Chapter 3 - The Waiting Room
The waiting room on the fourth floor of Swedish Cherry Hill smelled of industrial bleach and burnt cafeteria coffee. Through the reinforced glass, the Seattle skyline was beginning to trade its charcoal night-suit for the bruised violet of an early autumn dawn.
I sat on a orange plastic chair that felt like it had been designed by an orthopedic surgeon who hated humanity. Between my knees sat Hazel and Iris, each wrapped in a sterile gray hospital blanket that smelled of institutional laundry. They were quiet now—that terrifying, hyper-vigilant quiet of children who realized the adults around them were holding back an avalanche.
I had arranged for my personal executive assistant, Marcus, to bring a box of clothes and a pediatrician-recommended breakfast from a local bakery, but the girls hadn't touched the pastries. They were staring at the television mounted in the corner, though the screen was just playing a silent loop of morning weather reports.
"Mr. Drake?" Hazel asked, her small fingers picking at the frayed hem of her blanket.
"Call me Griffin, sweeth— Hazel," I corrected myself, catching the slip before it settled.
"Are we rich?"
The question was so jarringly direct, so completely disconnected from the life-and-death drama of the past three hours, that I almost laughed. Almost.
"What makes you ask that?" I asked, turning my body toward her.
"The car you drive," Iris answered, swinging her legs against the chair legs. Her boots were too big for her; I made a mental note to buy her three pairs of shoes by noon. "And your coat. It’s cashmere. Mommy has a book about fabrics. She said only people who live in the high towers downtown wear cashmere when it rains."
"Your mother knows her fabrics," I murmured, staring down at my hands. They were the hands of a man who owned shipping lines and real estate portfolios, but right then, they felt entirely useless. "I do live in a high tower, Hazel. But right now, I'd trade every square foot of it just to know what happened to her tonight."
"She works too much," Hazel said, her lower lip trembling slightly. "She draws houses for rich people who live in places like yours. But they never pay on time. Last week, she cried at the kitchen table because the utility bill was red. She told us everything was going to be okay, but her hands were shaking so bad she dropped her coffee cup."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Sloan Callaway—the most brilliant, fiercely independent designer I had ever known—was breaking her back over drafting boards in a drafty Fremont duplex while I sat forty stories above the water, hoarding capital like a dragon on a pile of gold coins she had helped me stack in our early days.
The door to the private consultation room clicked open.
Dr. Vance, a tall neurologist with silver hair and tired eyes, stepped out into the hallway. He pulled his surgical mask down around his neck and scanned the waiting area until his gaze landed on me.
"Mr. Drake?"
I stood up so fast my chair skidded back across the linoleum. "I'm here. How is she?"
"She's stable," Vance said, holding up a hand to forestall the worst of my panic. "It wasn't a stroke, though her blood pressure was high enough to pop a rivet. It’s what we call severe burnout-induced autonomic collapse. She hasn't slept properly in a week, she's running on three hours of rest a night, and her caloric intake has been negligible. Simply put: her body staged a mutiny."
I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding since 2012. "Can I see her?"
"Not yet. She’s sleeping under sedation. She’ll be out for at least six hours." Vance glanced down at the two little girls wrapped in blankets. "Are these—"
"They're her daughters," I said, my voice dropping into a tone that broached no further questions. "Make sure she gets the presidential suite on the ninth floor. Bring in whatever specialists she needs. I don't care about the bill."
Vance gave a curt nod. "I'll have her transferred within the hour."
May you like
When the doctor turned away, I looked back down at Hazel and Iris. They were looking at me with that same uncanny, dual intensity.
"Your mom is going to be fine," I told them, resting my hand awkwardly on Hazel’s small shoulder. "And you're coming with me for a little while. We’re going to get some real breakfast, buy some proper shoes, and then we're going to have a very long conversation about how the hell your mother managed to hide you from me for eight years."
