Beth Cornelison - The Return of Connor Mansfield

“This is...uh, Sam Orlean with Tri-State Insurance.” His voice had a funny nasal pitch to it as though he had a bad cold or something.

“Yes, Mr. Orlean, what can I do for you?”

“I’m...calling about your recent claims.”

She didn’t like the hesitation in his voice. A knot tightened her gut. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s standard procedure to do a policy review when claims reach a certain level. The company needs to verify the claims so that your daughter’s treatments can be covered.”

A nervous sweat rose on Darby’s top lip. “What kind of concerns do you have?”

She tried to keep the note of panic out of her voice, but even the suggestion that the insurance company would deny her claim made her lunch churn and threaten to come up. If her claim for Savannah’s treatments was turned down, the expense of chemotherapy, the hospital stay, the CT scans, blood tests, doctors’ appointments... She’d go bankrupt paying for it all. She couldn’t possibly afford—

“Can you tell me when Savannah—” his voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat “—first showed signs of illness?”

Darby frowned, wondering what had the man so anxious, but also wary of his questions. She poked her head back into Savannah’s room to check on her. Still sleeping, if fitfully. “She had been acting droopy, tired and cranky for a few weeks back in February. I assumed she was catching a cold or maybe had an ear infection. You should have a receipt for the trip to her pediatrician in her file for around the sixth.”

“Yes, I see it.” He had her recount other trips to the doctor, tests that were run and details of the treatment regimen that was started once Savannah’s leukemia was confirmed. “And how far into the chemo treatments are you?”

“She’ll be finished with her first round by the end of the week.” Darby drew a deep breath and switched the phone from one hand to the other. “What is it exactly that you want to know, Mr. Orlean? What is it the company is taking issue with?”

He sighed heavily, and something about the world-weary sound tickled a memory, triggered a gut-level response. She knew it was ridiculous, that she’d never met the insurance man who worked in the company’s Dallas office, but she knew that sigh...somehow.

“We’re simply verifying the charges filed with us, cross-checking with standard treatment expenses, double-checking that your policy covers—”

“You’re looking for fraud.” Even the hint that the company might try to deny her claims or cancel her insurance, take away her ability to pay for Savannah’s treatments, made her knees buckle, and she slid to the cold tile floor.

“Well, we do have to be alert to the possibility of fraud, yes, but—”

A buzzing rang in her ears, and she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, fighting to keep her breathing measured and even.

Stay calm. Stay strong. I have nothing to hide, nothing to worry about...

“But as I said, this is simply a policy review—”

Darby groaned and dropped her head to her hands.

“Ms. Kent, are you all right?” One of the nurse’s assistants squatted beside her in the corridor, laying a cool hand on her arm.

Darby shook her head, searched for her voice. “No,” she rasped, wanting to deny everything about her current circumstances. “No, no, no.”

No, her daughter couldn’t be sick, couldn’t be dying. No, she didn’t have the will, the strength left to fight an insurance company for the medical coverage they’d promised. No, she wasn’t all right. She hadn’t been truly right in almost five years, since Connor died.

Tears prickled her sinuses and dripped on her cheeks. She waved the nurse’s assistant off with a tremulous smile, then wiped her face with a thumb. “I swear to you, Mr. Orlean. If something about the claims filed by the doctors or hospital is off, I’ll do my best to get things straightened out.” She heard the rustling of papers on the other end of the phone line. “To be honest, I haven’t paid close attention to what’s been filed and where claims stood. I’ve had my hands full just taking care of my daughter. Thank God I work for family, so I can get the time off—”

“You changed jobs?” he interrupted, his tone not quite so nasal this time.

“Uh...yes. Last January. Just before I bought the policy. But I am employed, if that is part of your concern. I won’t miss any premium payments.”

“I—um, no. That’s not... You’re working for Mansfield Construction? But your art...um, your file says you are an artist.”

She wrinkled her brow. If the company wasn’t concerned about her ability to pay her premiums, then what business was it of his where she was working?

“Yes, I do the billing and clerical duties for Mansfield Construction. They’re a small company a friend owns.” While she’d much rather be doing something with her art for a living, working for Mansfield Construction gave her a steady income, health insurance and, because the owners were her daughter’s grandparents, understanding and job security when she needed time off to take care of Savannah—a benefit that had been particularly welcome since Savannah’s diagnosis a couple months ago.

Mr. Orlean sighed again, and another hint of the familiar whispered down her neck. She shoved to her feet, feeling a bit stronger now, past the initial shock and dread of impending doom. She peeked in the room to check on Savannah, then pulled the door closed and resumed her position in the hospital’s corridor. “If that’s all, sir, I need to get back to my child—”

“Wait! I...” He cleared his throat again. “I still need to verify some things to satisfy the company’s questions about your policy.”

She straightened her spine, suddenly exhausted by the man’s endless questions. “Look, Mr. Orlean, I’ve paid my premiums on time, and if your company has questions about charges filed by the hospital, you should talk to the billing department. Not me. And if you try to deny my claims based on a clerical error or technical glitch and put my daughter’s health in jeopardy, so help me, I’ll sue your company ten ways to Sunday!” All her pent-up frustrations with Savannah’s illness, her helplessness to ease her daughter’s pain, her sense of being alone in the most important battle of her life boiled over. “If you think I’m going to lie down and let you walk all over me, you’ve got another think coming!”

A chuckle filtered through the line.

Darby saw red. “This isn’t funny! Do you think I’m kidding?”

“I know. I’m sorry, Darby. I...”

She stiffened hearing him use her first name, as if they were best friends. Hearing the way his Southern accent softened the hard ar in her name to Dahr-by. The way Connor used to say her name.

Pain clutched at her chest as Connor’s face flickered in her memory.

In the pause of the conversation, Mr. Orlean had apparently sobered. His tone was darkly serious when he asked, “What is Savannah’s prognosis? What are the doctors telling you about her treatment options, about her...chances—”

Darby felt the blood drain from her face. The best way she had of dealing with Savannah’s illness, the only way she had of not going stark raving mad with worry and grief and fear for her daughter, was to take things one day at a time. She couldn’t think about the long term, the odds of Savannah surviving her cancer, or she’d become so burdened with despair that she couldn’t be the mom Savannah needed now.

“I’m not sure why that matters to you at this point. Whatever the doctors feel is necessary and best for Savannah should be covered, regardless of how long it takes or whether she—” Her voice broke, and she paused for a reinforcing breath. “Or whether she responds to the treatments.”