Chapter 4 - Elevated Markers
Three days went by with nothing. I kept my face blank. I brought Warren his meals, ran his medication schedule, helped him through his mornings, and said as little as I could to Trevor and Colleen. Polite. Forgettable. I worked at it.
On the fourth morning Marilyn found me in the kitchen. Warren's mother was a small woman, seventy-three, white hair pinned back, hands that moved like she expected to knock something over any second. She'd barely spoken ten words to me since I'd arrived.
She set her cup on the counter and looked out the window. "How's he sleeping?"
"Better than the first night. He seems more comfortable."
She nodded. A long silence. "He used to sleep through anything. Even as a little boy. Nothing woke that child." She turned the cup in her hands. "He hasn't slept right since the accident."
"That's normal in recovery," I said carefully. "The body's working hard."
"Is that what it is." Not a question. Then she looked straight at me for the first time. "You're not like the others."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"The other caregivers. Always going to Trevor with questions. About the house, about the company, about Warren's schedule." She set the cup down. "You don't ask Trevor anything."
"I ask Warren. He's my patient."
Something crossed her face. Not quite relief. Older than relief. "Good," she said quietly, and she picked up her cup and left.
That afternoon Warren's physician came by for a scheduled visit. Dr. Hartley was a compact man in his late fifties, quick and clipped. He checked Warren's reflexes, skimmed the medication log I'd been keeping, asked me two questions about sleep and appetite, and snapped his bag shut.
Trevor stood in the doorway the whole time.
When Dr. Hartley headed for the hall, Trevor was right behind him. I stayed to help Warren with his afternoon dose. Through the wall I could hear voices, low and overlapping. No words.
"He does that every single visit," Warren said quietly.
"Walks the doctor out?"
"Has a private word with him. Started around the second month." Warren watched the closed door. "Hartley's reports got vaguer after that. More general. 'Progress is slow but steady.' That kind of thing."
"Do you have your full medical file?"
"Requested it twice. Both times they told me it was being processed." He paused. "Both requests went through Trevor."
I put the medication cup down. "Request it yourself. In writing. Straight to the clinic. Not through anyone in this house."
"I can't exactly walk in there," he said.
"You don't have to. Write a signed letter and I'll hand it to the clinic administrator myself. Nobody here has to know."
He studied me. "You'd do that?"
"It's a letter. It's not complicated."
He almost smiled. First time I'd seen it get that close.
That evening I was passing the study when I caught Colleen's voice through the half-open door.
"She's too calm, Trevor. The others got jumpy. This one doesn't."
"Give it time."
"We don't have time. The board review is in six weeks. If Warren shows any real improvement before then—"
"He won't."
A pause. "You sound awfully sure."
May you like
"I am sure," Trevor said. "Hartley knows exactly what's riding on this."
I stood in that hallway without moving a muscle. Then I went to my room, shut the door, and sat on the edge of the bed with Katherine Boyd's card in my hand.
