50. The Vow

50

The Vow

Brighton

Monday, June 12 th

9:39 a.m.

Who we choose to be in challenging situations speaks volumes about our character. The problem is not that we bare our souls to be judged, but that these things don't come with a warning.

I stand in stunned silence. I watch. I wish I could hear.

Dax is stiff, his face in a scowl. Kline explains something, points at Liam's monitor, and Dax drops his head. He nods with reluctance and pinches his eyes closed as his shoulders shudder and his hands ball into fists.

"Are you okay?" Someone stops beside me at the counter, and I swivel around, finding a petite, curly-haired blonde in green scrubs with a look of pity on her face.

"I'm good," I say, my eyes scanning her nametag, "Bridgette. Keep an eye on him, okay?"

She drops her hand, a V etching between her brows. "Mr. Blakely is in excellent hands."

"I meant Dr. Matthews."

Her mouth drops open, and she quickly composes herself, attempting to conceal her initial reaction, while stumbling to find the right words.

"Have a good day," I say as I plaster on a fake smile and shift my focus to the paperwork in front of me. Without waiting for her response, I gather the papers, my eyes darting to Liam's room and the secretive exchange occurring behind the skewed curtain.

I need more information, and there's no way I'm going to get details from Kline. I glance at the faces behind the nurses' station, and a sinking feeling washes over me. Lauren, Phillip, Monique. I am completely out of my depth. I prefer to keep my intentions hidden, but it's inevitable one of them will question what I'm doing.

I make my way to a computer at the far end of the counter and double-check to see if anyone is paying attention to me.

I smile when I make eye contact with Phillip.

He smiles back.

And I wave.

This will never work.

I drop my gaze to the computer, tapping across the keyboard, and hear footsteps draw closer.

"Hey," Phillip whispers, stopping beside me.

I smile, turning to set my elbow on the counter as I lean on my hand to block the computer screen. "You guys busy today?" I ask, trying to deflect.

Phillip shakes his head, dropping his pile of charts on the countertop beside me. "This is from this morning."

"The world falls apart over the weekend," I joke.

"Yay for Mondays." He throws up jazz hands in faux excitement. "You have a second?"

"I'm a little busy." I lean my head toward the computer beside me.

"Guess these can wait." He reaches for the files, disappointed.

I slide my hand across them, blocking him. Maybe this will work out after all. Liam's chart has to be in the stack. "I can take care of them. These need signatures? I've got a couple of minutes."

"Chemo patients from the week. I updated all of them." He edges away and smiles at me before he turns.

This is going to be easier than I thought. If he's already put all of Liam's info into the computer, I'll be able to check it before anyone gets suspicious.

"I'll get them back to you before the end of the day." Pretending to go through patient's charts will be an excellent distraction from my sneaking around on the computer.

"Thanks," he says as he retreats to the other side of the nurses' station and into a conversation with Monique. I exhale and open the first file, trying to calm the shaking in my hands. My body is going to give me away.

With a cautious glance around the room to ensure the nurses are occupied, I shift my focus from the file to the computer screen.

Blakely, Liam— I type it in the program and return to a different patient's chart to make sure we have the proper chemo scheduled before I sign at the bottom. Subtlety is not my strong suit, but I need this to work.

The buzz of an overhead page is the perfect distraction, and I shuffle to the next file, staring at the computer screen as I pretend to scribble something in the chart.

The information from Liam's visit is one click away. The sound of footsteps fills my ears, and I divert my attention to another file. Nothing out of the ordinary. I sign at the bottom of the page, glance up, and smile at the passing nurse.

The three of them are still behind the curtain, but Liam's infusion must almost be done. I don't have much time. There's no way Kline will stay with him longer than necessary, and every second I have to pretend to be signing charts is time wasted. As soon as the nurse passes, I grab the mouse and click on the report.

With a quick scan, I get nothing I didn't already know.

My chair rolls across the linoleum as I lean back, pulling my fingers to my mouth. I nibble on a hangnail and stare at the screen. Kline needs to dictate his findings. I huff out my annoyance and click on the screen to exit when the movement of the mouse refreshes the screen.

It's here.

That means I have seconds before he could come out of Liam's room.

I lean forward, rolling my chair closer as I pull myself forward using the countertop and click the report.

CHIEF COMPLAINT: This is a 19-year-old male who presents today in follow-up for an infusion of vitamins status post two weeks of chemo treatment.

PHYSICAL EXAMINATION: He confirms a syncope incident last week where he was brought into the ER by ambulance. A laceration was tended to, and he was sent home to return for suture removal in seven to ten days. He denies any further episodes. A brief review of systems is negative for palpitations, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, constipation, abdominal pain, neural sensation changes, muscular changes, and increased bruising or bleeding.

I skim over his physical exam and the lab findings, then jump to the plan.

PLAN: We obtained a blood sample to send for secondary testing.

. . . Blah, blah, blah . The sound of a curtain being pulled along the rail captures my attention. I stare at that side of the floor, my heart in my throat, and search for a familiar face.

But there's no Kline.

We're waiting to confirm the DNA.

. . . Yada, yada, yada. I skip the rest, worried I'm about to get caught, and read the plan. Seconds ticking away.

The patient will return tomorrow for another infusion. The transfer of his care is optimal considering the current situation, as discussed with the patient. Will continue with the plan as previously outlined. Consult Dr. B. Fields if there are questions

I click out of his file, log out, and shut down.

As I straighten the charts into a pile, they slip from my hands, a few of them tumbling to the floor. I managed to sign a quarter of them. The rest will have to wait. I slide them into the crook of my arm next to my laptop and reach for the ones under the counter—the B and D stickers catching my attention. I flip it open and find Dax's name at the top of the first page.

This is not good.

"See you guys after lunch." I race to the end of the counter and shove most of the files toward Phillip, keeping Liam's and Dax's. "I'll finish these then." I don't give him a chance to reply.

When I reach the door for the stairs, footsteps sound behind me, and I steal a glance over my shoulder. It confirms my worst fear. I grab the handle and slip through, hoping I've gone unseen, and watch as Kline continues toward the door leading to our offices without glancing in my direction.

I tilt my head upward, saying a silent thank you as I slide to the floor, my back pressed against the door. And imagine a smear of blood from where I heard Carrie slump against the wall. The sound of my pulse racing through my ears slows as I focus on the in-and-out rhythm of my lungs.

Five.

Ten.

Fifteen seconds pass.

I can't make myself move.

What was I thinking? I pinch my eyes closed.

Pretend it didn't happen. Pretend it didn't happen.

I rotate, pressing my forehead against the cool metal of the door as I continue to repeat the words until I gain control of my breath.

Kline had Dax's file in his office. I thought it was to prove a point, to make me think I was losing my mind. But he had it because of the swab.

A quick scan of the pages confirms the unimaginable.

He knew about the results and didn't tell me—Liam and Dax aren't brothers.

I need to get back to the computer and re-read what I skimmed. The DNA, the blood test—it all makes sense now.

My phone vibrates, scaring the living shit out of me. The name that appears on the screen sends a chill down my spine as dread washes over me. I glance out the small rectangular window on the door but don't see Kline anywhere. The phone continues to vibrate, and I swipe my finger across the screen.

"Hello?"

"I took the liberty of talking to HR after seeing Liam. I'll see you next Monday."

My temper flares. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You could use some time off. To think."

I stand, face pressed against the glass, looking for him, my hand balled at my side. "You can't do that. You can't just—"

"Yes, I can. And I did. Don't make me regret only suggesting a week. You need to step back and evaluate if what you're doing is worth it."

I'm sick of Kline thinking he can control me. I've dealt with him for longer than I should have, and I'm not dealing with his shit anymore. Who cares if my character comes into question? I'm not a puppet. I don't have strings. But I do have limits. And they've been reached.

I grab the handle, ready to give Kline a piece of my mind, think better of it, and turn to head downstairs. I bite back the threatening nausea and turn my head to avoid looking at where I presume there would have been smears of blood along the wall.

Kline is messing with the wrong person.

But payback's a bitch.

And revenge is best served with a side of fuck you.