Chapter Twenty-Three
“M orning, everyone!” I breezed through the double doors of Mum’s hospital wing. I came bearing baked goods and sunny smiles. Just normal, perky, Goody Two-Shoes Gia.
Nothing to see here, folks.
Everything was normal.
I decided to forgive myself for letting my husband finger and play with me while he conducted his business from the back seat of his vehicle yesterday.
It was a momentary lapse of judgment. Could happen to anyone, really.
I was blinded by the thrill of having just bought a private jet. Although now that I’d received all the paperwork and got a peek into the red tape of it all, I was sorely regretting the decision.
I didn’t even like flying.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blackthorn.” The nurse at the reception smiled warmly, standing up to rummage through the pastries I placed on the counter. She took a slurp of her massive Dunkin’ iced coffee. “Dr. Stultz is in your mother’s room. You can still catch him if you hurry.”
“Lovely. Thanks!” I advanced toward her room and noticed the door was ajar. I’d decided to tackle this situation with Mum head-on. Yes, her condition had worsened, but miracles happened every day. Case in point—Tate actually asked me how my night had been yesterday.
Only three million and two hundred more steps until he became an actual human. So close.
I walked through the door to find Dr. Stultz standing next to another doctor.
They were both speaking in hushed voices.
Mum was folded over to one side, one leg unnaturally elevated in traction.
The side of her face was completely bruised.
What the hell happened? She was fine when I left her yesterday.
I stepped farther in, sucking in a breath.
“What’s going on?”
Both doctors turned to me. Dr. Stultz was the first to speak.
“Gia. Your mother fell out of bed. Broke her tibia and two ribs.” A loaded silence dominated the room as his throat worked around the next sentence.
“We found her immediately after. All our flight- and fall-risk patients wear sensors to avoid this situation exactly.”
“Oh, um, thanks?”
His expression darkened. “She could not produce sounds of distress.”
I closed my eyes, somehow managing not to cry. Enzo and Filippo were just beyond the door.
“I…how…” I peered beyond their shoulders, itching to go to her, to scoop her into my arms. And then another, darker thought penetrated my mind.
There was nothing left to hold. She wasn’t really Mum.
Not the mum who cracked jokes with me and once chased me down the street all the way to the tube station because I paired a mustard-colored coat with white Mary Janes, and no daughter of hers could commit such horrid fashion crime in broad daylight.
We both toppled over with laughter when she showed up with a pair of black sneakers.
Then I’d ended up being thirty minutes late to a movie because we couldn’t help ourselves and went to share a cookie at Caffè Nero.
Now Mum appeared to be sleeping—always sleeping these days—hooked up to monitors.
In her dressing gown and without any makeup, I saw her in a way I hadn’t ever before. Frail and fragile and out of touch with the world around her. Her collarbones and sternum jutting forth beneath papery, vein-mapped skin.
“When was the last time she was awake?” I finally found my voice.
The second doctor excused himself and scurried out of the room.
“Three days ago,” Dr. Stultz said.
When I was in the Hamptons.
“And I missed it?” This time, my eyes did pool with tears. I couldn’t bear the loss.
“You’ve been here every other day of the week,” he said carefully.
“Well, have you been able to start the trials with her yet? At least the neuroplasticity therapies?” I wiped the tears from my face quickly.
“Or…or…what about reading to her a little bit?” I asked desperately.
I knew it was useless. I’d been reading to her almost every day.
Her favorite classics. Wuthering Heights and Sab by Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda and Of Mice and Men .
I played her all her favorite Celia Cruz songs, probably too loudly.
Talked her ear off. Nothing worked. Nothing ever brought her back.
Dr. Stultz approached me, his face etched with pity. “Did you come here alone?”
The question startled me. I always did.
“Um, yes.” I stood up straighter. “I mean, I have my security. Because of…you know, my husband’s high profile.” He didn’t ask, but I felt the need to explain anyway.
“Right.”
“Is something wrong?”
“You might want to ask your husband to come in.” Dr. Stultz put a hand on my shoulder. “We need to talk.”
No. Wrong answer. The right one was “No, everything is great. Nothing to see here.”
My knee-jerk reaction was to refuse him. I’d spent the past seven years braving everything on my own. But something in his face made me shuffle to a corner of the vast reception and pull out my phone. My hands were shaking, and it took me a few attempts to unlock the screen.
Gia: The doctor wants to talk to me about Mum. It seems serious. He asked if you could come.
I blinked at the words on my screen, knowing I’d crossed an invisible line we drew in the sand.
Tate and I weren’t that type of couple. We weren’t any type of couple.
Just because he ate me out a few times and flaunted his fuck-you money in my face didn’t mean we were a united front.
And for obvious reasons, I wasn’t too keen on seeing me at my worst.
I typed another message quickly.
Gia: I told him it’s not necessary, but he’s watching, so I texted you.
Gia: Feel free to ignore. I’ll just tell him you have a meeting or something.
His answer came before I managed to hit Send on the last one.
Tate: Ten minutes.
I didn’t know how exactly Tate made it to Mum’s floor in less than eight minutes.
The office was close, but not that close.
Then I remembered how fond he was of stalking me to ensure I wasn’t kidnapped to check on his “investment.” He was probably already inside the building, being his usual, creepy self.
Creepy as he might be, he looked like a sin waiting to be committed in black slacks and a matching onyx dress shirt. The effect of well-built men in sharp suits needed to be studied. Urgently. What were we putting our research money to these days? Not the important stuff, obviously.
“What’s going on?” Tate breezed directly toward Dr. Stultz, a furious scowl on his face. He pinned Dr. Stultz with the looks he gave interns who spilled coffee on new MacBooks at the office.
“Mr. Blackthorn, I appreciate you coming on such short notice.” Dr. Stultz visibly flinched at the sight of my husband, instinctively taking two steps back. “Please follow me into my office.”
Tate led the way, as if he owned said office. Usually, I was embarrassed by his blatant show of dominance, but right now, I was grateful someone else was taking charge.
We settled in horrid green seats that I found particularly offensive for some reason.
I supposed I just wanted to take my anger out on something.
The walls were littered with certificates, diplomas, and pictures of Dr. Stultz with his wife and four children, smiling in faraway exotic places and during cozy Christmas holidays.
Jealousy dragged across my chest like a rusty knife.
A reminder of all the things I couldn’t have with my own family anymore.
Dr. Stultz settled across from us, one hand hidden behind his desk, no doubt hovering over the panic button in case Tate decided to strangle him.
The last few days had dulled my senses. Now, in broad daylight, fully clothed, oozing power and malice, I saw him for who he was—a predator in Prada.
“Why are we here?” Tate demanded, laser-focused on Dr. Stultz. He’d been largely ignoring my existence since he showed up, and I was beginning to realize inviting him here was a mistake.
Dr. Stultz widened his collar under his white lab coat, clearing his throat. “I’ve been meaning to call you to set up a meeting, but Gia beat me to it—”
“More information.” Tate bared his teeth, causing Dr. Stultz to rear his head back with a wince. “Less meaningless chitchat.”
Dr. Stultz pursed his lips.
I put my hand on Tate’s thigh. “Honey, please.”
Tate produced a dissatisfied growl but didn’t argue.
Dr. Stultz yanked a few tissues from a box on his desk and patted his sweaty forehead. “As I mentioned to Ms. Bennett—”
“Mrs. Blackthorn,” Tate cut him off bitingly.
“My apologies. It’s hard to keep track when I treat dozens of patients.
Mrs. Blackthorn and I spoke earlier this week, and I explained to her that Telma is in advanced stage dementia.
Her latest tests show a steep decline in all areas of the brain, including frontal, parietal, and temporal lobe function.
It is my and my colleagues’ belief that the buildup of amyloid plaques has caused extensive cell death.
Severe enough, I’m afraid, to be beyond the scope of this program to offer her any marked improvement, such as it is. ”
Tate narrowed his eyes, and I could tell he was about to say something… Tate-y. I grabbed his hand and pressed. Hard. I wanted to hear the truth, even if it hurt.
“Gia.” Dr. Stultz turned his attention to me, the fear on his face replaced with sympathy.
“The progression is irreversible. Your mother has advanced beyond what our trial was created to treat. She’s lost language processing and spatial awareness, and earlier today, Dr. Sheridan and I found her unresponsive to severe pain.
She’s incontinent and can no longer move on her own accord. ”
“It’s nothing in comparison to what I’ll do to you if you don’t fix her,” Tate muttered. His hand beneath mine began tapping his leg.
Dr. Stultz redirected his attention to him. “Mr. Blackthorn, it’s out of my hands.”
“Then use other fucking parts of your body,” Tate enunciated slowly, callously. “Your brain, for instance.”