The Return(71)

He obviously didn’t know that she’d practically screamed at me the day she collapsed. “I highly doubt she’ll be willing to open up to me.”

“Could you at least try?” Manville said. “It’s important medically. For Callie’s sake. We understand you’re under no obligation to help, but…”

After he trailed off, it was a few seconds before I finally nodded. My grandfather would have wanted me to help her, whatever that meant. Because she’d been important to him, he would have wanted me to treat her that way, too.

“I can’t make any promises that she’ll cooperate, but I’d be happy to speak with her.”

“Thank you.”

“I do have one condition, though.”

“Yes?”

“Can you get me a HIPAA form? So I can review her case and speak with her physicians?”

“Yes, but you’d still have to convince her to sign it.”

“Let me worry about that.”

*



Susan pulled out a HIPAA form and after borrowing a pen, I was on my way to Callie’s room on the third floor.

The hospital, like every hospital, flooded me with a sense of déjà vu. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I saw the same fluorescent lights, the same speckled tile flooring, the same off-white paint on the walls that I remembered from my residency, in Pensacola, and even Kandahar. I followed a sign indicating room numbers, turning down a hallway as I debated which approach to take when I came face-to-face with Callie. I had no doubt that both Susan and Claude had tried the friendly, we’re here to help you approach, while Manville and her other physicians had probably leaned toward the we’re the professionals here and you should listen to us style of communication. And yet, Callie still insisted on being discharged, despite her illness. But why?

Because she was angry they were taking away her independence?

Possible, I thought. More likely was the notion that Callie was afraid and possibly on the run. Maybe from her family, from a boyfriend, or from the law, but it was definitely something. I guessed that as soon as she exited, she’d vanish within hours. She’d hit the road and start over somewhere else. It was also possible she’d use my grandmother’s social security number again. I didn’t personally care whether she did or not, though I had little doubt it would eventually land her in trouble again. I was more concerned that she’d end up in another hospital, maybe when it was too late to help her, if her condition was as dire as Dr. Manville’s presence suggested. At the same time, she was old enough to make her own decisions…

Or was she?

Was she truly old enough to be on her own? Or was she a minor who’d run away from home?

I walked past the nurses’ station, making for Callie’s room. Outside, I hesitated only briefly before pushing my way inside with a brisk step. The television was tuned to a daytime talk show, the volume low. Callie was lying in bed, her arm in a cast and her head wrapped in gauze; I surmised she’d had a craniotomy to drain a subdural hematoma. She was hooked up to monitors and her vitals seemed fine. Seeing me, she pointedly turned away, focusing on the television again. I waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.

I walked toward the window and stared out at the view, noting the cars in the lot and the heavily clouded sky. Though the rain had finally stopped yesterday, it had remained gloomy, with more rain in the forecast. After a moment I turned from the window and took a seat in the chair nearest the bed. Callie continued to ignore me, so I figured I’d treat her like any other patient and go straight into it.

“Hi, Callie,” I said. “I’ve been told you’re not answering important questions and that you want to leave the hospital. Is that right?”

Her lips compressed but otherwise she gave no sign of having heard me.

“People here are on your side and it’s not a good idea to ignore what they’re telling you. I assume that in addition to your broken arm, you had some buildup of fluid around your brain, which meant you had to have it drained. How are you feeling now?”

She blinked but said nothing.

“It was a very nasty fall. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I was the one who brought you to the hospital. Is there anything you can remember about it? I was told that you might have fainted or passed out beforehand.”

She finally turned to face me but ignored my question. “When can I get out of here?”

“It takes time to heal,” I said. “And head wounds should never be taken lightly.”

“The doctor said that I would only have to stay for a couple of days. I’ve been here longer than that.”

That was before he knew how sick you are.

“Have you considered answering their questions?”

“I did.” Her voice was truculent.

“Not all of them. And you’re not telling the truth.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

I continued to hold her gaze. Following a hunch, I asked, “Have they done a bone marrow biopsy yet?”

One of her hands moved reflexively toward her hip. It was the most common spot for a bone marrow biopsy, so I took that as a yes, even though she hadn’t answered. Whether she’d received the results was a different question, but not one that I needed answered right now. On her bedside table was a magazine and I reached for it. I laid the form on top of it along with the pen and leaned forward, setting it next to her on the bed.