"You think you're so much better than me?" Marcus sneered, his face distorted through the peephole. "You know why she got hooked on drugs in the first place? Because she was selling her blood on the black market to pay for your fancy education. Doctor Freya with her high-and-mighty attitude. You're the reason she's in that hospital bed."