The Deal
I call it a deal because it wasn’t a wedding.
Weddings are for people who love each other. We sat across from each other in the lawyer’s office, as two business partners.
I – Clara, a 24-year-old translator from Pazardzhik, with shabby jeans, a cheap bag and a father in resuscitation.
He – Julian Turnev, 65-year-old owner of clinics, laboratories and whatever else you can imagine. A man with a face like old marble – beautiful, but with cracks in which she has layered so much grief that she could almost touch.
My father was dying. A rare nervous illness from which doctors only shrugged or asked for sums that sounded like phone numbers.
Julian was the only one who said:
We can cure him. But it won’t be cheap.
“Not cheap” meant more than anything I’ve ever seen in one piece. The sequel was brief:
I have a proposal. Marry me. All the costs of your father’s treatment are at my expense.
I remember my hands shaking over the table.
“Why me?” I was able to ask.
“Because I need a wife, not a mistress,” he replied calmly. “Someone who is by my side when things get… heavy.”
That’s when I thought it was a disease. His age, his visibly worn body, the slight forgetting in the conversation… Everything was screaming “Alzheimer’s” or something.
I was sitting in front of the blank sheet, and I knew that if I signed, I would get my father out of bed. If I don’t sign, I’ll bury him.
I signed.
