5. Sam #2
The protective surge that rises in my chest catches me off guard. That wing isn't just a memorial, it's everything my mother believed in. Patients who can't afford care elsewhere. Research that pharmaceutical companies won't fund.
It's something my mother would have fought for if she were alive.
I set my cup down with unexpected force, coffee sloshing onto my fingers. "I need to find out what's happening. Where did you hear this? Who can I talk to about this?"
"I just heard some of the nurses gossiping, but I would start with the administration."
I stand up quickly, suddenly fully awake. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I’ll catch up later.”
Before I make any accusations, I need to clear my head. I head to the surgical floor and run through a few quick post-op checks. They're mostly routine, a few vitals to review, one dressing to inspect. It gives me enough time to think, but not enough to calm the fireworks exploding in my chest.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve done the minimum to justify disappearing.
The administrative department is foreign territory. White, pristine walls and plush carpeting replace the scuffed tiles and antiseptic smell of the surgical wing. I pace outside the frosted glass doors, my reflection warped and shifting in the glass.
I just need to ask. They can’t keep this from the medical staff. Not if it affects our patients. Not if it affects us.
I pivot again, my sneakers making no sound on the carpet.
A custodian pushing a cart offers a quick smile as he passes. Two administrators in matching navy blazers barely glance my way.
"I can't believe we're still talking about this," one says to the other.
"Another all-day financial restructuring meeting," the second replies with a sigh. "Third this month. They're doing this, it's now just a matter of when."
I slow my steps, suddenly invested in pretending to check my phone while I eavesdrop. The two continue walking, voices fading.
"Has the board approved it?"
"No, but the writing is on the wall."
Their voices disappear around the corner, but that one word stops my breath.
Suddenly, the legacy I've wanted to escape my entire life is the one thing I need to protect, now. How can this even be on the table?
I don't understand the business side of medicine, but I need to learn fast and find out if this is a real possibility.
My phone buzzes in my trembling hand. Kip's name flashes on the screen.
Where are you? Grimaldi's looking for you, and she doesn't look happy.
Shit.
I sprint down the hallway, dodging a med cart and narrowly avoiding collision with a patient transporter. My Danskos squeak against the freshly waxed floor as I round the corner to the surgical board.
Kip paces beneath the electronic display, tugging his earlobe and checking his watch. His lanky frame straightens when he spots me.
"Where have you been? Grimaldi's on the warpath. "
"Administrative floor. I told you." I catch my breath, glancing around to make sure we're not overheard.
"Pull it together, Taylor."
"What exactly did she want?"
"To eviscerate you for missing pre-rounds, probably. But I covered. Told her you were with a coding patient in the ICU."
"You lied to Grimaldi?" My eyes widen.
"Don't make it weird." He shrugs, but I catch the hint of a smile.
"You're weird."
Kip crosses his arms, watching me as I rejoin him outside Grimaldi's office. “So? What’d you find out?”
“Not much,” I admit, still catching my breath. “I couldn’t talk to anyone. But I overheard two administrators on their way into a meeting. They mentioned the ‘concierge proposal’ being all but a done deal.”
His brow tightens. “Damn.”
“I don’t even know what that means exactly, but the way they were talking... it sounded serious.”
Kip nods slowly, jaw clenched. “If it’s true, it’s already in motion.”
Down the hallway, my mother’s portrait watches from the wall. She's still smiling, still expectant, but I know she wouldn't be if she heard this buzz. My stomach twists.
"This hospital has always been about accessibility in the middle of a wealthy enclave. It's meant to serve people regardless of income. And now they want to make it a hospital for the rich only?"
Kip nods sympathetically. "Yeah, the traditional hospital model is becoming less and less lucrative for big money donors. It's not profitable enough."
My hands form tight fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms. "This hospital isn't supposed to be about profit. That's not what hospitals are supposed to be."
The clicking of purpose-driven heels against linoleum cuts our conversation short. Dr. Grimaldi approaches, her dark ponytail swinging with each precise step. Her espresso eyes narrow as she takes us in.
"Less gossip, more work, Doctors." Her gaze lingers on me, searching for weakness.
"Yes, ma'am," Kip answers.
"Taylor, your post-op notes from yesterday are incomplete. Fix them before you scrub in today."
I straighten my spine. "Will do."
"Oh, how's the patient in the ICU?”
"It turned out to be a machine malfunction. All good."
"Right-o."
She holds my gaze a beat longer before continuing down the hall, her white coat billowing behind her like a battle flag.
"God, she terrifies me," Kip whispers once she's out of earshot.
But I'm not listening anymore. Something has shifted inside me, like tectonic plates realigning. All these years trying to be just Sam, not Samuel Taylor's daughter, not Evelyn Taylor's legacy, suddenly seem trite.
"I've spent years trying to escape my family's shadow here. But I'll be damned if I let some profit-hungry corporation destroy what my mother built."
Kip blinks at me. "So what are you going to do about it?"
I pull out my phone, my fingers steady with newfound purpose, and text Arden.
Need your crisis management skills. Family legacy under attack.