Chương 4
“I do not.”
“You got three tickets in college.”
“That was fifteen years ago.”
It was such a Lauren argument that I cried harder.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“Okay.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happened, don’t handle it before I get there.”
I closed my eyes.
“That might already be impossible.”
She was silent for half a second.
Then, very carefully, she said, “I’m coming.”
After we hung up, I finally opened Eric’s messages.
The first said, Please don’t do this.
The second said, Mom was trying to help.
Then, Claire misunderstood what I meant.
Then, We need to talk privately.
Then, You are making decisions while emotional.
I read that one twice.
The sixth message said, I have rights too.
The seventh said, Do not keep me from the birth of my son.
The eighth was just my name.
The ninth said, Please.
The tenth said, I’m sorry this got out of control.
The eleventh had arrived less than a minute earlier.
Security is treating me like some kind of criminal.
I locked the phone.
Marisol was writing something on a whiteboard.
She did not ask what the messages said.
“I need him blocked from information.”
She turned.
“From your room and updates?”
“Yes.”
“We can flag the chart.”
“And his mother.”
“Yes.”
“And Claire.”
I hesitated.
Claire had lied to me simply by existing inside the version of my marriage Eric had created for her.
But I could still see her face when she learned I had not agreed to any of it.
“Yes,” I said.
“All of them.”
Marisol nodded.
“No visitors unless you approve them.”
“Lauren Hayes.”
“Only Lauren?”
I looked at the empty chair.
“Only Lauren.”
The room stayed quiet for maybe ten minutes.
I tried breathing the way our childbirth instructor had taught us, but all I could hear was Eric making jokes during the class because he had hated the laminated pelvic diagram.
The instructor had told partners to become a calm point of focus.
Eric had whispered, “I can be a moderately anxious point of focus.”
I had laughed so hard the instructor separated us.
That memory should have belonged to a good husband.
That was the problem with betrayal.
It did not politely remove the good memories.
It contaminated them.
A knock came at the door.
The charge nurse entered.
Her name badge said JANET RUIZ.
She carried the folded page from downstairs.
“Rachel, do you feel up to answering a few questions?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
She pulled the visitor chair closer but did not sit until I nodded.
“The registration change was made through the patient portal.”
“I didn’t make it.”
“I understand.”
She unfolded the page.
“The login came through a device that had previously accessed your account.”
I stared at her.
“What device?”
“We don’t have enough information at this level to identify the exact device.”
“So it could have been mine?”
“Possibly.”
“My husband knows my password.”
Janet’s expression stayed neutral.
“Do you knowingly share access to the account with him?”
“No.”
Then I remembered.
Last winter I had pneumonia.
Eric had picked up medication for me and logged into the portal on my laptop because I was too sick to find the prescription details.
I had told him the password from bed.
I had never changed it.
“Maybe,” I said.
Janet waited.
“I gave him the password months ago.”
“That is useful information.”
“Useful for what?”
“For documenting that you are disputing the changes and restricting access going forward.”
She handed me the page.
It showed a list of account changes.
Emergency contact removed.
New contact added.
Secondary contact changed.
Notification preferences altered.
One line made no sense at first.
Proxy access request initiated.
I pointed at it.
“What is that?”
Janet leaned closer.
“It appears someone started the process for adding another person to authorized portal access.”
“Who?”
“This printout doesn’t show the requested person.”
“Did it go through?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It required patient verification that wasn’t completed.”
A strange relief passed through me.
At least one door had stayed locked.
Then I saw the timestamp.
8:19 a.m.
Five minutes after the emergency contact change.
Someone had not merely edited a phone number.
Someone had been trying to get deeper into my medical information.
“Can Eric do this because we’re married?”
“Marriage alone doesn’t give someone unlimited access to another competent adult patient’s private medical record.”
Her wording was careful.
Hospital wording.
I appreciated it.
It left no room for family mythology.
“Can you kick every device out?”
“We can help secure your account and reset credentials.”
“Do it.”
Janet nodded.
“I’ll have someone assist.”
I looked again at the list.
“Why would notification preferences be changed?”
She pointed to the line.
“Text alerts were disabled.”
“For what?”
“The portal generally sends notices for account activity.”
My skin went cold.
“They turned off the warnings.”
Janet did not confirm motive.
She didn’t need to.
A contraction began before I could think further.
The paper slid from my hands.
Marisol came to the bedside.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
The pain climbed so quickly that I cursed.
Marisol said, “That’s allowed.”
Janet quietly moved the paper away from the edge of the bed.
When it passed, sweat had gathered beneath my hair.
I looked at both women.
“I want an epidural.”
Marisol nodded as if I had ordered lunch.
“I’ll let anesthesia know.”
“I was going to try without one.”
“You’re allowed to change your mind.”
That sentence almost undid me more than anything Eric had said.
I turned my face toward the window.
Cars moved slowly through the parking garage.
A woman in pink scrubs stood beside a sedan eating something from a plastic container.
A man struggled to collapse a stroller near an SUV.
Life continued with insulting normalcy.
My phone buzzed again.
I ignored it.
Then it buzzed three more times.
Janet glanced toward the sound.
“Do you want it silenced?”
“Yes.”
May you like
I picked it up first.
The newest messages were not from Eric.
