“My wife will take care of it.”

Around noon I glanced toward the growing pile waiting at the register.

One associate quietly totaled everything on a tablet.

Thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and forty dollars.

I almost laughed.

Not because of the number.

Because neither of them had asked whether I wanted to spend it.

They simply assumed I would.

My phone buzzed again.

Dr. Patel’s office.

This time I answered before the first ring finished.

“Ms. Carter, are you still coming?”

I looked toward Gordon.

He was comparing two leather briefcases.

Rita was trying on sunglasses in front of a mirror.

Neither of them was looking at me.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m on my way.”

I hung up and slipped my phone into my purse.

Then I walked toward Gordon.

“I’m going to move the car closer to the entrance,” I said.

“Good idea,” he replied without looking up. “We’ll probably need extra trunk space.”

Rita smiled.

“Don’t disappear. We’re almost done.”

“I won’t be long.”

That was the closest thing to the truth I’d said all morning.

The parking garage felt strangely quiet after the noise inside the boutique.

I started the engine.

For a few seconds, I simply sat there with both hands on the steering wheel.

The pain twisted through my stomach again.

Harder this time.

I reached for the orange prescription bottle in the cup holder.

It rattled almost empty.

I looked at it for a long moment before setting it back down.

Then I entered the hospital address into my navigation.

Estimated arrival.

Fourteen minutes.

As I pulled out of the garage, my phone lit up with Gordon’s name.

I let it ring.

A second call followed almost immediately.

Then Rita.

I didn’t answer either one.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t driving them where they wanted to go.

I was finally driving myself where I needed to be.

The Diagnosis They Ignored

The waiting room smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant.

For the first time that day, nobody asked me to swipe a card or approve a purchase.

They only asked for my insurance information.

About forty minutes later, Dr. Patel sat across from me with my test results spread across her desk.

She looked at me over the top of the file.

“How long have you been waking up with pain?”

“Several months.”

“Have you been taking the medication regularly?”

“Yes.”

She nodded.

Then she turned the monitor toward me.

There was no dramatic announcement.

Just a clear image and a few highlighted notes.

“You have a serious stomach ulcer,” she said. “It’s much worse than when I saw you last. The inflammation has spread, and you’re getting dangerously close to internal bleeding.”

I stared at the screen.

“Could waiting another few weeks really matter?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she reached for a pen and circled one section of the report.

“If you had kept delaying appointments while continuing under heavy stress, there’s a very real chance you would have ended up here through the emergency room instead of the front entrance.”

Neither of us spoke for several seconds.

Then she added quietly,

“Your body has been asking you to slow down for a long time.”

I looked down at my folded appointment card.

It suddenly felt far more valuable than any designer handbag sitting in that department store.

While the nurse explained my treatment plan, my phone vibrated nonstop inside my purse.

Thirty-one missed calls.

Seventeen text messages.

Most were from Gordon.

A few were from Rita.

The newest message simply read:

“Every card I tried was declined. Call me NOW.”

I slipped the phone back into my bag.

The nurse continued explaining my medication schedule.

For once, I listened without interruption.

The Shopping Bags They Couldn’t Take Home

By the time I walked back to the parking garage, the sun was beginning to set.

Only then did I return Gordon’s call.

He answered before the first ring finished.

“Where have you been?”

“At the hospital.”

“Forget the hospital. They put everything back because none of my cards worked.”

I unlocked my car.

“I figured.”

He sounded genuinely confused.

“Why would you cancel my access without telling me?”

I closed the driver’s door.

“Because you expected me to pay for thirty thousand dollars’ worth of shopping while telling me my doctor’s appointment could wait.”

He exhaled sharply.

“You’re blowing one afternoon completely out of proportion.”

Before I could answer, Rita took the phone.

“The manager embarrassed us in front of everyone.”

“No,” I said. “The manager asked someone to pay for merchandise they chose.”

“People were staring.”

“I was sitting in a hospital exam room wondering whether my stomach might start bleeding.”

Silence.

For a moment I thought she might apologize.

Instead she said,