“I—don’t care.”
Tony pulled Claire into his embrace. “I’m not leaving. I spoke to Agent Jackson. He’s the one I talked with in Boston. I told him that I’d make him a deal; I’d tell him about someone who I’ve helped over the years and confess my wrong doings—if the bureau would agree to allow me to turn myself in—in January of 2015.”
Claire pulled back and looked into Tony’s eyes. “2015—why?”
“We have a child coming in January. I asked for one year.”
“Did he agree?”
“He said it wasn’t in his power, but that he wanted to know what I knew.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Only the tip of the iceberg—I told him about Simon’s plane and that I knew for sure who killed my parents. I told him there was more, but I needed my deal first.”
Claire lifted her brow.
“I’m supposed to call back on Monday”—Tony added—“Today’s Saturday, but it’s still Friday in Boston.”
Claire grinned; it was difficult to keep track of days. She leaned into his chest and listened to the strong steady rhythm of his heart. “One year?”—She felt him nod—“I hope it goes very slowly.”
There is no greater misery than to recall a time when you were happy.
—Danté
September 12, 2016
Shit! It’s the only word that keeps coming to mind! I have a meeting in two days with the Vandersols! I’ve done everything to avoid this—minus quitting my job. I’ve had sick children, dead grandparents—none of it real. I think I’ve finally run out of personal tragedies. Ever since Claire started making progress, they’ve wanted to meet the “aide” who works “so well” with her. That’s according to Ms. Bali.
I’m about to go in for my shift, and Ms. Bali will be there. I’m sure she’ll ask if I’ll be there Thursday. The truth is—I’ve run out of ways to avoid it. I don’t want this to end. Lately, I’ve gone beyond mentioning Tony’s name. I’ve done homework; at night I’ve read—my book and my notes. I tried listening to audio recordings of Claire’s recollections. Hearing her voice, full of emotion, was too difficult; however, reading has helped refresh my memory of Claire’s life.
Then over the past month, whenever we’ve been alone, I’ve shared my research. I’ve recounted the stories she told me. I started with good memories, talking about her wedding and honeymoon. Over time, as I talked, I watched the stress leave her body. She’s even started eating by herself—as long as I talk. If I stop—so does she. I have no idea what results the doctors are getting.
After not liking Claire’s initial reaction to this new regime, I was afraid the Vandersol’s were going to stop the new protocol. Ms. Bali said they almost did. Apparently, there was some big blow-up between them and Dr. Fairfield. She said that Claire’s “wanting” to go outside with me was the small sliver of hope which persuaded them to allow the treatment to continue.
I don’t know if they’re seeing the same positive results as I am. She goes to therapy four days a week, and I have no idea what they do there. Whatever it is, when she returns, she’s tired. I’ve tried to learn what it entails; however, the answer I continually receive is, it’s a “need to know” thing. I’ve suggested her fatigue affects her eating; therefore, knowing would help me. Sometimes I forget my job description—aides aren’t supposed to question policy. Long story—short, I still don’t know what they do.
After Thursday—it won’t matter.
I don’t know if I should go to the meeting and let Emily call me out, or if I should jump ship. It’s no secret—I don’t want to quit. Well, I need to go. As the weather has continued to stay nice, I’m hoping for a little walk outside and time to tell Claire more stories.
Meredith told Ms. Bali she’d be in Thursday morning to meet with Ms. Nichols’ family. The woman looked like she was about to burst with relief. For the last month, at the end of each shift, Meredith has been required to complete a patient assessment. It’s a simple computer form asking what she did and what the patient did. Ms. Bali said the Vandersols and Dr. Fairfield wanted to discuss some of her entries.
Meredith suddenly wished she’d kept copies for herself. She knew she hadn’t been completely forthcoming. She also hadn’t padded her reports with false hopes. Everything she’d reported was true, minus the preceding stimuli.
Tony pulled Claire into his embrace. “I’m not leaving. I spoke to Agent Jackson. He’s the one I talked with in Boston. I told him that I’d make him a deal; I’d tell him about someone who I’ve helped over the years and confess my wrong doings—if the bureau would agree to allow me to turn myself in—in January of 2015.”
Claire pulled back and looked into Tony’s eyes. “2015—why?”
“We have a child coming in January. I asked for one year.”
“Did he agree?”
“He said it wasn’t in his power, but that he wanted to know what I knew.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Only the tip of the iceberg—I told him about Simon’s plane and that I knew for sure who killed my parents. I told him there was more, but I needed my deal first.”
Claire lifted her brow.
“I’m supposed to call back on Monday”—Tony added—“Today’s Saturday, but it’s still Friday in Boston.”
Claire grinned; it was difficult to keep track of days. She leaned into his chest and listened to the strong steady rhythm of his heart. “One year?”—She felt him nod—“I hope it goes very slowly.”
There is no greater misery than to recall a time when you were happy.
—Danté
September 12, 2016
Shit! It’s the only word that keeps coming to mind! I have a meeting in two days with the Vandersols! I’ve done everything to avoid this—minus quitting my job. I’ve had sick children, dead grandparents—none of it real. I think I’ve finally run out of personal tragedies. Ever since Claire started making progress, they’ve wanted to meet the “aide” who works “so well” with her. That’s according to Ms. Bali.
I’m about to go in for my shift, and Ms. Bali will be there. I’m sure she’ll ask if I’ll be there Thursday. The truth is—I’ve run out of ways to avoid it. I don’t want this to end. Lately, I’ve gone beyond mentioning Tony’s name. I’ve done homework; at night I’ve read—my book and my notes. I tried listening to audio recordings of Claire’s recollections. Hearing her voice, full of emotion, was too difficult; however, reading has helped refresh my memory of Claire’s life.
Then over the past month, whenever we’ve been alone, I’ve shared my research. I’ve recounted the stories she told me. I started with good memories, talking about her wedding and honeymoon. Over time, as I talked, I watched the stress leave her body. She’s even started eating by herself—as long as I talk. If I stop—so does she. I have no idea what results the doctors are getting.
After not liking Claire’s initial reaction to this new regime, I was afraid the Vandersol’s were going to stop the new protocol. Ms. Bali said they almost did. Apparently, there was some big blow-up between them and Dr. Fairfield. She said that Claire’s “wanting” to go outside with me was the small sliver of hope which persuaded them to allow the treatment to continue.
I don’t know if they’re seeing the same positive results as I am. She goes to therapy four days a week, and I have no idea what they do there. Whatever it is, when she returns, she’s tired. I’ve tried to learn what it entails; however, the answer I continually receive is, it’s a “need to know” thing. I’ve suggested her fatigue affects her eating; therefore, knowing would help me. Sometimes I forget my job description—aides aren’t supposed to question policy. Long story—short, I still don’t know what they do.
After Thursday—it won’t matter.
I don’t know if I should go to the meeting and let Emily call me out, or if I should jump ship. It’s no secret—I don’t want to quit. Well, I need to go. As the weather has continued to stay nice, I’m hoping for a little walk outside and time to tell Claire more stories.
Meredith told Ms. Bali she’d be in Thursday morning to meet with Ms. Nichols’ family. The woman looked like she was about to burst with relief. For the last month, at the end of each shift, Meredith has been required to complete a patient assessment. It’s a simple computer form asking what she did and what the patient did. Ms. Bali said the Vandersols and Dr. Fairfield wanted to discuss some of her entries.
Meredith suddenly wished she’d kept copies for herself. She knew she hadn’t been completely forthcoming. She also hadn’t padded her reports with false hopes. Everything she’d reported was true, minus the preceding stimuli.
