by Tif Marcelo
Aziza leaned back, face softening. “I’m not questioning your priorities, Diana. It’s about you following the policies and procedures. The facilities and the equipment …”
“Were used for a patient I determined wasn’t stable enough to be transferred out. I mean, the room was technically open.” But at her mentor’s frown, she acquiesced. “I’m sorry, I am. But it’s fixable. I mean, it’s already fixed. In a couple of hours, more patients will deliver. Even more will get discharged. Space will open up on the postpartum floor. At most, Winter Storm will have been put off by eighteen hours. I spoke to her myself last night. I also spoke to her physician, who confirmed that she is still not in labor, Aziza.”
“She might have said she understood.” As if relenting, Aziza sat down in a chair across from Diana.
Now at eye level, Diana saw that the displeasure in her mentor’s eyes was actually disappointment.
“What do you mean?”
“It means that she made a call that quickly climbed up the chain, to the CEO of the hospital. Additionally, we have a nonpayer in our books occupying the most expensive room in this building.”
A burn started in Diana’s chest. She hated the subject of money; financial considerations were the reality, yes, but they always settled in her belly like a brick. Having grown up poor and now with a best friend who served a disadvantaged population, Diana had a perspective that at times collided with the current state of insurance laws. Times like right now.
“There’s more.” Aziza took her phone out of her pocket, thumbed it on. She handed it to Diana. The screen was on Facebook, to a Rachel Lam’s profile, which had been set to public. A picture had been uploaded, of her holding a baby. The pair looked serene, with the newborn in a onesie and knit cap. The mom wore a faded blue gown with pink and blue stripes: Alexandria Specialty’s. Rachel held the baby against her chest, her nose on the top of the baby’s head.
But the caption above the photo was long, protracted. Diana squinted at the screen to read it.
Whose life is more important than yours?
Does money make you better than the other person?
When did our society get so out of hand that we’ve now segregated, from birth, the haves and the have-nots?
“The Lam family is still here,” Aziza said. “Apparently, despite the staff’s best efforts, news spread quickly on the ward that the newest transfer was going to a VIP room. Mr. and Mrs. Lam didn’t realize we had one, and it seems the rest of their friends, and their friends’ friends didn’t know, either. Her post went viral.”
Diana scrolled down to the users who’d commented on the post. They were a mix of supporters and naysayers. Of those who understood the necessity to separate high-profile patients for their own privacy, and those who questioned the state of the country’s health-care crisis.
“I agree this doesn’t look good, but I didn’t do this.” Diana started, then held her tongue to keep from saying she agreed, that transparency in health care had a long way to go. This wasn’t the time.
“In a roundabout way, you did. Your break with policy did this.”
“It’s social media. It’ll blow over. As if people don’t know that more private services exist. Beyoncé, Kim Kardashian, Meghan Markle—they can’t go just anywhere to have babies, or else they’d be mobbed by paparazzi.” Diana all but rolled her eyes. The shift ended in a good outcome, and it was ridiculous that social media had a part in this conversation. Sleep tugged from inside her, and she wanted to go home, now more than ever. “What happens now?”
“We have yet to see how this plays out. You were not negligent, but the fact of the matter is that we have been named, Diana. The hospital, the VIP ward. You made a sound medical decision. Frankly, you probably saved that baby’s life, but by doing the right thing, you might have exposed something none of us wants to be associated with—even if we do it—and that’s serving the rich,” Aziza said. “Now people are going to be curious. Not only curious, but the question will be asked—who has the right to special treatment?”
Everyone, was Diana’s first thought. But this wasn’t a philosophical debate.
“What does this mean for me? The bottom line.” There was a reason why she was here, alone, with Aziza. Something was up.
Silence had descended like a thick waterfall around them. In the pause, the words of the HR documents she’d read regarding actions against breaking policy materialized in her head.
“Am I fired?”
“No. But I think you should take some time off. Just a short break, until this all dies down. The hospital is sure to get some press. Winter Storm requested a change in facility for her birth—there’s a possibility more will follow suit.”
“That … that’s unbelievable.”
“Being a provider means garnering a patient’s trust. As of tonight, we lost that on several fronts.”
The feeling of dispensability ran through her like hot lava, and rejection singed her insides. She shook her head and willed herself to shut down the emotion. This was about money, that was all.
Aziza continued. “We still have to figure this out. Honestly, in the last ten years, this has never happened. I’m … I’m not sure what to do, or what the CEO will want.”
“So a short break?”
“Just until the end of the month. Unfortunately, because it would be an extended time off for administrative purposes, some of that might be unpaid, depending on your contract and your vacation days.”
About a couple of weeks without work. Diana hadn’t taken off work for that long since college. A spark of panic flared and fizzed just as quickly as she thought of her savings, her bank account—yes, she could still afford the worst-case scenario.
Diana was startled by Aziza’s hand, which now rested on her forearm. “Look, I was going to bring you in soon to chat, off the record. I’ve noticed that you’ve been different recently. That you’ve been unhappy. Though there’s no need to explain—life is a series of peaks and valleys, and I get that sometimes there are rough spots.” She smiled. “Use this as a time to recharge. This is more for your protection, really. Apparently, our Facebook page has received some trolls. That’s the thing with having an active social media account—it’s great when the conversation is positive, but when there’s something up, it gets hairy. Anyway, this will be a good time to catch up and breathe a little, focus on yourself and what you need.”
“Okay, I’ll do what I need to do.” Diana nodded, though she knew she really didn’t have a choice. One thing: she would certainly not be recharging. Vacations had never been her thing.
Chapter Three
What would Leora do?” muttered Margaret Gallagher-Cary. She was seated on one of Diana’s low, European-style couches with a box open in front of her—a pile to throw away on the right side, and the pile to keep on the left. In her hand was a fan of photos, and somehow, she was supposed to decide where they belonged.
Then it came to her. Her mother, the practical Leora Gallagher, a minimalist and Margo’s complete opposite, would have gotten rid of pictures she had no connection to. An old-school Marie Kondo method. It wouldn’t have taken her mother a long time to decide, either. Even in the last days of her life, in the ebb and flow of forgetfulness and lucidity, Leora made decisions quickly and without regret.
Except her mother wasn’t here, was she? She was dead and therefore wasn’t in this conundrum of moving in with Diana and trying to find a way to somehow fit two—no, three homes into her daughter’s town house.
Margo tossed the photos in the keep pile. On principle, photographs shouldn’t be decluttered—they were memories! Besides, her emotions were in a jumble much like her boxes, haphazardly packed before they sold Leora’s home. Perhaps Margo should go through another box. Somewhere there had to be one filled with books that would surely be easier to get through.
But when she tried to get up, she couldn’t. So on a silent count to three, Margo heaved herself onto her feet, toes catching on the he
m of her bell-bottom jeans (fashion history was cyclical). But her legs stiffened beneath her, joints groaning under her weight.
“Oh, hell, Ma, this box it is,” she mumbled, falling back onto the cushion. She scooped photos out of the box once again.
“Ma.”
Margo turned to the voice. Diana was at the threshold of the back door—right, Margo had left it open to the storm door so Flossy could get a glimpse of the outside world—with her arms crossed and a grin on her face. “Did I just catch you talking to yourself?”
“I wasn’t talking to myself. I was talking to your granny. And, no, she doesn’t answer back, so you don’t need to rush me to another specialist. Wanna sit and help me go through these photos?”
“No, thanks, I’m cross-eyed and on the verge of collapse.” Diana hung her coat on the hallway tree and kicked off her shoes. She disappeared into the laundry room behind her and closed the door. The sounds of what Margo had learned was her daughter’s routine commenced: the washing machine door being opened, the melodic buttons of the washer being pressed, the whoosh of the water as it filled the tub, and finally, the squeak of the faucet for that final handwashing before the door opened. Now dressed in a plaid robe, her daughter was all set to take a quick shower before bed.
Diana was so much like her granny that Margo’s heart tore a fraction of a millimeter, in the spot where she wished her mother were still alive. Leora had been tickled that someone had inherited her type A traits.
A hand was in front of her. “Need help?” Diana asked.
Margo nodded, taking it, allowing her daughter to bear her weight. Her feet prickled with pins and needles as blood rushed downward, and she took a moment to wiggle her toes to get the feeling back. “How was your night?”
“Long, and long story.”
“Did you see the picture I posted last night?” Pride, mixed with trepidation, filled her chest. For Margo, once a professional photographer of actual pictures she developed herself—in a darkroom, no less—social media had become an escape while caring for her mother. Her small window to the outside world, when, for almost a year, Margo felt isolated from the living. She’d filled her lonely moments by taking pictures of the quirky things she found in her mother’s home, like Leora’s precious sewing kit and her favorite costume necklace, made with misshapen pearls. The mix-and-match pieces of her beloved wardrobe. Or the sky right before a derecho slammed through Northern Virginia. Under the title of Ms. Margo, her alter ego, Margo thrived at a time when everything around her seemed to crumble.
Quickly, Ms. Margo had caught fire, and now, with thousands of followers, Margo still had a purpose despite losing one of the most important people in her life.
But Diana never showed any interest in her Ms. Margo project.
“Ah, I actually didn’t get a chance to look,” Diana said now.
“I see.” Margo’s shoulders threatened to slump forward, but she kept a smile on her face. “It’s fine.”
Diana looked away for a beat. “Last night was chaotic, hence my not calling back, either.”
Glad for the change in subject, Margo jumped into it headlong. “I wanted to warn you that Carlo came over. I was in the middle of unpacking my bedroom. I wanted to get all this stuff out of your living room this weekend and packed out of sight.” She gestured at the topsy-turvy space in front of them, half-filled with open moving boxes, gifts from clients, and several stacks of photographs and portfolios, so unlike her daughter’s usual way of life that it brought a pang to Margo’s heart. She’d moved in only a month ago, after the sale of Leora’s house was finalized, but one would’ve never known that she’d spent every day trying to put things away. “He asked a lot of questions as soon as I opened the front door, too many for my comfort and some about Flossy, so I asked him to leave.”
“Thank you for trying to warn me. He found me at work.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know where his sudden need to be involved is coming from, but he says he wants visitation.”
“Of the dog?”
“Yes. He first said he wanted her—”
Margo’s hand flew to her chest. “No way. No how. He brought Flossy home for you.” And truthfully, that dog had somehow wormed her way into Margo’s heart, too. Margo had never owned pets and had convinced herself she and dogs didn’t mix, until Flossy climbed on her lap and settled in. Now she carried Flossy like a baby, sometimes even for her walks.
“I know. He’s not going to win this, though. If I have to get a lawyer, I will.”
Margo heard the exasperation in her daughter’s tone and noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Last night had been her third night of call. “Anyone deliver in the VIP suites?” she teased, to lighten the mood. “Did someone deliver in a champagne bath?”
It earned her a snort, which was a win in her column.
“We had a couple of admissions to the suites. But, I’m going to bed. Can we talk later?”
Cut-and-dry—that was her daughter’s style.
“Yeah, sure.” Margo looked away and pretended to sift through one of the cooking magazines that had come in yesterday’s mail. With Diana, one couldn’t just force their way in. Diana revealed her emotions in spurts, and only patience was rewarded, especially these days, when an unshakable cloud seemed to have descended around her. Margo just wished that it would be sooner than later, since she was days away from getting on a plane.
Which was another sore spot between them.
“Might as well try to sleep, since the contractors are a little late. Don’t forget, they start the master bath today.” Diana looked at her watch and opened her mouth to say more, but her phone rang. She kissed Margo swiftly on the cheek. “But don’t worry about your boxes, okay? I’ll help you when I get up. Or I can unpack them when you go on your trip.”
“All right, sweetheart” was all Margo could say, because there was no sense arguing with her daughter at this time of the morning. She watched the back of Diana’s robe disappear up the staircase, and wondered how the hell this was all going to work.
* * *
When Margo’s friends had complained that their grown children had boomeranged home, Margo celebrated in silent reverie that her dearest Diana had flown the nest without once looking back. Diana had been born on her own trajectory, with an infant sleep schedule that allowed Margo to continue her work without great difficulty. Margo barely had to convince Diana, as a child, to do her homework, to clean her room. In junior high, while Diana’s friends had gone through that god-awful stage of not brushing their teeth, there Diana was every night over the sink, brushing and flossing and washing her face. Margo hadn’t once worried about the college and career process because her girl had made her own plans and knew exactly what she wanted from her life.
No one told Margo that it was her mother that she should have been worried about. Leora, who had been a titan in every respect, who lived to ninety-nine, transformed in the last year of her life from fairly independent and lucid to a woman Margo didn’t recognize and had to care for full-time. And no one had told Margo that in the autumn of her life, she would find herself living under her daughter’s roof. Talk about a convoluted circle.
Margo entered the garage and flipped the light on. Not all town houses in Old Town had garages, and while they were lucky to have one, it didn’t function well for its intended use. These buildings were built tall and narrow, and despite attempts at modernizing the space, the garage could barely fit a sedan without risking damage to its sides. But it made for good storage, which most homes in Alexandria lacked.
Storage totes lined the back of the garage, from the concrete floors up nearly to the ceiling. Each plastic bin was labeled with its contents in her daughter’s neat block letters, so unlike the stereotypical doctor’s scrawl.
Margo’s boxes, on the other hand, had taken up the middle of the garage, along with the materials for the renovation that Diana and Carlo had planned before Diana properly and rightfully shoved him out the door.
&
nbsp; The placement of Margo’s boxes was the perfect representation of her intrusion into her daughter’s life.
The construction aside, Margo had to admit: she was messy. Her stuff was everywhere. It jumped out, mismatched from her daughter’s things. So, despite agreeing to rest, Margo couldn’t. The least she could do was empty a box or two. Maybe three.
She spotted a small box behind the rest of her stash. The cardboard was discolored to a light brown, a sign that it was one of her mother’s. Opposite her own penchant to keep things, Leora had been much like Diana—a minimalist. And Margo did not remember if she’d gone through it. She jostled the box; it shook easily. This she might be able to tackle.
The door into the home opened. “Ma.” Diana’s voice pierced through the quiet garage.
Margo jumped. “Goodness. You keep doing that.”
She laughed. “Paying you back for the years you listened to my phone calls on the landline.”
“I didn’t do that!” Margo gasped, but her feigned ignorance was short-lived. “Okay, so I did. You knew?”
“Yes,” she said pointedly. “Anyway, that was Sam who called. I’m going to meet her at the center and go for a quick run.”
Margo frowned. It was freezing, and Diana hadn’t slept well in days. Then again, on tough days, Diana needed a friend, and Sam was her bestie. But the circles under her eyes begged for Margo to ask anyway. “Are you sure? You were headed straight to bed.”
“Yeah. And since I know you’re not going to stop unpacking, I’ll bring a couple of boxes in for you. Just two, okay?”
“Okay.” Margo relented, though Diana’s words left a bitter taste in her mouth. It wasn’t what she said but the way she said it—as if Margo herself needing managing. She was seventy-five, not dead. And when Diana kissed her on the forehead like a toddler who needed a mother’s encouragement before a difficult task, Margo’s insides stirred with unease.
The tables, in fact, had turned significantly.