Chapter 29 The Email
Clara woke slowly, drifting upward from sleep the way she always did now carefully, as if waking too fast might cost her something.
Light filtered through the thin curtains, pale and quiet. For a few seconds, she stayed still, listening to her own breathing, measuring it out of habit. The oxygen concentrator hummed beside her bed, steady and faithful. She felt… okay. Not strong, not weak. Balanced on the thin line she had learned to live on.
Her phone buzzed.
Once.
She frowned slightly. No one ever texted her this early except Peter and even he usually waited until he knew she was awake. She reached for the phone, squinting at the screen.
It wasn’t a message.
It was an email.
The sender’s name made her sit up so fast she had to pause, hand pressing lightly against her chest as if to steady her heart.
Dr Paul Vermeer, MD, PhD
Private Oncology & Pulmonary Care
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
“What…?” she whispered.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
\---
Dear Clara,
I hope this message finds you resting comfortably today.
I am writing to formally introduce myself and to confirm arrangements that have been discussed regarding your upcoming travel.
I will be accompanying you throughout the duration of your visit, with full responsibility for monitoring your pulmonary status, oxygen needs, and emergency contingencies. All necessary medical clearances and precautions have been accounted for.
Further details will be shared with your family directly.
Please know that my role is to ensure your safety while respecting the importance of this journey to you.
Warm regards,
Dr. Paul Vermeer
\---
Clara stared at the screen.
Her mind refused to catch up with her eyes.
Accompanying you.
Upcoming travel.
Arrangements have been discussed.
Her breath came faster, not in panic, not yet, but in disbelief.
This wasn’t a question.
This wasn’t uncertainty.
This was a decision.
“But… no one told me,” she whispered, voice thin.
Her gaze flicked to the door. The house was quiet, early-morning quiet. Her parents would still be in their room. For a moment, she considered sitting with this alone, letting it sink in.
She didn’t last ten seconds.
“Mom?” Clara called, her voice louder than she meant it to be. “Mom!”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, phone clenched in her hand, heart racing now in earnest. Before she could stand, hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Her mother burst into the room, fear written across her face before she even spoke.
“What is it? Are you okay? Are you...”
Clara held up the phone with shaking hands.
“I got an email,” she said. “From a doctor. A private oncologist. He says he’s travelling with me.”
The room went very still.
Her mother’s breath caught not sharply, but deeply, like someone who had been holding it for far too long.
She crossed the room in two strides and sat on the edge of the bed, taking the phone from Clara’s hands. Her eyes skimmed the screen, once, then again.
“It’s real,” her mother said softly.
Clara searched her face. “You knew?”
Her mother hesitated.
That hesitation told Clara everything.
“You knew,” Clara repeated, more quietly now.
“I did … wasn't going to tell you like this, not exactly like this,” her mother said, words careful. “But yes. I knew it was being arranged.”
Clara’s chest tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her mother looked at her then, really looked at her, and Clara saw the exhaustion beneath the composure, the fear she’d been carrying like a second skin.
“Because I wanted your father to tell you himself” her mother said. “And because I didn’t want to give you hope again unless I was sure.”
“But this isn’t from you,” Clara said, confusion layering over the shock. “He said arrangements were discussed. You said you didn’t send it.”
“I didn’t,” her mother admitted. “Not directly.”
“Then who did?”
There was a long pause.
Your father, the answer hovered. The doctors. The conversations behind closed doors. The nights Clara had been asleep while her parents weighed love against loss.
“Decisions were made,” her mother said finally. “Quietly. Carefully. By people who love you very much and were very afraid of making the wrong one.”
Clara’s throat burned.
“So… it’s approved?” she asked, almost afraid to say it out loud. “The trip?”
Her mother nodded. Once.
“Yes.”
The word landed between them like something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“Yes,” her mother repeated. “But not the way you imagined.”
Clara’s heart leapt and then steadied, instinctively bracing.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” her mother said, taking Clara’s hands in hers, “that you can go, but only under strict conditions.”
She began counting them softly, as if afraid the rules might shatter if spoken too loudly.
“Three days, not six. Peter and I will guide you. Continuous oxygen monitoring. No long excursions. No strain. No deviation from medical supervision. And if at any point the doctor says you need to stop...”
“I stop,” Clara finished.
“Yes.”
Clara nodded slowly. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring everything, the room, her mother’s face, the morning light.
This wasn’t the freedom she had imagined.
But it was something she needed at that time.
Her mother pulled her into a careful embrace, mindful of tubes and fragile ribs. Clara clung to her, shaking now, not from weakness, but from the release of something she had been holding inside for months.
“I didn’t want to be the one who stopped you from living,” her mother whispered into her hair. “Even if it terrifies me.”
“I know,” Clara said, voice breaking. “I know.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing together.
When Clara finally pulled back, the first thing she reached for was her phone.
Her mother smiled sadly. “You’re going to tell him.”
“He should be the first to know,” Clara said, echoing words her mother had spoken before.
She typed with trembling fingers.
Hey Peter… Hope you have your passport ready.
The reply came almost instantly.
Everything’s coming up, Clara.
Her breath caught. A laugh escaped her through tears.
She leaned back against the pillows, heart racing with something dangerously close to joy.
The trip was approved.
But even as hope flared bright and warm in her chest, Clara knew, deep down that nothing about this would be simple.
Because every yes came wrapped in conditions.
And every condition carried a cost.