Page 9 of State of Ruin

“Oh.” I slump down against the back of the bench and fix my eyes back on Fleur and Jambon. For a second there, I thought Sylvie’s freaky sister-radar was onto my Sinclair Voss conundrum. “No, not really. Maybe. Olivia wants me to go in next week and shoot some video content they can submit for a big cosmetics job. But honestly, the odds are tiny. Microscopic.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together in a scientific representation of my chances.

“I’m sorry,” she says, reaching across and putting a hand on my arm. “That sucks.”

I shrug. “Hey. It pays the bills.”

“I mean, that’s not technically true,” she says. “Or even remotely true.”

We both cackle. Thank God Sylvie has a dark sense of humor about all this shit. The truth is, there are few things harder to joke about than a concept that, until a few months ago, wasn’t even part of our vocabulary:

Underinsurance.

“It pays for the utilities,” I amend. “And it keeps Fleur in Pompeii pizza.”

“It does, and you know I can never thank you,” she says, her face so solemn I can’t bear it.

“No thanks necessary. You know that.” My voice is artificially bright. Sylvie’s job is to heal her broken body, and my and Dad’s jobs are to keep the lights on and to care for her and Fleur until she does.

She sighs and releases my arm. “Meanwhile, the medical bills are piling up like fucking landfill.”

“Yeah.” Can’t deny that, and she wouldn’t expect me to.

“I was thinking,” she says slowly, “that I could cut a physical therapy session or two per week. It would definitely help.”

No way. Absolutely not. I twist around to face her fully. “It wouldn’t help your recovery, and that’s all that matters.”

“It won’t matter if my hip works and we can’t afford to eat,” she protests.

“We’re nowhere near that stage,” I say.

“But they’re piling up.” Her voice quietens, even though there’s zero chance of Fleur being able to hear her over the din of the park and the busy harbor. She gazes at her daughter, who’s fooling around, pretending to throw the ball for the poor dog, as though Fleur hung the moon. “If I did fewer, it would give us more chance to get up to date on the payments we owe.”

“That’s not going to help your hip,” I repeat as sternly as I can.

“You know what won’t help my hip? If they cut me off until we clear our outstandings.” She swallows, and I stare at her in horror.

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course they would! The center has already threatened it. What’s the best leverage you have as a practitioner? Refuse treatment until debts are paid. I mean, it’s twenty-three fucking grand. What else can they do?”

“Jesus Christ.” I blow out a breath. I guess she’s right, but it honestly hasn’t occurred to me that they could hold our debts over our heads like that. The insurance on rehabilitation for my sister’s injury ran out last month, but I figured we’d just… muddle through until she got to at least be mobile again.

It’s the worst kind of catch-22. We need to get her back on her feet and back to doing what she takes so much pride in: parenting and working. That’s what Sylvie is in her own eyes—and mine: a devoted mother and a conscientious professional. No one is more resilient than my sister. None of the patients at that physical therapy center work harder than her, and I know this because her therapist tells us, over and over.

But the financial cost of getting her back to the Sylvie she used to be before the accident is an uphill struggle the likes of which I could never have imagined. Hearing her say that twenty-three-grand number out loud is rough, but it’s tiny in comparison with the overall total owed to Jersey City Medical Center for her acute trauma care immediately following the accident. That six-figure sum sits at the bottom of Dad’s tally in the drawer in a kitchen dresser and is a bogeyman so great that I can barely stand to open the drawer at all.

Every day, thanks to interest and ongoing therapy, our medical debt grows. Every day, it threatens to swallow our family whole. And every day, the questions I ask myself are some variation of What the hell are we going to do?

Until today. The questions are far harder today.

Can I find the courage to do what I need to do for this family?

And can I live with myself if I can’t?

I think I need to get me some Demi Moore action. I need to remind myself of the fantasy, because it’s way less scary than the reality. In Indecent Proposal, Diana kept telling herself it was just one night.

This is just one hour.

Robert Redford was so freaking hot in that movie. John Gage: that Big Billionaire Dick Energy. His unshakable self-confidence. Sinclair Voss has every bit as much of all of that, and I desperately need something to latch on to here, some kind of assurance that I could do the unthinkable and survive it.