Chapter 4
I met Nerelle the next morning.
No ballroom.
No portrait.
No donors.
She wore a simple knit cap instead of the wig.
That told me more than she intended.
“Sit.”
She hesitated.
Then did.
I apologized first.
Not for Sibella.
For me.
“I should have checked with you directly.”
Nerelle immediately shook her head.
“You were paying.”
“That isn’t the same as knowing.”
She looked down.
Good distinction.
I had reduced care to money leaving an account.
Payment sent.
Problem handled.
That was efficient.
Also lazy.
“When Sibella told you I stopped, why didn’t you ask me?”
Nerelle laughed softly.
Not cruelly.
“Ask you?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“You’re Mr. Rookmere.”
Apparently that was explanation enough.
I waited.
She continued.
“You don’t arrange housekeeping schedules.”
“No.”
“You don’t handle medical rides.”
“No.”
“You told Miss Sibella to take care of everything.”
There.
I had.
At the beginning of Nerelle’s treatment, I gave Sibella access to coordinate whatever she needed.
Cars.
Paid leave.
Clinic payments.
Meals.
I called it kindness.
Then stopped looking.
“Did she make you work?”
Nerelle hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
Important.
Sibella never said:
Work or starve.
She said the medical account was gone.
Then suggested extra shifts were available.
Nerelle connected the two herself.
Rent.
Food.
Treatment bills now returning.
So she worked.
Still coercion?
Not direct.
Enough pressure to produce the outcome Sibella wanted.
“What happened tonight?”
Nerelle touched the edge of her knit cap.
“She said donors were getting bored.”
My jaw tightened.
“She said the portrait looked too polished.”
So Sibella wanted reality.
Visible illness.
The wig removed.
Shock.
Emotion.
Donations.
“Did she tell you she would do it?”
“No.”
That was the violation.
Not that Nerelle was ashamed of treatment.
Not that a bald head must be hidden.
Choice.
She chose the wig.
Sibella removed it.
Publicly.
Then called it authenticity.
I asked Nerelle:
“Do you want tonight’s fundraiser canceled?”
She looked surprised.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it helps people.”
There.
Even after being used, she could separate program from person.
More clearly than any of us.
Then she added:
“But I don’t want my picture there anymore.”
“Done.”
“And I don’t want people told I’m brave.”
I almost smiled.
“Why?”
May you like
“Because they say brave when they want you to make suffering look nice.”
That sentence stayed with me.
