Round Twelve
OLLIE
Dara
Hey. Are we still on for tonight? You’re off shift at six, right?
“Oliver?” Mr. Schumaker waves from the end of the hall, red-faced as he frantically tries to catch my attention. And I… I’m just as eager not to give it, so I keep my head down and my eyes on the floor. Dropping my phone and hand into my pocket, I duck left and escape into a patient’s room.
Not Jane’s, unfortunately. But a kid in for a tonsillectomy.
He’s three years old, has striking red hair, and when he’s not laid up in a hospital bed, he wears thick-lens glasses.
It’s too bad he’s asleep, because settling into a chair and telling him how I totally rocked his surgery is a thousand times more preferable than spending a single second with a fat old man who wants to tell me how much Jane is costing him.
Fuck Schumaker and his bank account. He’s doing fine.
I walk all the way to the boy’s window and glance out at the white wall of nothingness, the same view that threatens to send Jane over the edge and into madness.
But at least Caden—tonsil boy—gets to see a fraction of the parking lot, too.
The same parking lot his parents peeled out of when I told them they could take an hour to escape and have a shower.
A meal. A kiss on the cheek, even, since today is February fourteenth.
It’s the day of love.
Turning, I perch on the window frame and study the boy’s room, bursting with color and teddies and blankets. Flowers from anxious grandparents. Balloons from anxious parents. And most importantly, a brand-new, untouched, bright red raspberry jelly cup.
Mine.
I swipe the sugary delicacy straight off his table faster than my brain can compute, and slip it into my pocket for later.
Oops.
But then my phone vibrates with another text message, so I bring the device out of my pocket and exhale a breathy sigh, studying the screen and the flashing notification sitting at the top.
Dara
No pressure or anything. If you don’t wanna, that’s cool. Just let me know. Shaving my legs, or no? Washing my hair, or opening a bottle of wine and watching a movie on my own?
If I hear nothing by seven, I’ll assume you’re busy or uninterested. Either way, it’s all good. I won’t even make it weird that you stood me up.
Fuck.
I should go. I should honor my obligations and maintain my reputation as a good, decent man. Because I’m not the guy who stands women up, and I’m definitely not the guy who stands a woman up on Valentine’s Day.
That’s just rude.
Tilting my head back until I hear and feel the thunk, I unlock my screen and throw my weight forward, pushing off the window and crossing Caden’s room. And while I move, I tap-tap-tap out a response and walk blindly into the hall.
“Oliver?”
“Argh!” I skid to a stop, coming nose-to-nose with an entirely displeased Mr. Schumaker. Shit! “Ugh…” I choke out a nervous laugh and slip my hands into my pockets. “You scared me, sir.”
“Can’t see why, since you knew full well I’ve been looking for you.” He sets his hands on his hips and stares down his nose at me, which is quite a skill, considering our four-inch height difference. “That news piece has been out for a few days now. Got any leads?”
As in, do we have an insurance policy to claim upon yet?
“No, sir. Not yet. But Billy’s fielding calls and working through the backlog of—”
“No ID and no money? No medical emergency.” He claps my shoulder and continues walking. “Discharge her. Tomorrow.”
“But—”
“She’s homeless, Oliver. Not ill. She’s lost her memory, but she is not incompetent, legally or otherwise.
If we make an exception for her, I hope you intend to make an exception for every person in this town down on their luck.
And before you do,” he stops and glances back.
“Don’t. We are not a charity, and this is not a sustainable business model.
Every bed with a body in it costs us money.
It’s your job to collect that money, or empty the bed. ”
“My job is to treat the bodies! Finance is in a different department.”
“I’ve made my decision.” He turns and strolls along the hall, dipping his chin in hello for the nurses, and clamping his lips shut as he passes Jane’s closed door.
At least he doesn’t go in.
“Dammit!” I tilt my head back and groan, a vibrating grunt rolling through my chest and up until it almost makes me feel better.
Not really. Fuck!
“Schumaker wants her out?” Janine darts along the hall, her head on a swivel as Schumaker makes his way through the front doors. “He’s done?”
“He sees dollar signs, not patients. And if we don’t identify her soon, her stay will become a write-off he doesn’t wanna deal with.
” I scratch the back of my neck and look toward her door.
“It’s only been two weeks since she got here!
Three days since we put her on the news.
He’s expecting miracles, while I’m just trying to delay the inevitable long enough to make her less of a target the second she walks out of here.
She’s got nowhere to go.” I lower my hand.
“No money. No possessions.” Besides a mini library, card games, a handful of puzzles, and a suitcase of clothes.
“If she walks out those doors,” I point toward the very doors slowly closing again, trapping the icy wind outside, “She’ll end up right back here within a day.
Exposed to the cold. Starvation. Confusion. And that’s best-case scenario.”
Worst case, my aching gut acknowledges, would have her swept up by some fucking cretin pond scum who enjoys hurting women.
Do what I want, and I’ll provide you a place to sleep at night.
Please me, and I’ll get you three meals a day and a clean bathroom to use. Maybe.
“Discharging her without a safety net is ethically and morally wrong,” I snarl.
“Right. So I started looking for a net. Ya know, since I knew the board was getting impatient.” Janine grabs my sleeve and drags me back to her desk, snatching up a handful of wax-paper brochures and slapping one against my chest. “There’s this place in the next town over. It’s like a halfway house—”
“Nope.” I toss the brochure down again. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s like a halfway house, but not for criminals. We have to do something, Ollie, but our options are limited and our time is up. He wants her gone, so either you lower your standards a little, or you’re gonna be the reason she has no net at all.”
“I’m not sending her away, Janine! She’s not a damn puppy, abandoned on the side of the road. She’s not a drug addict. She’s not even suffering a mental health crisis. She was hit by a fucking car and deserves somewhere safe to recover.”
“Hence—” She digs through the pile of brochures and snags a different one.
“The Wallflower. It’s a home for women trying to get back on their feet.
Sure, it caters to the rehab crowd, too, and those struggling with their mental health, but it has amazing reviews online, is headed by a renowned female-only team of psychologists specializing in trauma-informed recovery, and they’re willing to make room for her. We just have to sign the paperwork.”
Dread burns a hole in the side of my stomach, aching and spreading in a way I never knew before Jane ended up in my ER. “I don’t want to send her away,” I groan. “I don’t want to pass her along like she’s a nobody.”
“They have twin share rooms.” Carefully, Janine opens the brochure and reveals the inside.
“And single, private rooms, for those who prefer to be alone. They match residents up only after a week or two of getting to know them, to ensure personalities gel and no harm will come of the pairing. They keep the residents active with a large, productive garden where they’re encouraged to grow and harvest much of what is served at dinner each night.
They have access to counseling weekly, at the very least, and daily for those who need or want it.
They do not allow men into the facility outside of one hour a day visitation, during which these men are signed in, formally identified, and supervised within a secure rec room.
Outside of those hours, they’re not allowed to visit.
Not to work. Not even if a patient is married or related.
These women share the load of cooking and cleaning.
They’re taught practical skills and trained how to use a computer.
They learn to write a resume, and when the time is right, assisted in applying for jobs and shopping for clothes to wear to a potential interview.
The very essence of The Wallflower is to help these women regain their independence in a safe, controlled way. ”
“Janine—”
“If Jane’s memory never comes back, then she’ll forever be who she is right now.
She’s smart, Ollie. She’s determined. It would be like starting her adult life again.
She can learn something new, earn a degree, find her way to whoever she wants to be.
She’s cognitively capable in every way. She just needs time to figure things out. ”
“You just… I…” Fuck. Frustrated, I take a second look at the pamphlet.
At the pretty pictures of a colorful garden and lush green grass.
At what appears to be a recreation room with walls of books, a large screen television, a dozen computers in a row, lining one wall, and a ping-pong table on the far side.
“You would just send her away? Like she never mattered?”
“She matters.” She places her hand on my arm.
“But we have to be realistic here. Setting her up at a place like The Wallflower is way smarter than ignoring Schumaker’s warnings and leaving her completely unprepared.
If she has to go, don’t you think we should get ahead of the situation and help her face it with a positive outlook? ”
“Well—”