Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Ben
Ollie slurps the remainder of his morning cereal directly from the bowl. A trail of white trickles down his chin. Liam screws up his nose in disgust. My spoon clinks off the rim of my mug for the dozenth time.
“Are you going to drink that?” Liam asks.
“Huh…” I mutter, physically in the room, but mentally elsewhere.
“Your tea. Are you planning on drinking it?”
I glance down at the half-cooled drink. After not sleeping most of the night, it was meant to perk me up this morning. I even added extra sugar. Twenty minutes after getting out of bed, I haven’t touched it.
Last night, I replayed my conversation, well, disagreement, with Antonia over and over in my mind. I sent that voicemail, but she never responded. That shouldn’t bother me. It does.
In the site office, I came across sharper than I intended. What I said needed to be said, I just didn’t need to say it like that.
“Are you nervous about today?” Liam asks.
I shrug. He continues to stare. My son can read me like a book—mostly. Ollie lives in his own world. Liam doesn’t.
“Is everything okay with the retreat? Is something wrong?” Liam sets his elbows on the table, his chin in his palms, watching me. No doubt for clues. I’m edgy, I know I am. He does too.
“There’s always a challenge with the retreat.”
“No,” he says quietly. “There’s something else…”
He doesn’t comment further. I don’t take the bait to tell him.
“It’s a big day,” Liam muses, changing tack. “A walk around with the board. They’ll want to see the progress.”
“They want to see what their money’s paying for.”
It’s Liam’s turn to nod. Ollie pours another load of cereal into his bowl. The metal of my ring bites my skin as I twist it. Liam doesn’t look away once, his eyes pushing for an answer I can’t give. I haven’t felt this off-balance in years.
And it’s her. I know it is.
Her pushing me out annoyed me. I want her to trust me.
Every time I see her, it takes me a minute to collect my thoughts. And it shouldn’t. We’re business partners. And I’m honoring my late wife with our plans. There should be no more to it than that.
I get up from the table without touching my tea. Both boys look up, expressions curious, but their lips remain sealed. I’m grateful when the questions stop.
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s a big day. I think I’ll head to Opengate early. Catch up with Antonia before the meeting.”
“You’re going to the office first?” Ollie asks, surprising me. He’s actually been listening.
“Board meeting, then the site visit.” The un-drunk tea splashes into the sink as I empty the mug, then place it in the dishwasher. “I’ll see you boys later. Don’t be late for school.”
I grab my car keys before I change my mind. If I’m going to fix this, I need to see her, face to face.
***
The Opengate offices sit back from the road, a semicircular driveway in front. A crowd with banners is scattered across the gardens, stomping in the perfectly manicured flowerbeds. The signs bounce high, chants echo as I roll down my window.
I knew Opengate had issues. But this?
On my last visit, there were maybe five or six disgruntled protestors camped outside, drinking coffee with a sign propped against their knees. This isn’t a protest. It’s fury.
The nose of my car eases through the crowd, and people step out of the way eventually. Security runs down the steps as I open my door. A guard with an earpiece appears in front of me, blocking the spit of words thrown my way.
When we reach the top of the stairs, I turn back to find my car being driven away by another suit. But what catches my eye is a face in the crowd. Someone who’s sat opposite me in my office and cried.
Lesley stands three rows back. Only last year, I told her there was nothing left to try. She’d heard about a new drug. Her husband didn’t qualify.
“Why?” she mouths, then I’m herded inside.
I don’t have an answer that would change anything.
Inside, I’m guided to Antonia’s office by her assistant, Clara. She’s as bubbly and bright as the first time I met her. Immediately asking about my family and buzzing over the possibilities of the retreat. After the welcome at the front door, it’s a settling contrast.
The door sits half-cracked. I take a seat outside. Antonia wanders past the gap, silent. She’s not wearing her heels, and I get a glimpse of pink fluff on her feet. Surely, she’s not wearing slippers to the office?
Clara knocks at the door, then announces I’m here.
“Just a moment,” Antonia replies, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. Clara turns, smiles, nods, then returns to her desk. She knew I heard what was said.
I pick up an industry magazine sitting on the small table to the side. Flicking through, there is ad after ad of new drug programs, clinical trials, and miracle cures still waiting to be proven. I throw it back on the pile.
Wonder drugs. Breakthroughs. Promises typed in bold. I’ve learned how thin those promises can be. Sometimes, it’s better not to look. Just then, Antonia’s door opens.
“Good morning, Ben,” she says.
As she steps back to let me in, her high heels click deliciously off the floor. She straightens her pinstriped jacket.
“How are you feeling about the meeting?” she asks.
We walk over to her desk and sit opposite each other. Clara appears with two coffees; I never even heard the machine. She lifts a previous mug before placing down Antonia’s new one.
“Fine, until I met the welcoming committee,” I say. Antonia’s eyes flick up from whatever paperwork she’s reading. She attempts a smile. It fractures before reaching her eyes. Tiredness hints there instead.
“Another podcast dropped yesterday,” she explains, quietly. “A new wave of hate.”
She slides the paperwork over to me. Notes for today’s meeting: a basic overview of the retreat’s current phase. I turn it around, reading but not concentrating, more interested in the small break in her steel I’ve come to expect.
“That’s relentless,” I say, hoping I’ve picked my words carefully enough that she won’t take offense.
“Exhausting.” She taps her keyboard, then turns her screen so I can see it. A podcast video plays on silent, the subtitles crawling across the screen.
Opengate withheld my husband’s medication. They chose someone else.
“Every other day, someone blames us for losing their loved one,” she mutters. “All we try to do is ensure the accessibility is there. We can’t always make it happen.” Her gaze moves to me. “But we try.”
“I know you do,” I assure her.
Her shoulders relax. The corners of her lips flicking upwards. Or maybe I’m imagining my words hold any weight. I hope they provide some comfort.
After ten minutes of conversation circling the retreat and the possible questions the board may have, Clara knocks on the door. “The board is in place,” she says. “Julian’s, well, being Julian…”
Antonia chuckles, taking me by surprise. The women smile at one another.
“Julian can be dramatic,” Antonia whispers, pushing her chair back. We both rise. “Sorry, that was unprofessional.”
“But true,” Clara adds.
It’s my turn to laugh. I’ve met the board before, who are all men except Antonia. Julian is the one I have had the most dealings with. He’s confident, bordering on arrogant, which in business can help, no doubt. But not when you think only your opinion matters.
The three of us leave the office and make our way down the long corridor lined with abstract art to the boardroom. As Clara said, they’re all there, waiting for us. All sitting except Julian, who is circling the room but making some sort of speech.
“We need return on investment,” he says, as we walk in.
“We will discuss your thoughts. Now please sit,” Antonia says.
He spins around, face falling as he realizes he was caught mid-flow, then he scurries to the chair furthest from hers.
Antonia lowers herself into the chair at the top of the table. Clara guides me to the one beside her, then takes a seat on her other side. She lays out her notebook and pen.
“Good morning,” Antonia begins. She unbuttons her suit jacket, exposing a perfectly pressed white shirt. She launches into a quick summary of the retreat’s build progress, the issues with the contractor, and proposed plans for the coming months.
“And we are still looking at a summer opening?” one man asks. I can’t remember his name.
“Yes, we are,” Antonia replies without hesitation. “The contractor issue has been rectified.”
The discussion continues for another ten minutes or so, each man offering small words of positivity. It’s all surface-level conversation, and I get the impression they just want to see the site, then get back to their day jobs.
“Are we really going to ignore the elephant in the room?” Julian remarks before he exhales heavily. “Or are you all as blind to the mob outside as she is?”
I sit a little straighter then. The other men tense, bracing for impact.
“I’m not blind, Julian,” Antonia says, maintaining a neutral tone. Her restraint is impressive. It takes all of my self-control not to berate him for the open disrespect. “But I also know I can’t stop them reporting what they want to.”
“But we can counter it.”
It’s Antonia’s turn to straighten in her seat. Her eyes narrow as if she knows exactly where he’s going with this. As if the conversation started long before we walked into the boardroom. No one else speaks. Not one man stands beside either of them; they just squirm in their seats.
“Dr. Jones didn’t ask for funding to be made a spectacle of. His family is off limits.”
Something tightens in my chest. I blink. “Could you elaborate?” I ask.
Julian and Antonia’s eyes dart to me.
“Opengate needs good PR,” Julian says bluntly.
“I said no,” Antonia interjects. “We’re involved with the retreat for the right reasons, not just saving our image.”
“There won’t be a retreat if we burn,” Julian shoots back.
He’s talking about flames and business continuity. I’m thinking of the families.
“Tell me what you want,” I say to him.
“Opengate needs good PR,” Julian repeats. “That was the point of supporting a charity in the first place. To give back and improve our image. Right now, we’re paying out, but there’s no return.”
“Okay, so what do you want?”
“A face. Someone to publicly speak about the retreat. The need for it. And why it’s being created.”
I listen. Antonia bristles beside me, her teeth grinding just loud enough to hear.
“I assume it’s me you want to speak. To whom and where?”
“Newspapers, internet blogs, anyone who will listen,” he continues as he leans back in his chair. “Just some positive articles amongst the negative would help.”
“And am I speaking as an oncologist?” I pause. “Or as a widower?”
The room stills. Julian and I lock eyes. His lips threaten a smile. “Both.”
“No,” Antonia’s voice slices clean through the meeting. All attention turns to her. “We will not objectify someone’s grief to save ourselves. Let’s move on.”
“But—” Julian tries to challenge.
“The meeting is closed. We’re leaving,” Antonia says, rising from her chair.
And just like that, I know whose side I’m on. No one has defended me like that in years. I won’t let her walk out there alone.
We all shrug into our coats, the rest of us rising one by one. The air is tense. No one speaks as we make our way out.
The front door looms, security flanking the glass. Clara leads the way, the board in the middle, Antonia and me following behind. We are released outside as our cars pull up. The hatred from the crowd is undeniable.
Each man scurries away, not looking at the people who throw insults, until it’s only Antonia and me left inside.
“Give me a moment,” I tell the guard. He looks to Antonia for instruction, and she nods.
I step outside on my own, walking toward Lesley, the woman I saw earlier. She meets me at the barrier.
“Lesley,” I say, voice as low as I can to be heard over the jeers.
“Dr. Jones. Why are you on her side?” she half-cries, eyes fixed behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to see Antonia moving to my side. Shoulders back, but body tense. Lips sealed closed. Here, but somewhere else in her head.
“There are no sides in medicine. Opengate provides access to thousands who can’t fight for themselves.”
“But not my Stan…” she wails, reaching forward. I take her hands, and her forehead drops to my knuckles.
“The only person to blame for that is the disease.”
Something flies past my ear. There’s a sharp crack. When I turn, egg drips down Antonia’s coat. She takes two steps back as mud hits her cheek.
My hand is on her back before I even think. My body moves in front of hers. “Inside. Now.”
Something slams into the back of my head, then an ooze down my shirt collar. I don’t look back, focused on getting her inside. Red nails dig into my jacket. Not in panic, but anchor. Security hurries us through the doors.
Back in reception, Antonia releases her hold on me, and all I smell is raw egg. I pull a clean handkerchief from my pocket, then dab at the mud over her eye.
“I’m fine,” she whispers.
But I felt her flinch beneath my hand, and something in my chest tightens with the lie. She’s not fine. But I can handle this, and whatever comes next. For us both.