Chapter 6
"Dooley, bay five. Chest contusion, suspected rib fracture," Yamila says, poking her head into the break room.
"On my way," Erin answers.
She sets her half-finished cup of coffee on the table and gets up to follow Yamila down the hallway. On the way, she pulls her hair back with a clip and makes sure her phone is in her pocket. It's Saturday afternoon and, surprisingly, the ER is pretty quiet for a weekend.
The patient in bay five is a man in his early sixties, athletic-looking, who fell off his bike in Central Park and walked to the ER holding his side like his ribs were about to fall out—according to Yamila—which is a bit of an exaggeration.
Erin goes in, introduces herself, runs through the routine questions, presses along his side with just enough force to avoid making things worse—even as the man winces and makes a show of it—and orders an X-ray.
"When can I ride again?" he asks, as if he's already forgotten the fall he just had.
"Let me see the X-ray first, okay?" she says.
The man nods and she steps out of the bay.
She enters the order into the system and, when she looks up to find Yamila, she catches the white wall at the end of the hallway and suddenly she's back there—those wide blue eyes, slightly unfocused, staring up at her from the gurney in the medical room, full of terror.
And right behind that image come those same eyes in the ambulance, more alert, a spark of mischief lighting them up, a crooked smile, Mia Wilder trying to flirt with her for reasons Erin still can't quite figure out.
It's been happening all day; the moment her mind drifts, she finds herself thinking about the singer—or rather, replaying her, trying to reconcile those two versions of the same girl, wondering which one is real: the vulnerable one who'd looked at her with terrified eyes when she woke up, or the bold one who surfaced once her head cleared.
She refocuses on what she needs to do and slides her hands into the pockets of her dark green scrubs, waiting for Yamila to reappear and make sure someone wheels the patient down to X-ray.
Three hours later, she's discharged him with a couple of prescriptions for the pain and a follow-up appointment in a week. Erin is still in the ER, finishing up her notes, when Yamila appears in front of her again.
"Dooley, there's a woman asking for you at the front desk."
"For me?" Erin looks up, surprised, because she doesn't get visitors at the hospital—or at her apartment, for that matter, but that's a different story.
"She says she'll wait. Says it's important."
"Did she tell you who she is?" she asks, curious.
"She gave me her last name—Hadford. Not sure if that means anything to you."
Erin doesn't answer. It doesn't ring a bell.
"Oh, and she mentioned something about last night's concert."
Yamila heads off and Erin finishes the report, then makes her way to the front desk—more out of curiosity than anything else.
When she walks into the lobby, one of the guys behind the counter raises a hand to signal her, and a woman in a pencil skirt, a fitted blazer, and four-inch stilettos turns around and smiles when she spots her.
Erin has no idea who she is. She's certain she never saw this woman anywhere at the event—not when they arrived, not while she was treating Mia Wilder, not afterward—but the woman smiles at her like they've met before.
"Erin Dooley?" she asks, with a polished smile that Erin suspects is more habit than warmth—something learned on the job.
"That's me."
The woman extends her hand.
"My name is Violette Hadford. I'm an attorney at Milhart Records, Mia Wilder's label." Erin shakes her hand, looking puzzled.
"Is Mia okay?" she asks before she can decide whether she wants to.
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry to show up like this, but I didn't want to handle this over the phone. Do you have a few minutes? I promise I'll be brief."
Erin looks at her, then glances at her watch—a black sports watch on her right wrist. For a moment, the watch reminds Violette of Nell, who wears the same style, along with leather bracelets like the ones the doctor has on her other wrist.
"Sure, follow me," Erin says.
She leads her to the hospital cafeteria so she can grab dinner while they talk.
"Do you mind if I eat while we do this?" she asks, already reaching for a bowl of salad and a yogurt.
"Not at all."
They sit down at one of the tables against the left wall and Erin peels back the lid on her salad to add the dressing.
"Go ahead."
"I don't know if you've spoken with your colleague, but Mia Wilder has been diagnosed with recurrent vasovagal syncope, aggravated by the conditions of the tour."
Erin nods. She hasn't spoken to Hassan because their shifts haven't overlapped, but she did check in with her resident—who's pulling a double—as soon as she got in.
"The doctor has recommended continuous medical supervision for the next several months.
The Wild tour can't be canceled, and the insurance won't cover its continuation without an approved medical plan in place.
We need a physician to travel with her, monitor her around the clock, manage her nutrition, hydration, and rest"—she reads the last part from her phone—"and have enough authority to make medical decisions that override the schedule.
We want that to be you," she says, without preamble.
Erin sets her fork down in the bowl and blinks once before raising her eyebrows.
"You want it to be me? Why?" she asks.
"Two reasons," Violette answers. "First, the way you handled the incident at the Garden.
The patient was comfortable with you, and according to her personal assistant, you were the only one who picked up on the symptoms before she collapsed.
Second"—Violette is in full stride, not wasting a second—"your profile.
ER attending, critical care specialist, no press history, discreet...
And the most important one: Noah says you didn't let Mia get to you, and that's a very useful quality given how good that girl is at getting everyone to do exactly what she wants. "
"You looked into me?" Erin asks, a little overwhelmed.
"A little. I didn't have much time to dig deeper," the attorney says, as if it were nothing.
"I've also brought a preliminary agreement.
" Violette pulls a folder from her briefcase, sets it on the table, opens it, and slides out a six-page document, turning it toward Erin.
"You can read it at your leisure, but I'll give you the summary now.
The initial term is four months, covering sixteen concerts plus rehearsals and travel. "
Erin hasn't touched her salad.
"We'd start Tuesday in Toronto, which means departing Monday.
Monthly gross salary here"—the attorney taps the figure with her right index finger—"plus a per diem, travel covered, and a private room in each city.
We require complete confidentiality, so you'll need to sign a separate NDA before you start.
Your leave of absence will be handled with your hospital—I'll take care of that if you accept—and I'll also make sure your position at MediSupport is waiting for you when the contract ends.
Is there anything specific you'd like to clarify? "
Erin stares at her, mouth slightly open, wondering if this woman ever stops—or if anyone has ever told her no.
She stays quiet and picks up the document to skim it, but her eyes land on the monthly gross salary and stay there.
It's almost four times what she's making now between the hospital and her hours at MediSupport.
"I know this is a lot to take in very quickly, Doctor, but it's also an opportunity to significantly grow your bank account in a matter of months. I can also arrange for someone to check in on your apartment while you're away—air it out, water your plants if you have any. Do you have any pets?"
Erin shakes her head and sets the document back on the table. She doesn't know whether to accept. She needs to think it through, and the fact that she's even considering it already unsettles her—a few years ago she would have said no without hesitating, but now...
"What authority would I have to halt a rehearsal—or a show, if it came to that?" she asks.
"Full authority. If your medical judgment is that the artist can't perform, she won't. It's in one of the clauses—the seventh, I believe. It's a condition of the insurer, so no one can override it, not even Jude, though I assure you she'll try."
"And if the patient objects to something I decide? Whatever authority I have, she still makes her own choices."
"Yes, that's understood," Violette concedes, "and it's one more reason it has to be you. Noah knows Mia better than any of us, and he's confident you'll know how to handle her."
Erin raises an eyebrow. She finds it a little bold to assume she can manage Mia Wilder—who apparently is every bit as headstrong as she seemed—and even bolder that all of it rests on the word of a lanky kid with the eyes of a lost puppy.
"Access to her routine?" she asks.
"Complete. That's the core idea: that you make whatever changes are necessary to prevent or minimize these episodes."
"And if I decide to walk away before the contract is up?"
"Fifteen days' notice. Barring a justified emergency, there won't be an issue—that's also in the contract."
Erin picks up the folder again.
"I need to think about it."
"Of course, but if you'll allow me—I need your answer by tomorrow morning. The team leaves Monday, and if it's not you, I have to start pursuing other options. I'd appreciate hearing from you before nine." Violette slides one of her business cards across the table.
"Okay. I'll call you then."
"Thank you for your time. I won't keep you any longer." The attorney stands. "And eat," she adds, nodding toward Erin's bowl. "You'll need the energy to keep up with the Wild tour."