Son of a bitch. That is even more fucked up than I imagined

Son of a bitch. That is even more fucked up than I imagined
Michael

Between the two of us, I am the one with a temper that constantly threatens to boil over. I have never felt a more powerful urge to put my hands on a woman than I did right then, standing in that packed hospital waiting room. Evelyn stood there weeping and trembling, performing the role of the blameless victim when she was the entire fucking reason her daughter was fighting for her life in a trauma bay.

In all the time I had known Evelyn, I had considered her a woman of reasonable intelligence. Lately, my opinion of her sanity had taken a serious dive, but I never would have labeled her an outright fool. So how could she possibly stand there and expect me to believe that her therapist instructed her to feed her daughter a substance that could kill her? And even if some bastard did say it, what kind of fucking monster would actually go through with it?

And now she was dragging my father into this? My vision pulsed with a red-hot rage.

Michael felt the shift in me. He took my arm and guided me firmly toward the automatic doors. “We should walk,” he said, pulling me away from the toxic spectacle of Evelyn. “We need to focus on what actually matters. Let us get registered and go see Violet.”

“Right,” I said, dragging my fingers through my hair. It had been tied back for dinner, but my hairband was long gone. The wind caught it, whipping the loose strands around my shoulders as we stepped outside and followed the path to the main entrance.

Michael was typing on his phone as we walked. I could not see the full message, but I saw the name at the top: Nash Turner.

The main lobby felt dim and hushed after the frantic, overlit emergency department. We checked in with the security guard at the desk, who printed visitor passes for us to stick on our shirts. Then we headed for the elevators.

Violet was in the progressive care unit, the same ward where we had last visited our manager, Keaton, before his transfer to a rehab facility. We found her in a double room. The first bed was occupied by an elderly woman whose cough sounded like it was tearing her apart from the inside. Violet was in the second bed, positioned near the bathroom with a window that offered a view of the rear parking lot and the dark silhouette of mountains beyond.

She looked more settled now that she was in a proper bed, propped up in a sitting position. Some of the life seemed to be returning to her face. Her expression warmed the moment we walked in.

“Hey,” she said, her voice rough and scraped raw. The swelling in her face did appear to be receding.

“Hey, Princess.” I went straight to her side and bent to press a kiss to her cheek. I wanted to hold her hand, but the arm closest to me was tethered to the IV lines. A portable heart monitor sat on the bed beside her. A plastic water pitcher, a TV remote, and a call button were lined up on her bedside table. “How are you feeling?”

“Just fantastic,” she croaked, a dry laugh escaping her. “Most unforgettable birthday I have ever had.”

Michael moved to the other side of the bed and took her free hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “Please do not joke about that, Violet.”

“It is better than crying,” she said, and I could feel the profound exhaustion layered beneath her words.

Michael held her hand a little tighter. His gaze was direct, his voice full of conviction. “You cannot return to that house, Violet.”

She only let out a long sigh and closed her eyes, as if the very thought was too heavy to hold.

I pulled a flimsy chair to her bedside and sat down, leaning my elbows on the mattress to get closer. “Would it be all right with you if we went to your room and packed your things?”

She sniffed, and the brave mask she was wearing crumbled. “I do not have anywhere to go.” The raw sadness and vulnerability in her eyes made me want to gather her up right out of that bed and never let go.

“You do not need to worry about a thing,” Michael said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he pulled a vinyl recliner closer. “Michael and I will handle everything.”

She looked at him, blinking fast, but a single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. “It was not an accident, was it?”

Michael gave a slow, sorrowful shake of his head. “I am so sorry, darling. Your mother confessed… she put almond milk in the sauce.”

Violet just sighed and let her head fall back against the pillow. I had expected a bigger reaction, outrage, or a flood of tears. She had to be shattered, but she was pushing it all down, lying there taking measured breaths and rubbing her chest as if it still ached.

“We are going to get to the bottom of this, Princess,” I promised, the ferocity in my own voice surprising me.

“There is no bottom,” she said, shifting restlessly under the blankets. “It is just a fucking bottomless pit.” She moved her legs beneath the sheets. “Shit. I feel terrible. I want to crawl straight out of my own skin.”

Michael’s eyes scanned her from head to toe, his body tensing. “What is wrong? Should I call a nurse?”

She shook her head. “I already talked to them. It is a side effect from the injections, I think.” She swallowed with visible difficulty. “I feel like I might be sick again.”

I noticed a dispenser of blue plastic emesis bags on the wall behind her. I grabbed one and handed it to her. She clutched it in her free hand but did not raise it yet. “Again?”

She gave a weak nod. “I was sick twice in the emergency room.”

“Damn, Violet. I am so sorry.”

She lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It is not your fault.”

“I know,” I said, a wave of sadness hitting me. “But we really wanted your birthday to be perfect.”

She reached for me then, completely ignoring the tubes in her arm. I leaned in so she could touch my face. Her hand trembled as she stroked my cheek. She swallowed several times before she could form the words. “I am so grateful I have you. Both of you…” She turned her head to include Michael. “I… lo…”

Whatever she meant to say was cut off as her body convulsed. She brought the bag to her mouth, her frame shaking with the awful, wrenching sounds of her stomach turning itself inside out. It was mostly just water and bile.

“Sorry,” she mumbled into the bag.

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, baby,” Michael assured her, his voice incredibly gentle. “The only thing that matters is you getting better. Just focus on that. Michael and I will pack your things and figure out a place for you to stay, all right?”

She sniffled. “Okay.” She rolled the top of the bag closed. Her eyes drifted to the water cup on her table. Michael followed her gaze, picked up the cup, and held the straw to her lips. She took a small sip and then turned her head away.

A pre-recorded chime sounded through the intercom, followed by a pleasant voice. “It is now 9:00 PM. Visiting hours have ended. Please proceed to the exits. Have a good night.”

Michael rose to his feet with clear reluctance.

“I do not want to leave,” I stated, digging in my heels.

She gave my hand a pat. “Go home and get some rest,” she said, her sweetness undiminished. “I will probably be stuck here until afternoon at least.” She scratched absently at her neck. The hives were gone, but angry red marks from her nails remained.

“Is there anything you need us to bring tomorrow?” Michael asked.

“Could you… bring my laptop and my journal? And a clean pair of underwear?”

“Of course. We will be here the moment they allow visitors,” I promised. I bent down again, intending to kiss her lips, not caring that she had just been sick, but she made a sound of protest and covered her mouth. So I changed course and pressed my lips to her soft, smooth forehead instead.

When I straightened up, Michael did the same, pausing to stroke her hair and caress her cheek. “I am going to miss you tonight,” he said softly. “I have already gotten used to sleeping beside you.”

“I am going to miss you, too,” she replied.

Just then, her roommate on the other side of the curtain launched into a coughing fit, hacking so violently that the effort produced a loud, unfortunate sound.

Violet tilted her head toward the dividing curtain. “But do not worry. I will not be too lonely. Beatrice will keep me company.”

I let out a quiet laugh and tapped her nose. “Goodnight, Princess.”

We left the room before the staff could shoo us out. To our complete surprise, Nash was waiting in the hallway, seated in an uncomfortable-looking chair that looked stolen from a waiting area. He stood as we approached. I noticed he was wearing a hospital-issued employee name badge.

“How is she?” he asked, his brow furrowed with what looked like genuine worry.

“She is holding on,” Michael said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “As well as anyone could expect.”

Nash gave a single nod. “I am staying here tonight to keep an eye on her.”

The idea that she could still be in danger here, inside the hospital, had not even crossed my mind. I do not know why; I have seen enough thrillers. I was profoundly fucking grateful that Nash was with us.

“I looked into the therapist Evelyn mentioned,” Nash continued, keeping his voice low so the passing nurses could not hear. “There is no licensed therapist, psychologist, or counselor named Ronald Dorsky.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Michael growled.

“However,” Nash went on, “I did find a Ronald Dorsky. He is an undergraduate at the university.”

“In the psychology department?” I asked, probably sounding like an idiot, but hoping this man my father recommended had at least some connection to the field.

Nash shook his head. “Sciences. He works for your father as a teaching assistant.”

“So let me understand this,” I said, the pieces clicking together with a sickening finality. “My father convinced his girlfriend to see a fake therapist? And the guy is just a fucking student?”

Nash lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “That appears to be the situation.”

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, weary breath. “Son of a bitch. That is even more fucked up than I imagined.”