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“Can you tell me when your symptoms started?” the doctor asks Monique.
“Her numbers were slightly low when we woke up around seven this morning,” I answer.
They both look over at me.
The doctor looks like he wants to tell me that he wasn’t talking to me, but when I narrow my eyes at him, he closes his mouth. He writes something on Monique’s chart.
“He’s right,” Monique starts to say.
We go through the usual rigamarole of checking all of her stats. A slight sense of relief courses through me when I see that her stats are stable for now. The doctor tells Monique the tests that he’s going to run for her.
She starts to name them before he’s even finished.
“Been through this before?” he asks.
My top lip curls in anger. What the hell does he think? She’s only lived with this illness for most of her life.
“Once or twice,” Monique replies gracefully.
I glare at his back as he exits the room. Then I pull out my cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” She asks.
“Scott Wolfe, he can get a better doctor out here within the hour. Then we—”
“Hang up the phone,” she says.
I don’t.
“I’m serious,” she insists.
The phone continues to ring in my ear.
“We don’t need Mr. Wolfe or anyone else from the board of directors to get involved. I’m sure Dr. Grieves is a perfectly competent physician.”
I narrow my eyes. “We can always get a second opinion.” That’s when Scott Wolfe’s voicemail kicks in.
Monique narrows her eyes at me.
I turn away from her as I leave a voicemail for Wolfe, letting him know to call me back ASAP.
“It’s Saturday. He’s probably enjoying the day with his family or something,” Monique declares.
I shrug. “And? It’s just a few phone calls he needs to make.”
She snorts. “Yeah, now it’s a phone call. But in a few minutes, I bet you’ll be on the phone with your grandfather and have your entire family raising hell to get the best endocrinologist in the state on their way over here.”
“That’s not a bad idea—”
“Don’t you dare.”
She stretches out her hand as if she’s reaching for my phone. I’m not close enough for her to reach, but I don’t want her to strain herself, so I step closer. I let her take my cell from my hand. She puts it in the hand farther from me and slips it under her left hip as if hiding it.
“Sit.” She points to the chair beside the bed. “I’ve been through this before. Now, it’s a waiting game,” she says, staring up at the ceiling.
I’m left with nothing to do but to take the seat by her bedside.
She’s right. Now we wait to find the answers.
