Page 13 of Dr. Intern

When he turns to face me, his face is ashen and stunned, completely unlike any expression I’ve seen on him before. Normally Parker is the poster child for remaining cool under pressure. He could accidentally cut a patient’s radial artery, and he wouldn’t flinch under the stress. Robotic isn’t exactly the right word to describe him, but it’s damn near close.

Hanging up the phone, he jogs over to me with panic in his eyes. “We’ve got to go.”

Chapter 5

Claire

“Do you want to do that?”

I blink, trying to focus on my brother’s words. On any word other than the one flashing through my brain like an LED billboard.

The only thing going through my head for the past several days has been a string of letters. Six letters to be exact. Letters that when merged together change the course of your life.

Orphan.

I was young when my dad died, so I never really considered that there would be a time in my life when that word would describe me. But it does now. And it will for the rest of my life.

Isn’t it weird how the more you say something in your head, the more it doesn’t sound real? As if it’s completely made up and means nothing. Maybe that’s why I keep repeating this particular word. Because if I don’t give it meaning, it can’t define me.

My beautiful, perfect mom went to heaven exactly one week ago. We were walking out of the bridal shop, having just finished purchasing Cassidy’s dress, when she collapsed to the ground. By the time we got her to the car, she could barely breathe and almost seemed like she was a fish out of water, desperate to be thrown back to sea.

Cassidy rushed us to the hospital, practically running every red light in the city to get us there in less than ten minutes. She was the epitome of a calm, collected nurse in a crisis situation, despite the fact that I know she hates driving. I would have thought everything would be fine based on her confident response, but her eyes were a giveaway to the severity of the situation—filled with terror, as if she knew what was about to come.

By the time we made it to the hospital, they were ready for us and met Mom with a wheelchair and oxygen. I guess Cass called my siblings at some point, but truthfully, the whole situation was a blur, and all I could focus on was holding my mom’s hand. Feeling her cool skin in mine. Reassuring her that everything was going to be okay.

Caroline met us at the door, having come straight from Decatur where she’s in medical school. While she couldn’t do anything directly, it was nice having her with us as we waited for my brother. When we got inside, the staff managed to stabilize Mom and get her oxygen saturation up, allowing us a moment of peace. But then, over the next hour, it started going down again.

When Parker showed up in his golf clothes, I remember thinking that we were going to be okay because my brother was there. Mom was going to be okay because he was going to start yelling at everyone. He was going to fix this.

But he didn’t.

Parker just sat next to us and held Mom's hand, resignation written all over his face.

I screamed at him, trying to get him to do something, to say something. To use his stupid doctor voice and start doing his job. When he ignored my pleas, I turned to Cassidy, collapsing into her arms as I begged for her to help. For her to make this better.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

All she could do was hold me tight while I sobbed on her shoulder.

Apparently, Mom had made her wishes known; she was DNR status, meaning they couldn’t legally do anything more than give her oxygen and medication for comfort. We just had to watch her die. To sit by her side, holding her hand as she got worse and worse, until she eventually took her last breath.

“Claire,” Parker says, his tone curt as he draws me out of my head.

“What?”

His sapphire eyes soften as they meet mine. “Do you want to speak?”

My brother and sister are looking at me expectantly. “Um, sure P, whatever you want.”

A man who looks like he’s my non-existent parents’ age comes to greet us at the front of the church. His hands are tucked into his tailored gray suit, despair written on his face.

“Kids, I’m sorry that we have to meet like this,” he says, glancing between us without really meeting our eyes. “I’m Mike Dickerson, the attorney who was appointed to execute the will.”

I scoff, unable to hide my irritation. He had to choose now to talk with us? Could he not wait until after she was in the ground?

“I’ll let you guys handle this,” I say, attempting to make a run for the bathroom. Maybe I can hide there until the service so I don’t have to talk to anyone. Nothing they say is going to make this better, and quite frankly, I don’t want it to.

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