Page 19 of Ms. Lead

Chapter Eleven

OLIVER

DULL KNIVES

After waking up in an ambulance and being told what happened, it’s as if my worst nightmare has come to life in vivid technicolor. Now in the hospital A&E, that nightmare is continuing unfettered.

It being a Saturday, plus the time difference between the U.S. and the U.K., of course, my neurologist can’t be reached to discuss my treatment with the doctors here.

While I have a medicine passport listing everything I take, one of the prescriptions is experimental, and I had to declare it when I entered the country, as well as show a letter from my doctors. It’s bullshit bureaucracy at its finest. The question now for the doctors here is about that experimental medicine. Is it not working? What can and can’t I take with it?

Everything is up in the air until the doctor in charge of my care gets the bright idea to directly call the institution running the clinical trial I’m in. Once that is done, my treatment plan is finalized, and I can breathe a little easier. A heavy dose of IV steroids should tide me over until I return home in a few weeks.

What none of my medicines or doctors can do is cure my rage. Fury at myself for being in this pitiful position. Anger at the rest of the world that doesn’t have to go through this. Annoyance at the hospital staff, who are overly pleasant and cheerful, when they should be as outraged as I am at this situation.

And if they’re not kind and smiling, they have that look; the look I abhor and the word I’m tired of thinking about. Concern. I’d be more than happy to tell them what they can do with their fucking concern.

“Oliver? How are you feeling?”

I open my eyes and discover a grown-up version of that little girl, Ava, whom I met the other day, standing in the doorway. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a tan. Emitting a paradoxical beach vibe in the middle of the desert.

“You must be Ava’s mother,” I say, coldness in my tone. It only now dawns on me that the hospital must have called her since she’s listed as my emergency contact here in the states. At least it’s not Bianca.

“And you must be Mr. Belly,” she chuckles as she steps into the room, and I can’t help but smile at the name Ava gave me.

“I am indeed. I think it’s officially become my new nom de plume.”

“Well, I’m sure Ava would be ecstatic if that were true.”

“After today, I may need to permanently change my name, so I’ll keep that one in the running.” I instantly regret saying that because I know it opens the door to discussing what happened. I’d really rather not talk about it, especially with Normandy Carmichael. I need to maintain professional neutrality with her and not get into personal issues before interviewing her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you when you arrived. I hope it wasn’t a problem having Bianca take over for me as your guide.” She sits in the one chair in the room, making herself comfortable. I hope this doesn’t mean she’s staying for any length of time. I don’t do visitors. “My sister going into labor so early wasn’t on anyone’s agenda, so we’ve all been scrambling.”

That, of course, hits me directly in the heart. Not only for the trouble their family is enduring but the guilt overtaking me for how I have treated Bianca. It’s for the best, though. I must keep reminding myself of that, and each time I do, my self-loathing grows.

“Hopefully, both mother and baby are doing well?”

Her face lights up at the question. “Yes, I’m an aunt for the second time. This time to a little girl, Grace.” She shrugs a little. “You’ll get to meet her at our barbeque whenever we get to do that. With you in here and Chelsie and Noah still coping with a newborn, I think tomorrow is out of the question. Maybe next weekend or the one after.”

I wave at her dismissively. “I think my weekends are free the rest of my time here, so whatever works for you will work for me.”

My in-person interviews can be done over the phone or via video call if it comes to that. I just prefer to conduct them live so I can see the emotions that aren’t expressed in people’s words. Quite often, the two are very different from each other.

“So, is it terminal?” she asks with a chuckle, and my stomach sinks. She must notice because she’s quick to follow up. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way if it’s….”

“No. No. It’s okay. I just tripped and fell. It’s not a big deal.” I force my face into a neutral mask. One I’m getting used to wearing.

“Bianca’s in the waiting room. She’s quite upset they won’t let her back here to see you. I should probably change your emergency contact to her—”

“No.” My voice is loud, clear, and sharper than I want it to be. Every muscle in my body seems to tighten at the sound of her name. Normandy flinches, and I’m forced to devise a reason to be so emphatic. “I don’t want to burden anyone else.”

“But Bianca will be with you almost every day. It makes sense to—”

“No,” I repeat. The ice in my words cracks into pointed shards. I probably sound completely mad, but I can’t have Bianca wrapped up in my mess of a life in any way, or at least no more than she already is. “Please, Normandy. Let’s keep Bianca out of all this and leave things as they are.”

She studies me for a long minute, her eyes tightening but changing to something softer as she stares at me. Then she moves to examine the IV needle in my arm and the machines monitoring my vital signs. Her eyes finally land on the IV bag itself, and I hope to God she either can’t read it or doesn’t understand what it is.

After a while, she nods. “Okay. We can keep it as is for now. But if something else happens, I will change it.”

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