After God only knows how long I’ve been on the phone, I’ve gained more information from the internet than from the insurance company. The only good news I’ve found is that the average payout required by the insured party is about a third of the costs incurred. Unfortunately, that doesn’t take into account our lost wages while the café is being rebuilt. I see the nest egg I’d been holding on to for the startup costs of a new business evaporating, right along with Mom’s retirement plan.
People come and go from the waiting room. The fussy baby is replaced by a rambunctious pissed-off toddler with a knot on his head. The injured middle-aged man is replaced by an older woman who’s coughing up a lung.
When I’m disconnected from the insurance company for the third time, I growl and slam my finger to the Disconnect button. “Fucking insurance.”
Cole also ends a call. “Do you have her policy information?”
“Not with me. They have it in the system,” I say, gesturing to the admin at the front desk.
Cole heads that direction and speaks to the woman I turned my paperwork into. He’s sweet and flirty, flashing that heart-stopping smile, and she ends up passing him a scrap of paper torn from a larger sheet. Then he makes another call, gives whoever is on the other end of the line the information on the paper and ends the call right as the ER doors open and a nurse calls my name.
I stand and instinctively reach for Cole. He grabs his turnout jacket and takes my hand as we follow the nurse into an office in the back, where she tells us the doctor will be right in.
I take a seat, but I bounce my knee, unable to keep still. Cole reaches over and presses my knee still. When I meet his eyes, he says, “She’s strong and healthy. She’ll come through this. Don’t worry about the money. We’ll figure it out.”
The man who enters is somewhere in his thirties and dressed in blue scrubs. He gives Cole a bro hug and introduces himself to me as Gavin Davenport.
“We’re friends from the bar,” Cole explains. This was clearly one of his earlier phone calls. “He did his residency at Legacy.”
Cole’s just pulling out all the Legacy stops today. Friends in high places, I guess. I’m grateful for the quality care Mom will be receiving.
Davenport sits in a chair kitty-corner to us instead of behind the desk.
“I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through today,” he says, his manner sincere and open. “When Cole called, I was on duty, so I came down to consult on your mother’s case. She’s resting. We’ve given her pain medication and started her on the recommended rehydration schedule, as burns severely dehydrate the body. Her burns are a mix of second and third degree. We estimate they cover approximately ten percent of her body. All this plays a role in treatment and recovery. It’s also important to determine her criteria for care at the Legacy burn center.”
I nod, but I feel something unwinding inside me, and I fight to keep my shit together.
“Her right hand and forearm have third-degree burns, her biceps, shoulder, and neck, second-degree burns. Unfortunately, the burns traverse several joints, which will require more physical therapy as she heals.”
I didn’t notice burns on her upper arm or her neck. I was so focused on putting the fire out and so afraid to look. But he’s talking about healing and physical therapy. That’s good, right?
“She’s been intubated as a safety measure in case her airway was damaged by smoke or heat. She’ll need to have the wounds cleaned and several other tests done to see how her body is responding to the trauma. I’ve consulted a friend of mine, a physician at Legacy, and because she’s over fifty, we agreed the debridement should be done under general anesthesia to minimize the stress on her body.”
I’m swamped with a mixture of numbness and shock. I look at Cole, who nods.
“Okay, yeah,” I say, not sure what I’m agreeing to.
“I’ve got her on the OR’s schedule, and she’ll be taken upstairs soon.” He picks up a business card from a holder on the desk along with a pen and offers them to me. “Go ahead and give me your cell number, and we’ll keep you up-to-date with texts.” He pulls another card from the holder and scribbles something on it, then we trade cards. “My personal cell is on the back. I encourage you to call or text with any questions.”
I’ve never had a doctor give their private information out. Probably just an extra perk to being Cole’s friend.
“Would you like to see her before she goes?” Davenport asks.
“Yes,” I say on a complete exhalation. “Please.”
Davenport takes us to the trauma bay and stands on the other side of the gurney. I’m on her left, so I reach over the metal side and curl my fingers around hers. She’s covered with a sheet and a blanket, her injured arm resting on the outside wrapped in gauze from fingertips to shoulder. The angry sooty wounds are still visible on her neck, and now I can see those burns on her jaw along with more tufts of singed hair. I can’t bear to think of what could have happened if I hadn’t gotten there when I did.
“We’ve got her on antibiotics,” Davenport says. “She’ll be under general anesthesia for the procedure, but she should be conscious and breathing on her own in twenty-four hours. Try not to worry. We’ll keep her as comfortable as humanly and medically possible.”
A man in navy scrubs appears in the doorway.
“Her driver’s here,” Davenport says.
I give her hand a squeeze and lean down to kiss her forehead. “I’m here, Mom. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Standing out of the way, I watch as the transport person and an ER nurse wheel Mom’s bed out of the room, biting the inside of my lip to keep from crying.
4
Cole
Before Betsy is even outside the ER, Natalie’s phone rings.
“It’s Tina.” She points to the exit door. “I’ll take it out here.”
“I’ll be right there.” I wait for the door to close behind her before I look at Gavin. “What’s with the phone number?”
“Just giving her a lifeline.” Hands on hips, his gaze follows Natalie’s exit. “You’re right, she’s hot.”
“I have never called her hot.” Not because she’s not, but because it feels like a degradation. Natalie is so much more than hot. She’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. And so fucking sexy in a way that tells me she has no idea how she affects men.
“You should have,” he says, then looks at me like he’s just considering something. “Sorry, are you into her? I mean, you’ve always got women coming into the bar to see you, and you’ve always talked about her like she’s just a friend.”
An intense wave of jealous ownership washes through me, and I have to temper my words and force my tone to neutral. Last night, she was on a date with a new guy, and now a doctor is interested in her. After having her to myself for two years, I don’t like this sensation of losing control.
“She is just a friend,” I tell him, “but that doesn’t mean you can hit on her when her mother’s in here.”