Chapter 11
Under Siege
Jax
The morning after the boat, the sun rises over New York City with an indifferent, golden glow. But inside St. Jude’s Hospital, the atmosphere is less "sunny morning" and more "fortified bunker."
I am at the nurses' station, chugging my third coffee, when the first wave hits.
"Dr. O'Connell," a junior nurse squeaks, holding a phone like it’s a live grenade. "I have a... Mrs. York on line one. She says it’s a medical emergency involving the groom’s mother."
I take the phone. I hit the mute button. I look at Rosa Ortiz, who is currently auditing the narcotic locker with the terrifying precision of a forensic accountant.
"Rosa," I say. "Catherine is on line one. She claims a medical emergency."
Rosa doesn't even look up. "Is she bleeding?"
"She didn't say."
"Is she unconscious?"
"She’s talking, so no."
"Then tell her to dial 911 or call her therapist," Rosa snaps, slamming a drawer shut. "We are a Level 1 Trauma Centre, not a Concierge Service for Narcissists."
I unmute the phone. "Mrs. York. This is Dr. O'Connell. Unless you are currently experiencing cardiac arrest, I am terminating this call."
"Jackson!" Catherine’s voice shrills through the receiver. It sounds tinny and frantic. "Do not hang up! I need to speak to Maxwell! He is not answering his cell! He is not answering his pager! He is not answering the pneumatic tube system!"
"He is in surgery," I lie. Max is actually in his office, eating a bagel and aggressively reorganizing his bookshelf by colour gradient to self-soothe. "He is performing a... very long, very complex procedure. On a orphan. A very cute orphan."
"I don't care about the orphan!" Catherine shrieks. "I need to discuss the floral arrangements for the narthex! The peonies are the wrong shade of blush! They look like anemia, Jackson! Anemia!"
"I’m hanging up now, Catherine."
"If you hang up, I will revoke the Foundation’s grant!" Catherine threatens. "I will sell the building to a condo developer! I will turn your Trauma Centre into a luxury med-spa! Do you hear me, Jackson? I will replace your crash cart with a cucumber water station!"
"You wouldn't dare," I say. "The Board would eat you alive."
"I am the Board!" she screams.
I hang up.
Ten minutes later, the physical assault begins.
The elevator doors open. A delivery man staggers out. He is carrying a floral arrangement that is not a bouquet. It is a tree. It is a six-foot-tall weeping fig tree in a gold-leaf pot.
"Delivery for Dr. Maxwell York," the man wheezes, dropping the tree in the middle of the hallway. "From... 'Mother Dearest'. The card says: 'I forgive you for the shoes. Call me.'"
I stare at the tree. It is blocking the fire exit.
"Rosa," I call out.
Rosa marches over. She looks at the tree. She looks at the delivery man. She pulls The Black Binder out of her tote bag.
"Sir," Rosa says, her voice dropping to that terrifyingly calm register she uses on unruly drunks. "You are blocking a sterile corridor with a fungal vector."
"I... I just deliver the plants, lady," the man stammers.
"This is a hospital," Rosa says, stepping closer. "That soil contains nematodes. Do you want to be responsible for a nematode outbreak in the ICU? Do you want to explain to the CDC why you brought a weeping fig into a sterile zone?"
"No?"
"Remove it," Rosa commands. "Take it to the lobby. Burn it. I don't care. But if it stays here, I will have security tow your van."
The man grabs the tree and runs.
I walk into Max’s office. He is sitting on the floor, surrounded by medical journals. He looks up, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
"Did I hear screaming?" Max asks.
"Just a delivery," I assure him, sitting on the desk. "Your mother sent a tree."
"A tree?" Max frowns. "What species?"
"A Weeping Fig."
"Ficus benjamina," Max nods. "It is prone to dropping leaves when stressed. A heavy-handed metaphor."
"Rosa neutralized it," I say. "Max, she’s not going to stop. That was the opening salvo."
Max picks up a blue journal and places it next to a slightly darker blue journal.
"I know my mother well enough to know that she will escalate" Max says, his voice steady. "She operates on a pattern of Denial, Bargaining, and then... Invasion."
"We need a strategy," I say. "A blockade."
"We have one," Max says, pointing to his phone. "I have activated the Preston Protocol."
The Preston Protocol, it turns out, is terrifyingly effective.
I am in the kitchen, making toast, when the intercom buzzes. It has been buzzing every hour on the hour since 06:00.
"Doorman," I answer. "Yes?"
"Mr. O'Connell," the doorman sighs. "She’s back. She sent... a choir."
"A choir?" I repeat, dropping the butter knife.
"The Boys' Choir of Harlem," the doorman confirms. "They are in the lobby. They are singing 'Ave Maria'. It is very loud. And she sent a crate of vintage Dom Pérignon with a note that says 'Let us toast to new beginnings.'"
I look at Preston, who is sitting at our kitchen island wearing a silk robe and reading the Financial Times on an iPad.
"She’s moved to bribery," Preston notes, not looking up. "Predictable. The champagne is likely a 2008 vintage. Good year, but the emotional manipulation ruins the finish."
"Preston," I say. "Handle it."
Preston slides off the stool. He tightens the belt of his robe. He looks like a samurai preparing for battle, if samurai wore Italian silk.
"Patch me through to the lobby," Preston says.
I hit the speaker button.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Preston’s voice purrs through the intercom.
"This is Preston York. While I appreciate the vocal range of the sopranos, you are currently trespassing on private property. Furthermore, the bribe you are carrying—the champagne—constitutes an unsolicited gift under the York Foundation’s ethics bylaws. "
"Mr. York!" It’s Catherine’s assistant, clearly holding the phone in the lobby. "Mrs. York just wants five minutes! She wants to apologize! She bought you a pony!"
"A pony?" I whisper to Max, who has just walked in wearing pajama pants and a look of profound exhaustion.
"She bought me a pony when I was six," Max says, pouring coffee. "I was allergic to it. I calculated the dander load and refused to enter the stable. She was furious."
"Tell Mother," Preston says into the intercom, examining his fingernails, "that we do not want the champagne. We do not want the choir. And if she attempts to send livestock into a Manhattan high-rise again, I will report her to PETA and the Co-op Board."
"But Mr. York—!"
"Also," Preston adds, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Tell her that Maxwell and Jax have eloped. They are currently in Fiji. I am just house-sitting."
"WHAT?" The scream from the lobby is audible even without the intercom.
"Have a lovely day," Preston says, and cuts the feed.
He turns to us.
"That should buy us twenty-four hours," Preston says. "She will now spend the next day calling every resort in the South Pacific to verify your location. It will keep her busy."
"You lied to her," Max says, taking a sip of coffee.
"I created a diversion," Preston corrects. "It is a tactical maneuver. Also, I’m keeping the champagne. The doorman can bring it up. The choir can keep the pony."
“I’m so glad you’re on our side,” I say to Preston.
"I know," Preston says. "Now, pass the jam. Fighting matriarchy makes me hungry."
Max
The final fitting. The suits are ready. The wedding is in forty-eight hours.
We are standing on the podium. Enzo is circling Jax like a shark, muttering about inseams.
"Do not flex the glute," Enzo commands, slapping Jax’s thigh with a measuring tape. "The fabric is Italian. It does not stretch. It drapes."
"I’m breathing, Enzo," Jax complains. "Can I at least breathe?"
"Minimal expansion," Enzo compromises. "Shallow breaths. Think thin thoughts."
Suddenly, the front door of the atelier slams open.
"I KNOW THEY ARE HERE!"
Catherine York storms in. She looks... disheveled. Her hair is slightly windswept. Her Chanel suit is wrinkled. She is holding a garment bag like a weapon.
"She found us," I whisper. "How did she find us?"
"She tracked the credit card," Max realizes, checking his phone. "Enzo charged the deposit ten minutes ago. She has a localized alert on the Amex."
"Maxwell!" Catherine shouts, marching toward the podium. "You are not in Fiji! Preston is a liar! A malicious, silk-wearing liar!"
"I prefer 'creative strategist'," Preston says from the lounge chair, where he is sipping an espresso.
"Catherine," Enzo steps in front of the podium. He is five-foot-six, but he holds a pair of fabric shears that are ten inches long. "You do not have an appointment."
"Move, you over-priced seamstress," Catherine snaps. "I need to see the suits! I need to approve the break! I need to ensure they are not wearing navy! Navy is for banking clerks!"
"They are Midnight Blue," Enzo hisses, insulted. "It is the colour of kings."
"Mother," Max says. He steps down from the podium. He looks tall, regal, and utterly calm. "You are leaving."
"I am not leaving!" Catherine cries, her voice cracking. "I have gifts! I have the cufflinks! Your grandfather’s cufflinks! The sapphire ones! You have to wear them, Maxwell! They are tradition!"
She holds out the garment bag. She looks desperate. Her eyes are rimmed with red. She isn't the General anymore. She’s a panic attack in heels.
"I don't want the cufflinks," Max says.
"But they match the eyes!" Catherine pleads. "Maxwell, please. Just let me... just let me fix the tie. Let me do something. You’ve cut me out of the flowers. You’ve cut me out of the music. You’ve cut me out of the boat. Let me fix the tie."
She reaches for him.
I step in.
I don't shove her. I just move. One second I’m on the podium, the next I am a solid wall of muscle between Max and his mother.
"No touching," I say. My voice is low. It’s the voice I use when a patient is trying to rip out their IV. "Back up, Catherine."
"Jackson," she gasps. "I am his mother!"