Chương 8
That almost made me angrier.
She just looked at me with the tired expression of someone who had watched many people discover things they wished they had never found.
“Ms. Carter, I recommend you request a complete audit.”
“What does that show?”
“It shows when records were accessed and by whom.”
Daniel asked, “Can anyone change medical information?”
“No.”
“Can they request information?”
“Yes.”
“Can they make decisions?”
“Not unless they have legal authority.”
The word legal stayed with me.
Not permission.
Not family.
Legal.
When we left the office, I stopped near the elevator.
Daniel pressed the button.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, he said, “The form might not mean what we think.”
“I know.”
“Emma.”
“I know.”
I looked at the hospital hallway behind us.
The same hallway where my father had once walked beside my bed.
The same hallway where Rachel had told me she would help with anything I needed.
“I don’t know what hurts more.”
Daniel looked at me.
“What?”
“That they may have done something wrong.”
I swallowed.
“Or that they knew I would trust them enough not to check.”
The elevator doors opened.
Before we stepped inside, my phone buzzed.
The unknown number had replied.
One sentence.
“Ask your father why he needed power of attorney paperwork before your surgery.”
I stopped walking.
Daniel saw my face.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward him.
For the first time all day, neither of us spoke.
Because suddenly the question was no longer what my father had done.
It was what he had been preparing to do before anyone knew I would need him.
Because suddenly the question was no longer what my father had done.
It was what he had been preparing to do before anyone knew I would need him.
I read the message three more times before I could make myself look away.
The elevator doors closed in front of us, and neither of us moved.
People stepped around us without knowing they were walking past the moment my entire understanding of my family had changed.
Daniel finally touched my shoulder.
“Let’s get somewhere private.”
I nodded.
Outside the hospital, the afternoon air felt colder than it had a few minutes earlier.
We sat in his car without turning on the engine.
The parking lot was crowded, but somehow it felt like we were completely alone.
“Power of attorney,” Daniel said quietly.
I stared through the windshield.
“I know what it means.”
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me that was possible?”
“Because I didn’t know.”
I looked at him.
He looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like he had spent years carrying things he never admitted were heavy.
“My dad never mentioned it?”
Daniel shook his head.
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he said things around it.”
I waited.
Daniel looked down at his hands.
“After your surgery, he said someone needed to make sure your bills were handled and your decisions were protected.”
“Protected.”
Daniel nodded.
“That was the word he used.”
I laughed softly.
The sound had no humor in it.
“Protected from who?”
Neither of us answered.
Because we both knew the question was bigger than a person.
It was about whether my father believed I was incapable of protecting myself.
The drive back to my apartment was quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
When we arrived, Daniel parked but didn’t get out immediately.
“I need to ask you something.”
I looked over.
“What?”
“Did your father ever ask you to sign anything after the accident?”
I thought about it.
The problem was that there were too many moments.
Too many people helping.
Too many forms placed in front of me while I was exhausted.
“There was a stack of papers.”
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
“Who gave them to you?”
“My dad.”
“Was Rachel there?”
I closed my eyes.
A memory surfaced.
Rachel standing near the window with a coffee cup.
Her phone in her hand.
My father saying, “Just sign where they marked.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Daniel went quiet.
“What?”
“She was there.”
“Did she explain anything?”
“No.”
“Did your father?”
“No.”
The answer felt worse each time I said it.
Daniel opened the car door.
“We need to find those papers.”
“I don’t have them.”
“Maybe someone does.”
I looked at him.
“Who?”
He didn’t answer right away.
That worried me.
“Daniel.”
“There’s something else I found.”
I waited.
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
“I went through old messages last night.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because I remembered something.”
He opened a conversation.
It was between him and my father.
The date was two days after my accident.
My hands felt numb as I read.
Your dad wrote, “We need to move quickly before she starts asking questions.”
I looked away.
The words blurred.
“Move quickly.”
Daniel nodded.
“That’s why I started looking.”
“Why didn’t you show me this before?”
“Because I thought he meant your medical care.”
I looked at him.
“And now?”
He didn’t answer.
That was an answer.
Inside my apartment, I sat at the kitchen table while Daniel searched through the files I had saved.
Insurance paperwork.
Hospital statements.
Physical therapy bills.
Everything I had collected during recovery.
A life reduced to folders and receipts.
At some point, my injury stopped being something that happened to me.
It became a system everyone else managed around me.
“I found something.”
Daniel’s voice came from the living room.
I walked over carefully.
He was holding an envelope.
My name was written on the front.
I recognized my father’s handwriting.
“When did you get this?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s not possible.”
I stared at the envelope.
Maybe it was possible.
Maybe that was the problem.
My life after the accident had become a blur of appointments and pain medication and people telling me what needed to happen next.
Daniel opened it.
Inside was a copy of a letter from an attorney.
Not a contract.
May you like
Not a completed document.
A request for a consultation.
