Chapter 51 Two Ubers
BELLA'S POV
The sound of water pouring into the bucket filled the entire room, echoing softly against the cracked walls like a reminder of how quiet this house had become. I sat there on the edge of the bed, my feet barely touching the floor, watching my mother kneel in front of me with a small rag in her hand.
She dipped it into the bucket again, wrung it out carefully, and began wiping my arm with slow, firm strokes.
I frowned.
She already knew I had taken my bath. I had stood under the shower until my legs felt weak, scrubbing myself until my skin burned, but that still wasn’t enough for her. She was stubbornly focused on the yellow patches that refused to leave my skin, rubbing them as if she could erase months of sickness in a few minutes.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked, staring down at her.
“Yes, it is,” my mom replied without even looking up. “The cost of using two Ubers is crazy expensive, which we can’t afford especially now that we’re taking you to get this medication.”
She dropped the rag back into the bowl, squeezed it, and continued again, her movements quick and determined.
“So because of that you’re doing this, even though you know I’ve already cleaned myself up?” I said, irritation creeping into my voice. “We really don’t have time for this. You know we need to get there early. I’m clean enough, let’s go.”
Before she could protest, I snatched the rag from her hand and tossed it onto the floor.
She paused for a moment, then slowly stood up, dusting her hands against her skirt.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ve done the best I can anyway, so let’s go.”
I leaned back slightly, allowing the small droplets of water still clinging to my skin to dry off a little before I reached for my clothes. My hands trembled slightly as I dressed, not from weakness this time, but from anticipation.
“Let’s just pray this actually works,” my mom muttered as she picked up her bag. “If not, there’s going to be a problem. We’re about to spend money on transportation — money that could be used for something else.”
I pushed myself up to my feet. Surprisingly, the pain that usually followed wasn’t as sharp as before. It was still there, lingering in the background, but it was being drowned out by something stronger.
Hope.
Pure excitement.
Happiness I hadn’t felt in months.
We stepped outside and got into the Uber almost immediately. As soon as I sat down, I noticed the driver glance at me through the rearview mirror. He quickly reached for a face mask and put it on, adjusting it like he was afraid to breathe the same air as me.
I turned my face toward the window.
This was one of the reasons I hated going out.
The looks. The silent judgment. The way people treated me like I was contagious.
But all that was coming to an end.
The ride felt longer than usual, every turn stretching my patience thinner. When the car finally slowed to a stop, my heart skipped.
“We’re here,” the driver said.
I stepped out of the car and looked up.
Quinn’s Med Care.
The building towered over me, glass reflecting the morning light, sleek and intimidating. It was huge — just as huge as that other medical care facility… What was its name again? I couldn’t remember, but the comparison didn’t matter.
This place looked better.
Cleaner.
More expensive.
At least I wouldn’t be crowded up with those annoying human beings, I thought as we walked toward the entrance.
The doors slid open automatically, and a rush of cool air hit me instantly. I inhaled deeply. The place smelled new — fresh drugs, sealed cartons, disinfectant. Everything screamed money and professionalism.
The reception area was busy, but not chaotic. People moved with purpose, nurses and staff walking around like they actually knew what they were doing. My eyes scanned the place quickly.
Good.
It didn’t look like I would have to stand in a long line.
“Hello, ma’am.”
A woman wearing a medical coat approached us almost immediately. Her uniform was spotless, her hair neatly packed away.
I looked her up and down before replying.
“Hello,” I said quietly.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pair of gloves, and slipped them on. Before I could ask what she was doing, she gently took my hand.
I stiffened.
She examined my fingers, turning my palm slightly, her eyes sharp and focused.
I glanced at my mom, who looked just as confused as I was.
“Can I see your tongue?” the woman asked.
I hesitated for a second, then stuck it out. She brought out a small flashlight and shined it briefly.
My brows furrowed.
Wasn’t she supposed to take me into a room or something? Why was she doing all this right here at the reception?
“Alright,” she said after a moment, removing her gloves. “You’re going to be our first patient for the hepatitis C medication today.”
I blinked.
First patient?
“And the lady who developed the cure,” she continued, “the brilliant mind behind all this, requested that she personally give the medication herself to the first patient.”
My lips parted slightly.
“Uhm… okay, I guess,” I said. “I just want to get this medication and be done with it.”
She gave a polite nod.
“Please, follow me.”
She turned and began walking, not waiting to see if we were behind her.
We followed her into the elevator. As the doors closed, I leaned slightly against the wall, my legs starting to ache again. The elevator moved smoothly upward, the numbers lighting up one after the other.
Top floor.
With the way everywhere downstairs was packed with people, I had assumed they were all here for hepatitis C treatment. But apparently, I was the first.
Lucky me.
The doors opened to a quiet hallway, far calmer than the floor below. We walked down it and entered a huge office.
It was spacious, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture that looked far too expensive to touch.
“Please wait here,” the nurse said, gesturing toward a couch.
Without a word, my mom and I walked over and sat down. The moment I did, relief washed through me. My legs were screaming, and I was glad to finally be off my feet.
Honestly, this whole process was taking too long.
I had imagined walking in, collecting the medication, and leaving.
Simple.
But now I was here, waiting to meet the so-called genius behind all this.
I let out a small scoff.
She was no genius to me — not yet.
Not until I confirmed that her medication actually worked.
And she better hope that this wasn’t just talk, because I didn’t have the strength or patience for disappointment again.
I leaned back against the couch, staring at the closed office door, waiting for whoever was about to walk through it.