Trisha smiles and bats a hand. “Honey, you didn’t need to come in. You’re allowed to have a life. You’re only eighteen once.”
I slip into the nurses’ station. “It’s no problem. I enjoy coming here.”
“Well, you know I’m always glad to see you here.” She gestures to a stack of files. “And you know how much I hate data entry.”
I sit on the desk chair, collect the files, and scoot toward the computer. “Consider it done.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Trisha says playfully.
Guilt swirls in my stomach, and I swallow hard in an attempt to rid it. “Oh, before you go,” I say. “How’s the woman who had the breathing issues?”
“Much better,” Trisha replies. “I’m sure she’d love a visit from you.”
I nod, stepping away from the desk. “I’ll see her first.”
Trisha leaves to see a different patient, and I leave my purse by the computer. After I texted Dax to meet up, I opened the search tab from last night when I googled Dax’s illness. Even though it’s wrong, I just need to know what Dr. Harris found out about Dax. I hate admitting my sole purpose in coming here today was to look up Dax’s file.
My fingers twitch as I take a second glance at the computer.
No, Vanessa. Visit the woman first. Do at least one selfless thing today before snooping through the hospital’s patient files.
I leave the nurses’ station and make my way to the woman’s room. I walk past Mr. Raymond’s room and smile. He’s lying on his back, sound asleep. I step through the doorway of the next room and knock on the doorframe.
“Yes?” the woman asks, reclined in her bed.
I step into the room, giving her a friendly wave. “Hi there. My name’s Vanessa. I just wanted to check in and see how you were feeling.”
She sits up in bed. “Oh, you’re the girl who sounded the alarm.” She places a hand on her chest. “Boy, am I grateful for you. Thank you so much.”
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” I say, stopping by her bed. “But honestly, I didn’t do that much. It was all the medical staff.”
“Either way, thank you,” she says with a hearty smile. “I hear you’re the one trying to make this hospital better.”
“I’m just organizing a fundraiser.”
“That’s amazing. If it means more staff, then maybe it won’t be up to the girl who reads to find a woman struggling to breathe.”
My stomach wobbles with a feeling I don’t exactly understand. I give her a kind smile and turn toward the door. “I’ll let you get back to resting.”
She waves me off. “Come back and say hi anytime.”
I leave the room with an unsettling feeling. I don’t feel worthy of her praise. All I’m doing is organizing a gala that has more political and social advantages for my mother. Sure, I help the nurses with their paperwork, but I’m also just a real-life audiobook for patients.
I make my way back to the nurses’ station, plonk down on the desk chair, and perch my fingers above the keyboard. Ugh. This is so wrong. But then Dax’s face fills my mind. Memories of cuddling up with him under the stars collide with the memory of him collapsing in this very place.
That’s it.
I open the database.
I have to know more.
I need to help him get better.
I search:Malone, Dax. Dax’s file appears on screen. Cindy entered his notes from yesterday, and my gut cramps as I read them. Apparently, the blood tests showed Dax’s white blood cell count is high.
I sneak my phone out of my clutch purse to search for what this means. The first result suggests his body is fighting off infection. Hmm, that doesn’t seemso bad. Physical labor and injuries also make the list. And then my body chills when I read that smoking can be a cause.
Panic courses through my veins as I read the symptoms. Fever, night sweats, weight loss, easy bruising and bleeding, and fatigue. My head grows woozy, and I swallow hard. Dax told me he sweated throughout the night. Oh my gosh. Does having more symptoms mean his prognosis could be much worse?
