Chapter 4 - The Golden Child’s Demands
By Day 11, the hospital room had become my command center.
The immediate danger of another cardiac arrest had been managed by a continuous infusion of beta-blockers, but Dr. Lindren was clear: I could not leave the hospital without a permanent mechanical safeguard.
“You need an S-ICD,” Dr. Lindren explained that afternoon, drawing a neat diagram of a rib cage on the white board at the foot of my bed. “A Subcutaneous Implantable Cardioverter-Defibrillator. Unlike older pacemakers, we don’t have to thread leads through your veins into your heart tissue. The unit sits under the skin on the side of your chest, and the lead runs along your breastbone. If your heart slips into that lethal flutter again, it delivers a life-saving shock within eight seconds.”
“Will I be able to work?” I asked. “I climb scaffolding. I inspect steel trusses on high-rise construction sites.”
Dr. Lindren smiled warmly. “You will climb scaffolding again, Florence. You will run, you will design bridges, and you will live a full, normal life. But you have to let the wound heal. And you have to eliminate the stress that nearly killed you.”
As if on cue, the heavy wooden door was pushed open with a sharp, entitled thud.
Ruth had stepped away to the pharmacy, and for thirty seconds, the corridor defenses were breached.
Camille stood in the entryway.
She wasn't wearing her Charleston pastels now. She wore expensive yoga pants, an oversized cashmere sweater, and sunglasses pushed up into her blowout. Her eyes were puffy, and her mouth was drawn into a vicious line.
She carried a white leather folder under her arm.
“Where is your guard dog?” Camille asked, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind her.
“Reed is downstairs getting lunch,” I said, sitting up straighter. I kept my hand near the nurse call button. “You’re not supposed to be here, Camille.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Flo,” she said, dropping into the visitor chair without asking. She threw the white folder onto the rolling tray table, knocking over my plastic water cup. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I survived a cardiac arrest,” I said evenly.
“Julian’s parents canceled the rehearsal dinner contract,” Camille said, her voice rising in pitch. “Someone from Richmond called Julian’s father. Someone told them you were dying in a ward while we were on a yacht! Julian’s mother is from the old Charleston family, Florence! They think we’re white trash who abandon our sick relatives! Julian hasn’t answered my texts in thirty-six hours!”
I looked at my younger sister. I looked at the smooth, unblemished skin of her forehead, the diamond ring sparkling on her finger, the absolute, unbroken self-absorption that had governed her life since she was born.
“Did you ask how the surgery went?” I asked quietly.
Camille blinked, thrown off script for a second. “What? You haven't even had it yet. Dad said you’re just milking this so you don't have to pay for your bridesmaid dress.”
A cold laugh bubbled up in my chest. It felt sharp against my ribs, but it was liberating.
“I paid for the dress three months ago, Camille. Twelve hundred dollars for imported chiffon that I will never wear.”
“Well, you can wear it to the rescheduled ceremony,” Camille said, leaning forward and tapping the white folder. “Look, Dad sent me here to handle this because he knows you’re still throwing a tantrum about the Charleston trip. He needs you to sign these.”
I didn't open the folder. “What is it?”
“It’s the refinancing paperwork for the Broad Street building,” Camille said, as if explaining something simple to a toddler. “Apex Engineering is the anchor tenant, and your signature is required as the structural consultant of record to release the construction escrow. If the bank doesn't get the engineering certification by five o'clock today, Dad’s credit line gets called. The entire firm will default.”
I looked at the folder. Then I looked at Camille.
“Dad’s company is bankrupt, isn't it?” I asked.
Camille’s eyes darted away. “He’s having a temporary cash-flow issue because of the wedding expenses. Once Julian and I are married, Julian’s family is going to partner with Dad on the coastal development project. Everything will be fine. But you have to sign this certification today so the bank releases the two million.”
“The Broad Street building has structural micro-fractures in the foundation slab, Camille,” I said, my voice dropping into the steady, authoritative tone I used on job sites. “I inspected the core samples three months ago. I told Dad the building needs eight hundred thousand dollars in foundation underpinning before any bank can certify it for commercial occupancy. He told me to 'fudge' the numbers.”
“So fudge them!” Camille hissed, leaning across the tray table. “He’s your father! He raised you! He put a roof over your head! If you don’t sign this, Julian’s family is going to pull out completely! My wedding will be ruined! Everything I have worked for my entire life is on the line, and you’re sitting here being a selfish, vindictive bitch because your heart fluttered!”
The door flew open.
Reed didn't shout. He didn't raise a hand. He simply walked into the room, grabbed Camille by the elbow with the iron grip of a steelworker, and hauled her out of the chair.
“Get your hands off me!” Camille screamed.
“You have three seconds to pick up that fraudulent paperwork and walk out that door,” Reed said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “Or I will personally hand those forged foundation reports to the state licensing board before the close of business today.”
Camille snatched the white folder off the table, her face contorted with hatred. She looked at me, her chest heaving.
“You’re dead to me, Florence,” Camille spat. “You hear me? You’re dead to this family.”
“I was already dead to you on the kitchen floor, Camille,” I said.
May you like
Reed walked her out into the hallway, where two armed hospital security guards were already waiting.
***
