Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Addy
“This totally sucks,” I grumble as I stare at myself in the mirror while applying a light coat of makeup to my face. “And she doesn’t even care that because she just has to have a meeting today that those of us who are off will be paid for at least four hours thanks to company policy.”
While I’m all about making money so I can finally get the last of my student loans paid off, I actually had plans today and ended up having to push them back.
Thanks to Janice Abercrombie. I’ve got a few more complaints concerning her as well, mostly regarding how she treats the patients who come in, plus the way she often blatantly ignores mine and the other therapists’ requests for time off.
If it had only happened once, I could excuse it as a mistake.
However, seven different times since I started working at Rockmartin’s Sport Medicine, I’ve asked for specific days off only to be scheduled to work instead.
When I’ve pressed as to why my request was denied, I have heard excuses ranging from ‘I didn’t see it’ to ‘Well so-and-so was off’.
I’ve even been called in on my days off because of someone calling in sick.
“If this keeps up, I’m going to talk to Mrs. Rockmartin. This isn’t what she and her husband envisioned when they opened this facility,” I tell my reflection. “Something’s gotta give and it’s not going to be my mental health or even my physical health!”
After I’m done with my makeup, I style my hair then clean my sink.
It’s one of those weird habits I have where I have to wipe down my bathroom every day.
Maybe it’s because of how I grew up, I don’t know, and I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day sorting through that muck.
I just know that when I finally got out on my own, I quickly adapted to making sure my living areas were spic and span.
Every day.
Even if I don’t use the room.
“Probably have obsessive compulsive disorder or some shit, Addy girl,” I cheerfully say out loud as I slip on my jeans, a casual shirt, and my Hey Dudes. They’re some of the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn, although, when I’m working, I typically wear sneakers.
I fill my tumbler with ice water, give the kitchen a quick glance then head to the door so I can leave.
I live in a small, adobe style duplex that I rent from an elderly lady who hasn’t decided whether or not she wants to sell the property.
If she does, I could turn it into passive income to help build my rainy-day fund, especially since I’m single with no prospects on the horizon.
“That could’ve been a memo,” I whisper to my fellow therapist, Kara. “But hey, it’s just more overtime, right?”
She smirks and nods. “I’ve got my eye on a new pair of shoes,” she confesses.
“You only have two feet, how many pairs do you really need?” I ask, now completely ignoring Janice as she blathers on about making sure we update our patient charts.
Most of us have the charts open as we work with our patient, outlining basic details.
At the end of the day, I personally go in and add any impressions about progress that I noted during the session.
Apparently, Miss Bossy McBosserson thinks we should be doing all of it right then and there.
I raise my hand and when she acknowledges me, I say, “Janice, that won’t work with how we’ve got patients scheduled, and you know it.
Most of us are working with two different patients at the same time, going back and forth.
I don’t think the insurance company would appreciate getting notes on Mr. Smith’s hip replacement progress in Mrs. Jones’ file, and because you double book us all the time, it’s bound to happen.
Not only does that cause me concern because of the potential for mistakes like that, but I’m pretty sure it violates HIPAA. ”
“Perhaps we need to adjust the schedules,” Mrs. Rockmartin says, smiling at me. “Spread the patients out a little bit more so they’re getting more personal attention instead of feeling like their therapist is running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“We could do that, ma’am,” I reply, “especially since we often have dead times during our day. I don’t mind working hard whatsoever to help our patients regain their mobility and range of motion so they can be productive again, but I know for a fact that during my shift yesterday, I went five hours straight with two patients at a time during each half hour session.
That’s twenty patients if I did my math correctly and honestly, that kind of day is wearing.
Especially when I had another ten after I took a thirty-minute lunch break to round out my day.
Something’s gotta give, Mrs. Rockmartin, because I know for a fact that no one else had anywhere close to that many. And it’s not the first time, either.”
Take that, Janice , I mentally yell as I toss her under the bus.
“Oh, that can’t be accurate,” Janice splutters as Mrs. Rockmartin gives her a raised brow.
“Yes, it is,” I retort, pulling out a printed copy of my workload from the day before. “I had twenty the day before, and twenty-five on Monday. So, I’ve seen sixty-five patients this week and I’ve still got two more days of work to go!”
“Janice, I think we’re done with this meeting,” Mrs. Rockmartin states, standing. “Addy, I’d like to have a copy of that, please.”
I nod then stand up and hand the papers in my hand over to her. “These are mine from the past month,” I tell her. “While I appreciate the chance y’all took on me when you hired me fresh out of school, I can’t keep working like this.”
“I’ll be checking into this,” Mrs. Rockmartin says, smiling at me, “and there are going to be some adjustments made. Even if that means we add a few more therapists. I won’t have y’all quitting because you’re being worked like pack mules.”
“Thank you,” I murmur before I pick up my purse. “If we’re done, I’m going to leave. I had an appointment that I had to push back to come to this meeting.”
“That’s something else we’ll be discussing, Janice,” Mrs. Rockmartin states, now glaring at Janice, who doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of what she’s been doing.
“Sorry I’m running late, Aunt Betty,” I say as I slide into the booth across from her. There’s already a drink waiting for me, as well as a basket of chips and my own bowl of salsa.
“Pssh, no problem, Addy girl,” she replies. “And we’re so close in age, you don’t have to call me ‘aunt’. We’ve talked about that before.”
I sigh as I dip a chip in the salsa. Taking a bite, I moan as all the flavors hit my taste buds and explode.
Hands down, this is one of the best little hole-in-the-wall Tex-Mex restaurants, and it’s obviously our favorite as well.
“Gah, this stuff is my kryptonite,” I mumble around my food.
Once I swallow and take a sip of my drink, I look at her and acknowledge what she said.
“I know, but old habits die hard and I’ll likely bounce back and forth the rest of my life. ”
“It makes me feel like a little old lady,” Aunt Betty confesses. I silently laugh when I realize that I might vocally call her Betty, but in my head, she’ll always be ‘aunt’ to me.
“You haven’t even hit your prime yet,” I fuss.
Like me, she’s a working professional, although her job involves dry clean only suits while mine is done while wearing scrubs and sneakers, although sometimes I change it up and wear jeans and a clinic shirt.
I just personally prefer how comfortable scrubs are because I’m often bending and crouching depending on what a patient needs.
She is always fully done up; makeup, hair, nails, because she frequently has to entertain clients for her boss, a local attorney.
Meanwhile, my nails are trimmed close since I often manipulate the limbs of elderly people whose skin is fragile, and my hair is more often than not up in a messy bun, and I’ve never done more than get it cut every few months.
Betty’s professionally done highlights have been recently touched up based on the glossy look she currently has and I wonder, not for the first time, why she puts so much effort into all of it.
I mean, I get that she’s her boss’s paralegal, but it’s not like he handles top tier clients.
No, he’s what the clinic calls an ambulance chaser, trolling for clients who have been involved in a car accident.
I’m not typically a litigious person and feel like most people should be able to resolve any damages or injuries on their own, especially if they’re soft tissue in nature, or what many refer to as whiplash.
Sure, the first few days will suck as the impact the body absorbed makes itself known, but it will heal with muscle relaxers, a regimen of heat and ice, and sometimes, depending on the area involved, a few sessions of physical therapy.
People who think they’re going to get a huge payday when they barely have a scratch on their vehicle are why we pay ridiculous insurance rates. But that’s a rant for another day, I guess as I tune in to hear Betty ask, “What happened at your meeting?”
Snickering, I give her the lowdown; she’s never met Janice but hates her strictly on principle at this point, because she knows the things the bitch has pulled since coming to work at the clinic.
“I’m not sure what changes Mrs. Rockmartin is planning to execute, but hopefully, if any decisions are made, Kara will call me later and fill me in, so I’m prepared for tomorrow.
I wasn’t lying, Betty. I honestly can’t keep going at the pace I’ve been working for months now.
The only silver lining I have is that the small student loan I had to get is almost paid off, years ahead of time, and I just sent in the last payment for my car. ”
“Damn, girl, you’re kicking ass and taking names,” Betty replies. “Bet you’ve got a healthy savings going as well.”
“That plus a 401k and a Roth IRA,” I confess. “I refuse to work until I’m in my sixties, Betty. Life is meant to be lived and enjoyed, not to simply trod through until we die.”
The waitress comes over and drops off the hot plates of steaming food.
I raise my brow at her when I see my enchiladas that I love, swimming in red sauce and cheese, along with an extra helping of refried beans.
“I mean, you might look through the menu every single time we come here, but you always get one of two things. Either the enchiladas or the Texas fajita nachos. I took a chance but know you like both.”
“No, no, these are perfect,” I mutter, my focus now on my plate as I cut the enchiladas into bite-size pieces. “What do you wanna do after this?”
“Thought we’d go to the mall and do a little bit of shopping. Ulta and Sephora are both having sales, plus I need a few new shirts and skirts.”
Retail therapy? Sign me up! With a grin, I tuck into my food but not before saying, “Chop, chop, chica. We’ve got money to spend!”