Chapter 6

I did not delay. I hailed an Uber and headed directly to the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center on the Upper East Side.

I left my phone behind in the apartment, powered off. I was afraid its ringing or buzzing would interfere with my state of mind.

This examination was the only thing that mattered; it was the deciding factor in whether I would repeat the horrific mistakes of my past.

I arrived exactly at seven in the morning.

The Memorial Sloan Kettering building stood like a fortress of glass and steel at the intersection of 68th Street and York Avenue. It was the premier cancer treatment facility in the United States. I knew that if a cure for cancer existed anywhere, it was within these walls.

The moment the receptionist saw the name "Costello" on my reservation details, her entire demeanor shifted.

"Mrs. Costello, Dr. Walton is expecting you. Please follow me to the VIP wing."

The VIP area was located on the twelfth floor.

The interior design mirrored a five-star hotel, featuring polished teak floors, contemporary art pieces, Nespresso machines, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an expansive view of the East River.

It was a different universe compared to the free clinic in New Jersey I had frequented in my previous life.

That clinic had been tucked away in an industrial zone in Newark. The plastic chairs in the waiting room were cracked, the fluorescent lights flickered incessantly, and the air was thick with the permanent scent of disinfectant and stale sweat. Every time I went, I waited three or four hours just to see a doctor for ten minutes.

Their equipment was obsolete—CT machines from the 1990s that frequently jammed. It took a week to get a single test result, yet the bills still ran into the thousands.

In that previous life, I had no insurance. After the divorce, Vince froze all my accounts, including my health coverage. I tried applying for Medicaid, but the processing took three months, and I didn't have that kind of time.

I was forced to sell whatever I had left—Hermès bags, Cartier watches, Tiffany jewelry. I sold them all for a pittance because I was desperate for cash.

Eventually, I even took my wedding ring to a pawnshop.

The owner was a bald Jewish man with thick spectacles. He spent a long time examining the three-carat black diamond ring through a magnifying loupe before offering me five thousand dollars.

"The market value is at least a hundred and fifty thousand," I told him.

"Market value is one thing, cash is another," he said with a shrug. "Do you want the money or not?"

I gripped the ring, my fingers trembling.

In the end, I put it back in my pocket.

I would rather have died than sell it for such an insult.

It was a pathetic, Luaghable sentiment.

Now, Dr. Walton entered the consultation room carrying an iPad. She was a woman in her forties, Chinese-American, a graduate of Columbia Medical School, and the Director of Oncology at MSKCC.

"Ava," she said, sitting down with a grave expression. "I'll be direct. I was concerned when I saw you texted at two in the morning requesting an emergency screening. Is there something you haven't told me? Any symptoms?"

I took a deep breath.

"I just... have a bad feeling. Family history, as you know."

It was a lie, of course. I couldn't exactly tell her that I had died of adenocarcinoma in a past life and wanted to get ahead of it this time.

Dr. Walton nodded.

"Understood. We will run a full battery of tests. CT, MRI, blood work—tumor markers, genetic testing, the works. I've also scheduled a PET scan and an endoscopy for you. Given your request, I've marked this as high priority. Preliminary results will be ready within three days."

Three days.

In my previous life, it took a week just for a CT scan.

For the next ten days, I moved into a VIP suite at Memorial Sloan Kettering.

The room felt like a luxury hotel suite, complete with a king-sized bed, a private bath, Netflix, and gourmet meals delivered three times a day. Outside the window, I could watch the East River; at dusk, the setting sun painted the entire room in a wash of gold.

I underwent every imaginable test: CTs, MRIs, PET scans, colonoscopies, endoscopies, and bone marrow biopsies.

Every time they drew blood, the nurses used the finest needles and applied numbing cream before the prick.

"You'll hardly feel a thing, Mrs. Costello," they told me gently.