Chapter 6 - The Transfer
By 11:30 AM, I was sitting in the private office of my wealth management advisor at Chase Private Client.
“Grant, are you completely sure about this?” David Harris, my financial advisor and college friend, adjusted his glasses as he looked over the wire transfer authorization form. “One hundred and seventy thousand dollars transferred directly to the Johns Hopkins Clinical Oncology Department. Once this wire goes through, it’s gone. And if Vanessa’s attorney files an injunction before the divorce is finalized, you could face penalties for liquidating marital assets without mutual consent.”
“Let them file whatever they want,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll cover any penalty out of my personal retirement liquidation. Process the wire, David. Today. Right now.”
David sighed, shaking his head, but his eyes softened with something resembling respect. He tapped a series of keys on his dual-monitor setup.
“Done,” David said, turning the confirmation screen toward me. “The funds will hit the Johns Hopkins clinical account by two o'clock this afternoon. Her place in the trial is secure.”
I stared at the green confirmation numbers on the screen. For the first time in forty-eight hours, the suffocating band around my chest loosened by a fraction of an inch.
I left the bank and drove straight to the floral market downtown.
I didn't buy the towering, pretentious white lilies that Vanessa demanded. I bought a simple, rustic bouquet of yellow freesias—Elise’s absolute favorite flowers. When we were dating in our early twenties, I used to buy them from a street vendor for four dollars every Friday evening.
I drove back to Norine’s house.
This time, I didn't knock. I sat on the bottom porch step, holding the freesias in my lap, waiting.
At 2:45 PM, a medical transport sedan pulled into the driveway. Norine got out of the passenger side, then hurried around to the back door to assist Elise.
Elise was moving even slower than she had yesterday. Every single step looked like a monumental battle against gravity. She was wearing an oversized knit beanie to hide her thinning, regrowing hair, and her hand was pressed firmly against her right side where the surgical drainage tube had been removed.
When she looked up and saw me sitting on the porch steps, she stopped.
Norine immediately bristled, stepping forward defensively. “Grant, I swear to God—”
“Wait, Norine,” Elise whispered. Her voice was raspy, exhausted, but completely clear.
Elise looked at me. Her large brown eyes, sunken into her pale face, held no hostility. Just an infinite, weary sadness.
I stood up from the wooden steps, holding the yellow freesias, my heart pounding violently against my ribs.
“Elise,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Why are you here, Grant?” she asked softly, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shivering frame. “It’s cold out here. You shouldn't be here.”
“I came to bring you these,” I said, extending the yellow flowers.
Elise looked down at the freesias. For a fraction of a second, her lips parted, and a flicker of the girl I had fallen in love with in college flickered across her features. Then her eyes moved back to mine.
“You haven't bought me freesias in ten years,” she whispered.
“I know,” I choked out, tears instantly blinding my vision. “I forgot what mattered. I forgot everything that was good and pure in my life, Elise. I was selfish, I was shallow, and I threw away the greatest blessing I will ever have. I don't expect you to ever forgive me. I don't expect you to even look at me. But you are going to Johns Hopkins next week.”
May you like
Norine gasped. “What?”
“The intake deposit,” I said, turning to Norine with tears streaming down my face. “It’s paid. The wire cleared at two o'clock. One hundred and seventy thousand dollars. Your spot in the immunotherapy trial is guaranteed.”
