Chapter 7 - The Desperate Maneuvers
Back in the real world, accountability has a way of making desperate people dangerous.
Two weeks after the boutique trip, my lawyer called with an update. My mother and my brother-in-law had lawyered up, attempting to countersue for "defamation" and claiming the trust fund withdrawals were "authorized familial loans."
It was a pathetic legal Hail Mary designed to stall the inevitable asset freeze the judge had placed on my mother’s accounts.
Then came the surprise visitor at my office.
I was reviewing ER trauma logs in my third-floor office at St. Jude Memorial when my desk phone buzzed.
“Dr. Grant? There’s a woman in the lobby downstairs insisting on seeing you,” the receptionist said, sounding uneasy. “She says she’s your mother’s neighbor, Mrs. Gable. She claims it’s an emergency regarding your mother’s health.”
I frowned, tapping my pen against the desk. My mother was prone to theatrical medical emergencies whenever she realized manipulation wasn't working.
“Send her up,” I said.
Five minutes later, an elderly woman in a floral cardigan stepped into my office, clutching a crumpled tissue and looking genuinely distressed.
“Dr. Grant... oh, thank goodness you’re here,” the woman panted, leaning against my doorway. “It’s your mother. She collapsed about an hour ago. The ambulance took her to City General, but before she left, she kept screaming your name. She said... she said you were the only one who could fix her heart.”
I stared at Mrs. Gable, my clinical training immediately kicking in, overriding personal resentment.
“Did City General’s triage unit notify me?” I asked calmly.
“No, I... I don't think so. I just came straight here because she told me to.”
I picked up my desk phone and dialed the direct line to City General’s emergency triage supervisor—a colleague I went to medical school with.
“Hey, Marcus. It’s Janette Grant. Do you have an incoming or recently admitted patient named Martha Vance?”
A pause on the line. Then Marcus’s voice came back, dripping with mild confusion. “Yeah, she’s here in room 302. Mild hypertensive spike due to acute stress. Her vitals are completely stable, Janette. She’s demanding a private VIP room and refusing to let the attending doctor discharge her until you show up.”
I closed my eyes for a second, letting out a slow, measured breath.
Even in disgrace, she was staging a medical drama to force a reconciliation.
“Thank you, Marcus,” I said smoothly. “Treat her like any other standard patient. Discharge her as soon as her blood pressure normalizes. I won’t be visiting.”
May you like
I hung up, looked at Mrs. Gable, and said, “My mother is medically stable, Mrs. Gable. She’s experiencing the consequences of her own actions, not a cardiac arrest. Thank you for your concern, but security will escort you back to the lobby.”
The old woman looked shocked, realized she had been used as a pawn yet again, and hurried out of my office without another word.
