Eight
Trinity
O n Saturday morning, I rub the sleep from my eyes in the hospital parking lot. My hand is wrapped tightly around my cardboard coffee cup, heat seeping into my palm, the rich aroma promising a semblance of alertness. I take a sip, savoring the bitterness that cuts through the fog in my brain. “Nectar of the gods,” I mutter with a wry smile as I exit the car and push through the sliding doors into the antiseptic brightness of the hospital. Mom finally has her own room, and I’m anxious to get an update.
The familiar beeps and murmurs guide me to her room, where I find Mom propped up in bed, a scowl on her face. “This breakfast is atrocious,” she declares, pushing the tray away with more strength than I’ve seen in days. Cold scrambled eggs ooze on the plate beside half-eaten squares of melon. Her distaste for both is no secret, and her complaint, though passive-aggressive, floods me with relief. If she’s griping, she’s feeling better.
“Hey, Mom.” I pull up a chair and settle in. “How was last night?”
She ponders for a moment, eyes scanning the room before settling back on me. “I need my book,” she says.
“I’ll go get that for you. Where is it?”
“On my bedside table. The new Danielle Steele.”
Surprise flickers through me; I didn’t see it last night. “Of course. After the doctor visits, I’ll run home and grab it.”
Her lips twitch in a faint smile, and I cling to this small victory. A book might not be much, but if it can tether her, even slightly, to the world she inhabits, it’s worth every effort.
The door swings open with a whisper, and Dr. Chappell enters in his white coat. He greets me with a nod before turning his attention to Mom, who seems to brighten under his clinical gaze.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blaine,” he says, “Can I call you Joy?”
She giggles like a schoolgirl, and I think I just threw up in my mouth. There are some things in life children shouldn’t witness, and a flirting mother is one of them. I shudder.
He unfolds his stethoscope from around his neck. “How are we feeling today?”
“Not so bad,” she quips.
Dr. Chappell chuckles, encouraging her humor as he checks her pulse, her pupils, and asks a few questions that test her memory—what did she have for breakfast, what’s her name. When he asks who I am, she just stares at me. I listen, half-distracted by the rhythm of life-saving machines, until Mom mentions something that snags my full attention.
“It’s good to see you have a visitor.” Dr. Chappell looks at me and smiles.
“George stopped by this morning before work,” she says casually, tapping an invisible watch on her wrist. “You just missed him. ”
My heart lurches. Dad’s been gone for six months, taken swiftly by a heart attack. Alarm tightens my chest, and I glance at Dr. Chappell, searching his face for a reaction. He meets my eyes briefly, a silent understanding passing between us. He knows my father wasn’t here.
“Joy,” he says gently, redirecting the conversation. “Tell me about your daughter.”
“She works in a hospital in Vancouver, and she’s very important. She’s single, and I’d fix you up with her if you weren’t married.”
“I’ve been married twice,” he teases.
“Marriage is the best,” she says. “George is my soulmate. We met when we were young. I’m so lucky. We just clicked. He’s a dreamer, and I was so serious. We bring out the best in each other.”
I wipe a tear away. We both miss him so much. I take a deep breath and look at Dr. Chappell. “When do you think you’ll be releasing her?”
“It will be a few days. If you’d like to bring her a robe and slippers, that would be fine.”
“Oh great. Would you like that, Mom?”
“Sure.” She nods.
“When I grab your book, I’ll get some things from home. Maybe your toothbrush and your favorite powder. And maybe some outside food? Something better than cold eggs? That is, if I can bring in outside food.” I turn again to Dr. Chappell.
“It’s against hospital policy, but the meals here aren’t very good, so just don’t let the nurses see it.” Dr. Chappell types on his laptop. “And keep it healthy.”
“Healthy,” I repeat, filing away the list in my head—nightgown, bathrobe, slippers, reading material, and real food.
We exchange farewells as Dr. Chappell finishes his exam, but I excuse myself and follow him out into the hallway.
“Doctor,” I call, catching up to his brisk pace. “My father—he passed just after Christmas. Is it normal for her to—?”
“Confuse things?” he supplies. “It can be. The brain bleed has stopped, thankfully. So now we wait to see the extent of the damage. She’s much more alert now, but it’s possible some memories might not return.” His voice is soothing, but the truth is a jagged pill to swallow.
“Thank you,” I manage, watching him stride away. There are still so many questions, but I have no choice but to return to Mom’s room. Back at her side, I smile reassuringly. “I’ll go get your things—and that book you wanted.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she says, her attention already drifting.
I head out, and as the elevator doors close, I cling to hoping she gets better.
A little while later, I pull into Mom’s parking spot. I don’t even remember driving here. I look up at the concrete ceiling and wonder how safe I am if I can’t remember anything about my drive. My phone pings, grounding me in the present.
Unknown Number: Are you coming in to see your mom today?
Me: I just left. I’ll be back shortly. Who is this? Is my mom okay?
There’s no immediate response, so I tuck my phone back into my pocket and make my way to Mom’s condo. Inside, I fill an overnight bag with necessities. My plan is to work from her room, so I snatch my laptop from the desk and make my way back to the front door.
As I’m walking out, I realize I forgot Mom’s book. A quick scan of her room yields no sign of it. Frustration nips at my calm as I survey the shelves, lined with an eclectic mix of literature. She’s always loved to read almost everything, but romance seems to be her favorite. With reluctance, I pluck a Danielle Steele novel from the collection. I can always go to the bookstore at the mall if this doesn’t work for her.
The lake glints in the midday sun as I drive back to the hospital, stirring memories of summers spent here, carefree and untouched by the responsibilities I now carry. But even as nostalgia tugs at my heartstrings, the sight of charred land from last summer’s wildfires brings me back to the present.
Over the years, Paradise has morphed into something almost unrecognizable. The vineyards that once sprawled across the Black Bear region’s west side are now hidden behind burgeoning housing developments. Yet despite the changes, there’s a quaint charm to this place I still appreciate.
I pull over at a bustling fruit stand, wooden crates brimming with the season’s bounty. I gather a generous assortment of strawberries, peaches, raspberries, and blackberries—their colors unbelievably vibrant. These will be for the nurses on Mom’s floor. Working in a hospital, I’m intimately aware of the tireless dedication each nurse pours into the care they provide. It’s a small gesture, but recognition goes a long way.
“Thank you,” I say to the vendor, handling the bags of fruit gingerly as I head back to the car. They deserve this and so much more. Making a final stop at a bakery, I pick up a scone with some clotted cream. This is a healthy snack.
I haul everything I’ve collected—the bursting bags of fruit, Mom’s overnight bag with her book tucked inside, my work bag, her snack, and my purse—through the hospital parking lot. I must look like a Sherpa making my way to the top of the mountain. Thankfully, the automatic doors slide open with a soft whoosh, but I struggle to balance all the packages while pressing the elevator button. When the doors part, I step in and immediately feel the need to rush, as if time is slipping away with each floor the elevator ascends.
“Need a hand?” A nurse enters on the next floor just as I fumble with the bags. She steadies them with a smile, and relief washes over me .
“Thanks,” I reply. “I’m a bit of a pack mule.”
She chuckles and exits the elevator with me, assisting me to the nurses’ station where I deposit the colorful bounty. Their faces light up. “Thank you for taking such good care of my mom,” I tell them.
“Dr. Greyson was asking about you earlier,” one of the nurses mentions casually. “He’s quite the looker, isn’t he?”
I look at her name tag. Samantha Marks . “Is he?” I manage half a smile, the memory of tangled sheets flashing briefly before I push it aside. “He was Mom’s doctor when they brought her into the emergency department. Did he say what he wanted?”
She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “Nope. He might swing by again, though.”
I nod, curiosity lingering, but I have more pressing concerns. I continue down the hall to my mother’s room.
“Mom, I brought you your favorite scone. I thought you might be hungry.” I step into the quiet space, holding out the offering along with the book.
She glances at the pastry, then back at me, her expression distant. “I’ve eaten already.”
“Really? Did they bring you another tray?” I ask as confusion clouds her features. She seems agitated. What happened while I was gone? “Did Dr. Greyson stop by?” I ask, trying to direct our conversation to something tangible.
Her eyes widen, a flicker of fear passing through them, and my heart tightens.
“Mom?” The question hangs between us, unanswered. Her eyes bounce around the room, and I can tell her anxiety is ratcheting up.
With a sigh, I step back into the hallway and walk down to the nurses’ station. “Can someone check on my mom? She is upset and isn’t able to tell me why.”
Samantha volunteers for the task.
“Thank you. Do you know if anything happened with her while I was out? ”
“Nothing on our end,” Samantha replies, though she looks a bit concerned. “Wait out here. Let me see what I can determine.”
“Okay, thanks.” I lean against the cool wall for a moment, gathering strength as I try to listen as Samantha talks to Mom.
“Who was that woman?” Mom asks when she enters.
“The tall blonde?” Samantha asks.
Their voices drop low, and my mind is a pinball machine, pinging through questions. Is she asking about me? No. It can’t be.
After a moment, Samantha emerges from the room, her hand finding my arm in a gesture of comfort. “She’s all right,” she says softly. “Just some confusion is all.”
“She didn’t recognize me?” The question slips out, barely a whisper, but the weight of it crashes down like a landslide.
If she forgets me, who am I without her? The thought is selfish, but I can’t help it. For so long, my mother has been my anchor, the person who believed in me even when I doubted myself. Watching her slip away feels like losing a part of myself, piece by piece, with no way to stop it.
There’s a moment’s hesitation before Samantha responds. “Memory issues can be sporadic after a brain bleed. It might just be a momentary lapse.” She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze, but it feels like a bandage on a gaping wound.
“Thank you,” I manage to whisper, plastering on a smile. As she walks away, I steel myself and step back into the room, where Mom is now reading. To anyone else, she might look content, absorbed in Danielle Steele’s world, but to me, she’s adrift at sea.
“Hey, Mom.” I move the scone and clotted cream closer to her. “The nice nurse brought you a snack?”
“Uh-huh,” Mom murmurs without looking up. “Very sweet of her.”
As I sit down at the foot of the bed, the whiplash of emotions makes it hard to focus. There is nothing for me to do but be here. “Do you mind if I do some work?” I ask .
She doesn’t answer.
When I open my laptop, an email from my boss blinks urgently at the top of my inbox. His words are kind and supportive, but essentially, he wants to know how long I think I’ll be gone. And he needs an update on the systems migration project, stat.
I take a deep breath because I can’t reply to his questions with firm answers.
Andy,
My mom had a stroke. There isn’t much for me to do right now but sit by her side and be here for the doctors, but it feels important to be present. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I’m connected and working and keeping up with all my duties.
We’re sorting out the kinks in the new electronic medical records system with the beta team, and we’re on track for a hospital-wide rollout in five weeks. I’m happy to hop on a video call if you need me.
Trinity
Send . I skim through the other emails, responses from vendors mixed with internal queries. Everyone wants a piece of me, but right now, my mother needs my attention.
The click of the door interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to find Greyson standing there. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, and his white coat drapes over broad shoulders. Doctor or not, he looks more like he stepped off a magazine cover than a hospital ward.
“Dr. Greyson,” I say. “What brings you here?”
He steps in, looking over at mom. “I checked in on your mom earlier, and you weren’t here,” he explains, “so I thought I’d come back by to see how you’re navigating things. Maybe go over what Dr. Chappell mentioned about her condition? ”
My defenses rise instantly. “Why would you do that?” I challenge.
For a moment, he looks taken aback, but then his expression softens. “I check in with most of my patients’ families when they’re admitted,” he says gently. “It’s important to ensure everyone feels supported during the transition from emergency to the wards.”
Mom doesn’t look up from her book.
“Right,” I murmur, not entirely convinced but grateful nonetheless. That’s certainly not how it works at my hospital back home. I remind myself to stay focused on the present. “Thanks, Dr. Greyson. That’s…thoughtful of you.”
“You can just call me Greyson,” he insists, with a hint of the charm I recall so vividly. “We know each other outside the hospital walls.”
I nod, though I’m not ready to cross the line from patient’s daughter to anything else. “I appreciate it.” Suddenly, I remember I have his reusable grocery bags. “Here. I was going to drop these off on my way down.”
He looks at them and smiles. “You can keep those. I have more.”
“I have dozens at home in Vancouver, and Mom has a healthy stack in her closet. Thank you for your help.”
He nods but doesn’t take the grocery bags. Instead, he pulls out his computer. “Let’s see what Mark put in your mother’s chart.”
I narrow my eyes, still not ready to buy into the friendly-doctor routine. “Dr. Chappell explained everything well enough,” I assure him.
“Have you started looking for a care home?” he asks casually, as if discussing the weather and not my mother’s future.
My heart skips a beat. “A care home? Why would she need that?” The words tumble out, laced with panic.
“Trinity,” he begins gently, but the softness of his voice does nothing to cushion the blow. “She won’t be able to go home immediately. She’s going to need time and rehabilitation. Her motor skills have taken a hit. She’s not walking well. And the memory issues will make it difficult for her to be on her own.”
The room seems to tilt, a carousel of emotions spinning me around. Dr. Chappell hadn’t painted such a dire picture. “This… This isn’t what he told me,” I stammer, feeling lost.
Mom flips the page in her book.
Greyson nods, understanding etched in his features. “I’ve got a list of recommended care homes,” he says, his tone calm, almost too calm. “I’ll get it to you today and can make some calls if you’d like.”
There’s something in his voice that catches me off guard. It’s not concern, exactly, but understanding. Perhaps this isn’t just another case for him.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Is this what you do for everyone?”
He meets my gaze. “Because I can. And because you don’t have to do this alone, Trinity.”
“Is this your way of trying to…?”
But Mom has put her book down and is listening intently. The accusation trails off, born of old hurt and new fear.
He shakes his head, a sad smile touching his lips. “You know, Trinity, Vancouver might have jaded you a little. Here in Paradise, we look out for each other.”
“Stop arguing with the nice doctor,” my mother chimes in.
“Thank you,” I manage, the words sounding hollow. “Your help is appreciated.”
As he turns to leave, a memory flashes—a tangled mess of limbs and white hotel sheets. My body responds with an involuntary shiver as if his touch lingers on my skin.
“Are you cold, dear? Do you need a blanket?” Mom asks.
“No, Mom, I’m fine,” I reply, rubbing my arms as if I could wipe away the memories along with the chill.
Greyson exits with a nod, leaving me to grapple with all of this—my past and Mom’s future.
Nurses, doctors, and a few therapists come and go from the room all afternoon. I watch, listen, and learn. Mom is not the same strong woman she was when I was growing up, and I’m becoming alarmed.
After dinner, a nurse peeks her head into the room. “Visiting hours are almost up.”
I nod, forcing a tired smile, and glance at my mother before packing my things. I close my laptop with a soft snap, the screen darkening as I do so. My gaze lingers on Mom’s sleeping form, her chest rising and falling. Quietly, I gather my bag, my thoughts still churning with the news Greyson dropped like a bomb.
The air outside has cooled, bringing with it the scent of pine and the faintest hint of grilled meats from a nearby restaurant. I order my favorite comfort food, tacos, for pickup and begin the trek back to Mom’s. For a while, I’m focused on my meal, but as I pull out of the restaurant’s parking lot, my grip on the steering wheel tightens. The weight of Greyson’s words lingers. A care home? The words feel like betrayal, even if I realize it might be necessary.
Back at the condo, I eat the tacos mechanically, barely tasting them as I replay our last conversation. The way Greyson’s gaze never wavered, his earnestness… That was real, wasn’t it? Shaking off the thought, I clear away my mess and continue down the hall to the guest room, which still smells faintly of Mom’s lavender perfume.
I get ready for bed and settle between the sheets. My fingers brush my e-reader to life, a particularly steamy scene bookmarked and waiting. As I read, heat unfurls within me and I conjure images of Greyson’s hands, his mouth electrifying my skin. A shiver runs down my spine, and I reach for the silver bullet hidden in my suitcase, a secret indulgence I packed on impulse.
Lying back against the cool sheets, I let the vibrator hum to life. With every touch, I imagine it’s Greyson’s tongue, wicked and insistent, tracing a path along my thighs. As the fantasy builds, another image intrudes—the way his gaze softened when he spoke about care homes, the steady resolve in his voice.
My breath catches, and the tension coiled in my body shifts, an ache blooming deep within me that isn’t just physical. It’s longing, yes, but also fear—fear of wanting something real, something that could break me if I let it in. Greyson said I don’t have to do this alone, but letting someone help feels so vulnerable. Everything about me is raw and exposed right now.
Refocusing, I chase my release, desperate to quiet the emotions threatening to overwhelm me, but I can’t quite get there, the ache remains—a reminder of everything I can’t control. “God, Greyson,” I whisper into the silence of the room. If he were here, he’d know exactly how to push me over the edge, how to draw out each sensation until I was a quivering mess beneath him. But would he want to? Or is his interest purely in my mother’s care?
The fantasy builds, coiling tight. Just for now, I want to lose myself in the memory of us—entwined, abandoned to desire, and far away from the sterile walls of the hospital and the weight of decisions yet to be made.
I’m teetering on the edge, breaths shallow and quick as pleasure builds within me. The silver bullet’s hum is a sweet promise. I’m so close. His dark eyes that see right into my soul…the sound he made as he climaxed… I pinch my nipple.
The sudden ring of my phone shatters the moment. I groan, snatching it with a trembling hand. I’m out of breath.
“Hello?” I gasp.
“Trinity? Did you sprint for the phone?” Greyson’s voice drips with amusement, and frustration tightens my chest. My climax is sprinting away, fading into the distance.
“What do you want, Greyson?” I snap, my other hand still gripping the vibrator.
“I pulled some strings and found a bed for your mom. It’s the best care facility in town,” he says. “I have tomorrow off, so I can join you for a walkthrough. What time works for you?”
I hesitate, hovering in the limbo between the need simmering inside me and the cold reality of duty. I can hear the clucking sounds he’s making, mocking my hesitation, questioning my self-control. With a loud sigh, I push back against my desires. “I can handle it myself.”
“Thing is,” he continues, “they’re holding this bed specifically for me, so I need to be there.”
“Fine,” I relent. “Whenever you’re ready in the morning.”
“Great. Let’s leave here at eight,” Greyson replies, a hint of triumph in his tone. “It’s a date.” And the line goes dead before I can protest.
“Arrogant…” I mutter.
The silver bullet in my hand feels alien now, its purpose lost. I toss it aside, feeling every bit as spent as if I’d followed through. Lying back, I try to find sleep, but Greyson’s image haunts me—those washboard abs, that cocky grin, the way his body once moved against mine. It’s etched into my memory, a standard no one else could meet.
“Damn you, Greyson,” I whisper into the dark. My eyes close, but there he is, seared onto the backs of my eyelids, an indelible mark of pleasure and torment.