Chapter 2 Taylor #2
As for high society? Well, the closest Taylor’s gotten has come through occasional glimpses into the stately brick townhomes whose windows are left draped open in the evenings to reveal dioramas of crystal chandeliers and tufted velvet fainting chairs.
She’s also sniffed out society ladies in the museums she visits on her days off.
The women who cluster around the exhibit du jour clad in Chanel tweed jackets and carrying Birkins, conversing with the curators, with whom they are on a first-name basis.
Taylor’s careful to avoid the first Thursday of every month, when admittance is free and therefore flooded with ordinary people.
And then there are the thrift stores, her kryptonite.
Like nosebleed seats in a stadium, the secondhand stores in Boston’s wealthiest neighborhoods allow Taylor to distantly experience the lifestyle she can’t have at full price.
The rich discard their fancy clothes far too easily: a little stain on a blouse that just needs to be lifted with baking soda, a pull in a cashmere sweater that can simply be darned—or better yet, covered with a patch or a jewel.
So maybe that’s what feels familiar about this patient: She’s one of Them, the wealthy. The old-money, buttoned-up kind of wealth that seems to prevail in Boston yet remains as partially visible and entirely elusive to Taylor as stars in the city’s night sky.
“Vivian Lawrence, age forty-four, unwitnessed fall down a flight of stairs at a cocktail party,” the older of the two paramedics says, as they pull the gurney alongside the hospital bed.
Taylor snaps to, embarrassed that she noticed the patient’s clothes first, not the actual patient.
“Brief LOC. Glasgow coma score fourteen. Pupils equal, reactive. Equal hand grip. Positive ETOH,” the paramedic continues. “Complaining of head pain, three out of ten.”
In other words, the woman must have gotten drunk, fell down the stairs, briefly lost consciousness, but is now with it and doing okay.
“Hi, Vivian,” Taylor says, as she and the paramedics slide Vivian from the gurney into the bed.
The movement releases a sudden powdery clean, floral scent into the air, like the puff of a perfume bottle, and Taylor deeply breathes it in.
She knows it instantly: Chanel N°5. It’s what her mother wore.
As a young girl, Taylor used to both love and detest the perfume; it was beautiful and elegant, like her mother, but its presence also meant her mother was on her way out the door.
It’s the most common scent amid the clothing stacks at Covet in Beacon Hill, the secondhand store with the best stash, thanks to its local residents.
“Hi, Vivian,” Taylor repeats, as the paramedics leave. “I’m Taylor, your nurse. How are you feeling?”
Vivian blinks open and glances around the room with an unfocused gaze. Then, seemingly satisfied with the scene she’s just taken in, or perhaps tired, she elegantly closes her eyes, like a butterfly coming to rest and tucking in its wings.
“Vivian,” Taylor prods. “I need you to open your eyes.”
Vivian complies. “Hello,” she says, a little slowly, like she’s just woken up.
Charlie, the nursing assistant, enters the room and wraps the blood pressure cuff around Vivian’s arm.
“Do you know where you are right now?” Taylor asks, as she tapes a pulse oximetry probe over Vivian’s wine-colored nail tip, which matches her lipstick.
“Yes, of course. Mass General.”
“And what’s your full name?”
“Vivian Lawrence.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Vivian grimaces, but her skin remains smooth.
It’s hard to believe she’s forty-four. Does she use Botox?
She must. One of Taylor’s patients was prescribed it recently for a neck spasm, and Taylor was tempted to pocket the vial of leftovers.
She’s read that it’s best to start early with Botox, in your twenties even. But who can afford it at that age?
“I…I fell. I think.” Vivian tries to touch her head with the arm that has the blood pressure cuff, and Taylor gets another whiff of Chanel N°5.
“Just a minute, we’re taking your blood pressure, so you need to stay still.
” Taylor gently eases her patient’s arm down, noticing a blue vein that will be a good place to insert a large-bore needle.
She also notices the gold Cartier watch and the Hermès Kelly brown leather bracelet that loosely hang from Vivian’s wrist—Taylor has the knockoff version of the bracelet.
She resists the urge to trail her fingers over its smooth leather.
On her neck, Vivian is wearing a cervical collar—a shame, since Taylor can’t tell if she’s wearing a necklace—but on her elegant middle finger sits a giant emerald cocktail ring.
Is that emerald for real?
Taylor swallows, reminding herself to focus on the patient.
She clicks on her penlight to check Vivian’s pupils.
Her eyes are beautiful bright green olives that constrict appropriately to the light.
Of course they are; only 2 percent of the world has green eyes.
This woman seems to be a rarity, even among her wealthy counterparts.
Taylor could Botox till her face is as frozen as a sheet of ice, but she still can’t change some fundamental things, like her boring brown eyes.
Charlie picks up the Louboutin heels from the top of the bedsheet and deposits them into the same white plastic “patient belongings” bag where he’s already tossed the Chanel purse.
Taylor cringes. It feels criminal not to separate the items. What if the shoes scuff the handbag? Such beautiful, expensive items deserve their own space—their own protective cloth covers, really. Later, when Charlie’s not looking, she’ll individually bag each one.
As Charlie tucks the belongings beneath the bed, onto the metal storage frame beneath, Taylor tries to calculate their wealth. It’s easily equivalent to a few months of her apartment rent.
If she adds in Vivian’s jewelry—and if that emerald is natural, not lab-grown—it could perhaps cover the down payment on a Boston condo.
“My head hurts,” Vivian announces suddenly.
“On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?”
“It hurts.”
“I understand, Vivian. I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me on a scale from one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you’ve ever experienced, what number it is?”
“He didn’t clink,” Vivian says, ignoring the question.
“He didn’t clink?” Taylor repeats. Over the bed, she exchanges a look with Charlie, who is now holding a gown, waiting for Taylor to finish her assessment so he can help Vivian slip into it.
“The glass—the drink.”
But whereas Taylor’s feeling a bit of concern, Charlie appears amused. His eyes widen, and he’s stifling a laugh. Maybe this is the stuff that the rich dream of, Taylor can imagine him thinking. Clinking of champagne glasses. He’s not immune to Vivian’s apparent wealth after all.
“My head hurts,” Vivian says again, louder, as she shifts in the bed.
Her skin looks paler than it had moments earlier, a sheen of sweat glistening her forehead.
The monitor spits out the blood pressure, and almost immediately, an alarm sounds.
The reading is high. Too high. Taylor silences the alarm.
Something feels off. A clamminess trickles through her.
“Vivian, on a scale from one to ten, what is your level of pain?” Taylor tries again.
“A ten.”
Charlie’s grin is gone; he’s now scrutinizing the monitor.
“A ten? You told the paramedic earlier it was a three. It’s now gone up to a ten?” Taylor squeaks. Something is off.
“I don’t know. It just hurts.”
Vivian writhes, squeezing her eyes so tightly it finally contorts her face. Her heart rate is climbing into a dangerous red zone now, and once more the monitor sounds. “Can you get me something? It hurts so much! Please!”
“Charlie, page the resident. Now!” Taylor commands, and Charlie nods as he scurries out the door.
“Vivian? Vivian?”
Taylor fumbles as she draws up a syringe of Dilaudid. Fuck, why didn’t she start that other IV already, instead of calculating the monetary value of Vivian’s items? Something is seriously wrong.
Vivian moves again in the bed, but this time she doesn’t stop. Over and over, her body rhythmically jerks—she’s seizing. It’s jarring to watch: this controlled, uncontrolled action that feels to Taylor as if the universe is stuttering.