Six
Trinity
T he shrill ring of the phone wrenches me from sleep, and for a moment, I can’t remember where I am. I fell asleep while running some numbers for work, but after a moment, I realize I’m at home in my bedroom.
I try to leave my duties at the office, but in the last few months, since I returned from the MedTalks conference, really, my work on the electronic medical records project has picked up. This puts me behind on some of my other duties, and I have to catch up when I can.
I take a deep breath, my heart thumping against my ribs as if it already knows that calls like these mean bad news. Fumbling in the dark, I grasp the receiver, my voice a raspy whisper. “Hello?”
“Trinity, it’s Daisy Crandall, your mother’s next-door neighbor.” Her words tumble out, tinged with panic. “An ambulance just left with her, but before that, I heard a crash outside my door. I think she fell. She seemed confused and was in her nightgown. I think… It might be a stroke.”
I’m bolt upright, adrenaline clearing the cobwebs of sleep. “Which hospital?” My mind races, planning steps ahead.
“Paradise General,” Daisy says.
“Thank you, Daisy. Seriously, thank you.” I hang up, not waiting for a response. The neon digits of the clock glare 2:07 at me. Quick math tells me I can make it by eight if I hustle. I throw clothes into a bag, essentials only, my movements automatic.
In less than fifteen minutes, I’m behind the wheel, winding down the streets toward the highway. Paradise is a five-hour drive on a good day. I press the accelerator a little harder. I hit speed dial for the office voicemail and call my boss.
“Andy, it’s Trinity,” I say when the line connects. “There’s been some sort of incident, and an ambulance took my mom to the hospital in Paradise. I’m driving there now and will work remotely until I know what’s going on. I’ll have my phone, so call if you need me. Thanks!”
With that managed, I shift my mind to what lies ahead. Thinking about Paradise’s hospital reminds me that I know someone who works there. The thought of seeing Greyson Paradise again twists my stomach into knots. But it’s a large regional hospital with a massive staff, the biggest employer in Paradise. The chances of running into him are practically zero. Plus, that was three months ago. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about me.
A few hours later, the first light of dawn tints the horizon as I pull over for coffee. The adrenaline has worn off, and the four hours of sleep I got weren’t nearly enough. Nonetheless, I’m back on the road within minutes, the paper coffee cup a small comfort in my hand.
Finally, Paradise looms before me, and I cross the giant bridge over Black Bear Lake. At eight thirty, I burst through the ED’s sliding doors and head for the front desk, where I explain who I’m there to see .
A nurse nods, her face a mask of professional sympathy. “Come with me,” she says, leading me through the labyrinthine corridors to the curtained bay where my mother lies sleeping or unconscious—I can’t tell which. The sight of her so vulnerable, so small against the sterile white sheets, sends a pang of fear through me.
“I’ll let the doctor know you’re here,” the nurse murmurs before slipping away.
I take my mother’s limp hand in mine, the constant beep of the heart monitor intruding on the silence. Questions bubble up, each one a tiny terror. For now, all I can do is wait and hope that the updates will be good, that my presence can somehow anchor her back to reality.
I’m tapping my foot, a nervous rhythm against the cold linoleum, when the curtain swishes aside. My eyes close because, of course , none other than Greyson strides in. My breath catches. Of all the doctors at Paradise General, it has to be him.
“Trinity? What are you doing here?” he asks, eyes wide.
“Greyson,” I breathe. “I—I’m here for my mother.” I gesture to the gurney as my words tumble out in a rush. “She’s had an episode. I drove from Vancouver as soon as I got the call.”
He studies me for a moment. “You drove through the night?” There’s an edge to his question, a slight disbelief that needles at my already frayed nerves.
“Yes,” I snap, suddenly aware of my disheveled hair and the coffee stains on my shirt. Of course, he has to see me like this—unpolished, unraveled.
“Dr. Paradise,” I say, the title sharp on my tongue as I try to steady myself, focus on the matter at hand. “I need an update on her condition.”
He doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady and clinical. “Actually, it’s Dr. Greyson,” he corrects.
I snort, the sound bitter. “Right, because the weight of your last name is too much to bear.”
His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t take the bait. “It’s practicality,” he says. “My family is full of Dr. Paradises. Using our first names keeps things simple.”
For a moment, I see the man I met months ago, the one who made my heart thump and my body glow. Then the moment is gone, and we’re back to this awkward, tangled mess.
I realize I’m being snotty without cause. Why am I lashing out at him? It’s not his fault that life has thrown yet another curveball my way.
“Sorry, Dr. Greyson,” I mutter, tugging self-consciously at my rumpled clothes. “It’s been a long night.”
His fingers dance across the keyboard, and he swivels the laptop around. The images—gray and white shadows that should mean nothing to me—somehow convey everything I fear.
“Your mother arrived just after two-fifteen this morning,” he says, his voice clinical yet not unkind. “The MRI revealed ischemic changes with evidence of cerebral tissue damage and structural abnormalities.” His finger hovers over the image. “These findings are consistent with multiple lacunar infarcts.”
I hold up my hand. “Can you say that in regular English? I’m not a doctor.”
His brow furrows. “You’re not a doctor? You said you worked at North Van General Hospital.”
I nod. “I do, but I work in administration.”
His eyes grow wide. “Well, what I said means the MRI confirmed brain tissue damage and abnormalities.” His finger indicates a cluster of ominous spots. “These are indicative of several brain bleeds that we call a hemorrhagic stroke.”
My gaze moves over the screen.
“This is an active brain bleed,” he continues, tapping another area. “That’s what we’re currently addressing with intravenous medication.”
“Is she…?” My voice trails off into the void of uncertainty.
“We’ve consulted with the on-call neurologist,” he assures me, closing the laptop with a gentle snap. “She’ll be admitted as soon as a bed becomes available, and she’s scheduled for an echocardiogram to check for blood clots that may have traveled to her brain.”
The hospital buzzes around us, but in this bubble, it’s just Greyson, me, and the weight of his words. “What does this all mean for her, realistically?”
He regards me with those too-perceptive eyes. “If we can manage the bleed and she demonstrates cognitive stability in her tests, she might go home. Otherwise, she’ll need assisted care.”
Tears betray me, welling up before I can stop them. I mumble a choked thank you and slide my chair closer to my mother’s still form. Her hand is warm, deceptively strong in mine, and I cling to it like an anchor.
I can’t lose her too. Not now. The thought of becoming an orphan at twenty-eight paralyzes me, even as I realize it’s ridiculous, because adults don’t become orphans. But if I lose her, what am I then? She’s more than my mother. She’s my compass, my confidant.
“Is your dad here?” Greyson asks.
I shake my head. “He passed away just after Christmas,” I mumble.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replies. “Once we schedule her tests, someone will be here to take her.” And with that, Greyson leaves.
“Mom,” I whisper, knowing she likely can’t hear me. “Please be okay.”
But the room offers no answers, only the steady beep of the heart monitor, an indifferent witness to my unraveling world.
Then I feel my mother’s hand slipping away as her eyelids flutter open. “Ellen?” she murmurs, her voice hoarse.
“Mom, it’s me. Trinity,” I correct gently, but my heart sinks like a stone in deep water. Ellen is her sister who passed away a few years ago. The blank look in my mother’s eyes isn’t just confusion. It’s a fracture in the foundation of who she is. Who we are.
I’ve always thought of her as indomitable, my north star. But now that star feels impossibly distant. What does it mean to lose someone piece by piece? To become the caretaker instead of the cared-for?
“Trinity?” she echoes, searching my face with bewildered eyes.
“Your daughter,” I remind her gently.
“I wasn’t aware I had any children.”
A lump forms in my throat, thick and suffocating. I fight to keep my composure, swallowing back the surge of emotion. “It’s only me. You only have a daughter.”
Her gaze drifts away, uncomprehending, and I’m left clutching at the frayed edges of hope. I stand abruptly, my legs unsteady, and step outside the curtain. A nurse hurries past, and I catch her arm. “My mother’s awake,” I tell her. “Please let the doctor know.”
“Of course,” she replies before disappearing down the corridor.
I step back inside and sink into my chair, the chill of the hospital seeping into my bones. Time blurs until Dr. Greyson reappears, his presence a strange comfort despite everything.
“That’s good news that she’s awake,” he says. He then engages in a brief, one-sided conversation with my mother before a technician appears and she’s wheeled out for her echocardiogram.
“Here.” Greyson hands me a clipboard laden with hospital paperwork, his tone oddly gentle. Paper. My hospital migrated away from paper a few years ago. “Take your time with this. It’s thorough.”
“Thanks.” I manage a small smile, accepting the task.
He nods and leaves me to it.
The questions on the paperwork blur together, medication lists, emergency contacts. I flip through them, leaving blank spaces where answers should be. None of it is unfamiliar, but I don’t have all the details. They’re tucked away in Mom’s apartment, in her purse, somewhere out of reach .
Greyson reappears, his frown deepening as he scans the forms I hand him. “These aren’t complete,” he says, his tone all business.
My patience snaps. “I know! But this is all I have. I’ll get the rest when I go to her condo.”
He points to the date I’ve put in at the top of the form. “This information is two years old. Our electronic medical records will have most of this, except if she’s never been admitted here before, we’ll need her personal health number to access the records.”
“Great,” I bite out, my voice rising. “I’ll find that at her condo too.”
His expression hardens, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he steps back, letting the frustration hang heavy between us. For a moment, I hate him—for being right and for making me feel small when everything already feels impossible.
Panic flares up inside me. “I just need to run to her condo, get her social insurance card, her personal health number, and her medical file.”
He glances at his watch. “Thirty minutes,” he says firmly. “Otherwise, we’ll have to reschedule her test.”
“All right.” I rush from the room, my mind racing faster than my feet can carry me.
What should be a quick drive across the lake in morning traffic is slower than I would have expected for a town this size. Mom lives in a five-story condo building with a stunning view of downtown across the lake. I realize her condo is close to Greyson’s family vineyard. I park crookedly in Mom’s second parking place and race up the stairs to her front door.
The key scrapes in the lock, and I twist it hard and burst inside. My hands fumble through her drawers, flinging contents aside until her purse and medical file are secured under my arm. The clock is ticking.
I weave back through traffic, each red light an eternity. When I finally skid to a stop again at the hospital entrance, Greyson’s there, arms crossed, and I brace myself before his disapproving gaze.
“Late,” he says, as if I’m a tardy intern instead of a woman grappling with her mother’s health.
“Traffic,” I snap back, brushing past him, my pulse pounding. He follows me to the waiting area where I hastily complete the forms, the pen scratching aggressively against the paper.
Greyson leans over my shoulder. “These medications you listed don’t match our records.”
“What? Did I put them down wrong?” I thrust the sheet from her file toward him. “This is what she had at home.”
He studies the date on the corner and points to it. “The information you provided is out of date. This is why electronic medical records are crucial, and it’s a waste of your time to fill out all these forms.”
“I know that,” I snap. “But unless someone fills out that ridiculous form, the province won’t cover the hospital bills.” My voice rises, frustration boiling over. “Not everyone can rely on a family fortune to pay like you can.”
I stand and head back toward where I last saw my mother, leaving him standing with his perfect hair and impeccable coat. Why is it so easy for him to unravel me? I return to my mother’s bay just as they’re wheeling her back in. A man in scrubs introduces himself as Dr. Mark Chappell, the neurologist. His words echo Greyson’s previous report, adding a thin strand of hope that her memory might return with time. And he thinks it won’t be long now before there’s a room open for her to be admitted.
“Thank you, Dr. Chappell,” I whisper, my throat tight.
I sit with my mother for hours. Occasionally, she stirs, but mostly, she just sleeps, and I try to accomplish a few tasks to distract myself. When night falls, a nurse, her kind eyes shadowed by exhaustion, suggests I go home to rest. She assures me they’ll get my mother into a room eventually. It seems wrong to leave, but I feel myself nodding mechanically, and soon, I’m retracing my steps out to my car and back to my mother’s place. When I arrive, the condo feels alien, haunted by what was once familiar.
I open the freezer and a chill escapes, revealing rows of frozen corn stacked with eerie precision. The fridge is no better, half-empty, its shelves holding a few cartons of milk—all but one expired, and a forgotten jar of pickles.
How long has it been like this? Had her memory been slipping before this happened? Hidden behind carefully rehearsed conversations and polite deflections? I talk to her daily, but seeing this is completely different. Was this not her first stroke?
The distance between Vancouver and Paradise suddenly feels insurmountable, a five-hour gap that’s now grown wider. How do I bridge it when every corner of this apartment whispers of neglect I should have noticed?
I sink to the floor, the cold seeping through my jeans, and for the first time since the phone call, I allow myself to completely let go and cry.