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“We might have a celebrity guest that’s going to save the center,” she gushes over the phone.
I can practically picture her grinning ear to ear, maybe even throwing an old-school air fist pump—because, in her mind, we’re still stuck in the late 2000s.
“Come again?” Her words catch me off guard, so I need her to repeat or . . . what is she talking about?
“You heard me right, a celebrity guest will be our salvation.”
I still don’t understand what she means by it. “Oh, a celebrity guest. Is this your way of telling me that you bumped your head and had a dream or something?” I ask, not hiding the sarcasm in my voice.
She lets out an unamused huff, undeterred by my skepticism. “No, my pessimistic friend. We might have a solution to our problems. And I’m actually riding this good news. I won’t let you pull me away from my beautiful meadow of rainbows, flowers, and good things.”
Lately, it feels like I’ve been caught in a rain cloud of setbacks. Hard to get pumped about much of anything.
“Alright, I’m listening. But who exactly is this ‘celebrity’?” I probe, trying to mask the growing curiosity in my voice. I don’t want her to think I’m on board with what sounds like a scheme or . . . what is this?
In my mind, she might be talking about some pop star or actor who’s related to a neighbor or something like that. This person is probably offering to help us raise money through their social media, or they’ll even organize a telethon—is that still a thing? I recall Mom watching those back when I was young. She’d always donate and call her friends so they would do the same.
Instead of making up theories, I ask, “Are they going to remodel the center or use it for some kind of reality show? Extreme Makeover: Unlucky Edition.”
“You do have a crazy imagination.” She chuckles.
“That’s all I have left,” I say, trying to laugh at myself but obviously failing. “Tell me about this celebrity then.”
“So, we got this call from a guy saying that his client needs a place like ours for their rehabilitation.”
I hold my breath hoping she’ll add more to it, but she doesn’t. So I ask, “What kind of rehabilitation do they need?” My voice drips with skepticism as I guide the car around a curve, both hands steady on the wheel.
“They weren’t specific about it, but they will forward all the information after we sign an NDA,” Blythe explains, her voice more businesslike and less giddy.
“So, we don’t even know what they want?” I reply, trying not to sound frustrated.
“Does it matter?” Blythe asks casually, as if I’m missing the point of this conversation.
“Of course it matters. What if they’re confusing us with a mental health institution?” The patient could be someone who needs to get clean because celebrities’ lifestyle sometimes is a mix of parties and public appearances.The pressure is so much that they take opioids, street drugs, or drink themselves to oblivion.
We only have professionals who focus on ensuring our patients recover from bodily injuries, or we help them adapt to any new changes due to illnesses or accidents. The thought that my father fucked the center when this was created to aid people like him makes my blood boil with anger.
“Their client needs a private center,” Blythe goes on. “Due to his addictive personality—they didn’t want to specify if he was an alcoholic, drug addict, or both—he needs to be in a holistic place where pain meds won’t be administered.”
“We’re not that kind of facility,” I interject before she goes any further. “Though we avoid giving medication, we’re not going to admit a person who needs to get clean.”
“The thing is that there’s no such facility that will do both,” she argues. “But we could be it for them, and maybe we can try something new and different that will bring us patients like those. It’s called innovation.”
I let out a weary sigh, raking a hand through my hair as I keep my eyes on the road. “Why do I want to go through the trouble when we’ll probably lose the center anyway and they’ll have to move their client?”
“This is where it gets interesting,” she says with a giddy voice.
“Interesting as in they’ll pay us with publicity, or interesting as we can charge them whatever we want, and we might be able to buy us some time to save the center?” I ask doubtfully and yet, I’m hopeful because we need a win.
“This guy said, ‘Price isn’t a problem,’” she says. “They’re willing to pay whatever, but they have several requests. They don’t want more than two or three people to treat their client. No one, absolutely no one else can be aware of his existence in the center. Since discretion is key, I’m thinking we can have them in your old house.”
“No,” I reply, my knuckles going white from clutching the steering wheel so hard.
“It’s the perfect place for this patient. You have everything there—a gym, wheelchair accessibility . . . This could help us save the center, Seraphina. We have to at least consider it.”
I almost wince as I squeeze the wheel tighter, hands cramping. I feel caught between desperation and dread. This client could be the ticket out of our mess, but diving into the unknown is unsettling.
“Just say yes,” Blythe insists.
