Even in his dreams, he’s running the numbers.
"Yeah," I say softly, closing my eyes and resting my chin on his head. "Statistically, we’re gonna make it. And statistically, your mother is going to regret today for the rest of her life."
I hold him tighter.
"I promise."
Chapter 11
Under Siege
Jax
The morning after the boat, the sun rises over New York City with an indifferent, golden glow. But inside St. Jude’s Hospital, the atmosphere is less "sunny morning" and more "fortified bunker."
I am at the nurses' station, chugging my third coffee, when the first wave hits.
"Dr. O'Connell," a junior nurse squeaks, holding a phone like it’s a live grenade. "I have a... Mrs. York on line one. She says it’s a medical emergency involving the groom’s mother."
I take the phone. I hit the mute button. I look at Rosa Ortiz, who is currently auditing the narcotic locker with the terrifying precision of a forensic accountant.
"Rosa," I say. "Catherine is on line one. She claims a medical emergency."
Rosa doesn't even look up. "Is she bleeding?"
"She didn't say."
"Is she unconscious?"
"She’s talking, so no."
"Then tell her to dial 911 or call her therapist," Rosa snaps,slamming a drawer shut. "We are a Level 1 Trauma Centre, not a Concierge Service for Narcissists."
I unmute the phone. "Mrs. York. This is Dr. O'Connell. Unless you are currently experiencing cardiac arrest, I am terminating this call."
"Jackson!" Catherine’s voice shrills through the receiver. It sounds tinny and frantic. "Do not hang up! I need to speak to Maxwell! He is not answering his cell! He is not answering his pager! He is not answering the pneumatic tube system!"
"He is in surgery," I lie. Max is actually in his office, eating a bagel and aggressively reorganizing his bookshelf by colour gradient to self-soothe. "He is performing a... very long, very complex procedure. On a orphan. A very cute orphan."
"I don't care about the orphan!" Catherine shrieks. "I need to discuss the floral arrangements for the narthex! The peonies are the wrong shade of blush! They look like anemia, Jackson!Anemia!"
"I’m hanging up now, Catherine."
"If you hang up, I will revoke the Foundation’s grant!" Catherine threatens. "I will sell the building to a condo developer! I will turn your Trauma Centre into a luxury med-spa! Do you hear me, Jackson? I will replace your crash cart with a cucumber water station!"
"You wouldn't dare," I say. "The Board would eat you alive."
"Iamthe Board!" she screams.
I hang up.
Ten minutes later, the physical assault begins.
The elevator doors open. A delivery man staggers out. He is carrying a floral arrangement that is not a bouquet. It is a tree. It is a six-foot-tall weeping fig tree in a gold-leaf pot.
"Delivery for Dr. Maxwell York," the man wheezes, dropping the tree in the middle of the hallway. "From... 'Mother Dearest'. The card says:'I forgive you for the shoes. Call me.'"
I stare at the tree. It is blocking the fire exit.
