Chapter 10
Ten
A frustrated huff pours out of me. “Mom, this really isn’t a good time.” She called me during the drive into Logan’s Point.
Mom smirks through my phone screen. “You don’t have five minutes to talk with your mother?”
When are our talks only five minutes long? “Okay. What do you need to talk about?”
“You have a prep meeting tonight.”
Ugh, don’t remind me. “Yep, that’s right.”
“And you will control the room,” my mother says commandingly.
I bite inside my cheek to stop the annoyance showing on my face. “It won’t be hard,” I reply. “You know they all fall into line when an Ashworth enters the room.”
“But you know how Naomi Fisher feels about the society event meetings,” Mom says, narrowing her stare. “We need to keep her in check. She’s gunning to take my place.”
“She didn’t succeed when I was in Switzerland with you,” I reply. “As far as I can tell, you still have full control.”
“You said she was undermining you at the last meeting.”
I sigh, wishing I’d never opened my mouth about that. Mom called me after the last meeting, and I was so wrecked I did something completely foolish. I vented to my mother.
“No, it wasn’t that bad,” I say, feigning confidence. “I’d had a long day at the hospital, and it was playing on my mind. I promise, I’ll be on my A-game. I won’t let you down.”
Mom smiles. “Good girl. I know you’ll handle this. It’s our legacy, but it’s your future. You won’t mess this up, will you?”
“No, Mother,” I say, sporting a fake grin yet avoiding direct eye contact with the camera lens. “I got this. I just need to go because I’m approaching the hospital.”
“And how’s the volunteer work going?”
I nod happily. “Well, thanks.”
“And how many others have signed up?”
My happiness sinks into a glum frown.
“Vanessa?” she presses.
I try a tactful response. “You only just asked me to get others to sign-up. It’ll take some time.”
Mom’s disappointment comes through the phone screen clearly. “You should’ve made it a priority as soon as you first approached the hospital.”
I bite my tongue. How on earth do I explain to my mother I’m not volunteering as a PR stunt to further the Ashworth family brand? It’s a non-self-serving exercise.
“Vanessa, you’ll get a list of volunteers at tonight’s meeting. Won’t you.”
My back stiffens at her tone. It was a statement, not a question.
I clear my throat and nod. “Yes, Mother.”
She smiles. “Okay, I’ll let you get ready for your shift. Talk soon.”
“Yes,” I reply as the call abruptly ends.
I lower the phone and sigh. “Love you too, Mom.”
I swipe my thumb across my phone and spot the notifications blowing up from my group chat with the girls. I open up the app to a bombardment of unread text messages.
“Seriously! Tell us what happened last night.”
“Ness, you left with LJ and then vanished. What is up?”
“Are you mad at LJ?”
“OMG. Are you mad at us?!?”
How am I supposed to respond? Hey girls, I’m sick of predicting what everyone will say and do, so I jumped on the back of the first motorcycle I could find.
Somehow, I don’t think that will fly.
Roger slows the sedan to a stop in front of St. Mark’s Hospital. As he walks around to open my passenger door, the perfect way to end the incessant texts comes to mind.
I reply with, “How about you all join me for a volunteer shift at the hospital?”
The texts run cold, with feeble excuses of other plans they have for the day. If I had suggested a day at the spa for facials and manicures, I’m sure it’d be a different story.
Do I know my friends, or what?
Before I leave Roger, I tell him I won’t be needing him for the rest of the day.
“Are you sure, miss?”
I give him a bright smile. “Yes. Have a wonderful day off.”
Roger smiles and nods. “Thank you, Miss Ashworth.”
I wave him off and make my way into the hospital.
My brown leather ankle boots have a small heel, which clip-clop on my way in.
The primary objective today is seeing Dax.
This led to choosing pants over a skirt, in hopes of getting back on his motorcycle.
My pants and shirt are navy, which I layered with my brown tweed blazer.
My arms got so cold last night as the wind whipped past while we rode.
This outfit is still chic enough to maintain my image without arousing suspicion.
“Oh, Vanessa,” Nurse Trisha says, standing near the front desk. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
I smile and wave on my approach. “I have some plans for later in the day and didn’t want to leave you in the lurch. Thought I’d clock in my volunteer hours now.”
Trisha smiles and bats a hand. “Honey, you didn’t need to come in. You’re allowed to have a life. You’re only eighteen once.”
I slip into the nurses’ station. “It’s no problem. I enjoy coming here.”
“Well, you know I’m always glad to see you here.” She gestures to a stack of files. “And you know how much I hate data entry.”
I sit on the desk chair, collect the files, and scoot toward the computer. “Consider it done.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Trisha says playfully.
Guilt swirls in my stomach, and I swallow hard in an attempt to rid it. “Oh, before you go,” I say. “How’s the woman who had the breathing issues?”
“Much better,” Trisha replies. “I’m sure she’d love a visit from you.”
I nod, stepping away from the desk. “I’ll see her first.”
Trisha leaves to see a different patient, and I leave my purse by the computer.
After I texted Dax to meet up, I opened the search tab from last night when I googled Dax’s illness.
Even though it’s wrong, I just need to know what Dr. Harris found out about Dax.
I hate admitting my sole purpose in coming here today was to look up Dax’s file.
My fingers twitch as I take a second glance at the computer.
No, Vanessa. Visit the woman first. Do at least one selfless thing today before snooping through the hospital’s patient files.
I leave the nurses’ station and make my way to the woman’s room. I walk past Mr. Raymond’s room and smile. He’s lying on his back, sound asleep. I step through the doorway of the next room and knock on the doorframe.
“Yes?” the woman asks, reclined in her bed.
I step into the room, giving her a friendly wave. “Hi there. My name’s Vanessa. I just wanted to check in and see how you were feeling.”
She sits up in bed. “Oh, you’re the girl who sounded the alarm.” She places a hand on her chest. “Boy, am I grateful for you. Thank you so much.”
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” I say, stopping by her bed. “But honestly, I didn’t do that much. It was all the medical staff.”
“Either way, thank you,” she says with a hearty smile. “I hear you’re the one trying to make this hospital better.”
“I’m just organizing a fundraiser.”
“That’s amazing. If it means more staff, then maybe it won’t be up to the girl who reads to find a woman struggling to breathe.”
My stomach wobbles with a feeling I don’t exactly understand. I give her a kind smile and turn toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to resting.”
She waves me off. “Come back and say hi anytime.”
I leave the room with an unsettling feeling. I don’t feel worthy of her praise. All I’m doing is organizing a gala that has more political and social advantages for my mother. Sure, I help the nurses with their paperwork, but I’m also just a real-life audiobook for patients.
I make my way back to the nurses’ station, plonk down on the desk chair, and perch my fingers above the keyboard. Ugh. This is so wrong. But then Dax’s face fills my mind. Memories of cuddling up with him under the stars collide with the memory of him collapsing in this very place.
That’s it.
I open the database.
I have to know more.
I need to help him get better.
I search: Malone, Dax. Dax’s file appears on screen. Cindy entered his notes from yesterday, and my gut cramps as I read them. Apparently, the blood tests showed Dax’s white blood cell count is high.
I sneak my phone out of my clutch purse to search for what this means. The first result suggests his body is fighting off infection. Hmm, that doesn’t seem so bad. Physical labor and injuries also make the list. And then my body chills when I read that smoking can be a cause.
Panic courses through my veins as I read the symptoms. Fever, night sweats, weight loss, easy bruising and bleeding, and fatigue. My head grows woozy, and I swallow hard. Dax told me he sweated throughout the night. Oh my gosh. Does having more symptoms mean his prognosis could be much worse?
What if he’s immunocompromised?
I put down my phone and look back at the file on the computer screen. Dr. Harris has suggested emotional stress or anxiety could also be a cause. Even though I’m already crossing a major line, I push it further by taking a photo of Dax’s file on my phone.
I slip the phone back into my purse and exhale hard. What am I doing? I’m supposed to have left this sneaky, conniving girl in the past.
I stand from the desk and tuck my hair behind my ears. I straighten the chain strap of my purse over my shoulder, and walk out of the nurses’ station.
Nurse Cindy approaches the desk, surprised. “Oh, hi, honey,” she says with a wave. “I didn’t know you were in.”
“I’m sorry, but my family just called. I’m needed back home. I won’t be able to do my shift today.”
Cindy smiles and shrugs. “No biggy. You gotta do what you gotta do.”
Guilt spasms inside me, but I hold it together like my mother taught me. “Thanks. I hope you have a good day.”
She waves me off. “You too.”
I leave the hospital and walk past the small legal-aid office. I take out my phone and stare at Dax’s file in my camera roll. Now, if he doesn’t believe that he needs medical treatment, at least I have photographic proof.
I move past an employment agency and inhale deeply as I enter the pharmacy. It’s narrow inside, housing an array of shelved items. I hug my purse close as I make my way to the rear counter. The pharmacist, who wears a long white coat, greets me with a warm smile.
“Good morning,” she says. “How can I help you today?”