When Taylor gets home from her overtime nursing shift, she defrosts an old slice of pizza and opens her laptop. She wants to catch up on Vivian’s latest lab work and investigate what that resident had said about the blood alcohol level.
But when she logs into Epic and clicks on Vivian’s name, like she had previously, a new message pops up on her screen:Patient Access Restricted.
Taylor refreshes the screen and tries again. The same message flashes, as clear as day:Patient Access Restricted.
She frowns; this is the type of message that appears when Taylor attempts to access the medical information of one of MGH’s own nurses or medical personnel who show up in the ER. Or when she is taking care of a wealthy Saudi patient, which happens more often than you would think, though usually such patients bypass the ER and go directly to the floor.
The message serves as an additional level of security. To bypass it and access the patient’s data, which is called “breaking theglass,” you must enter a reason why.Think carefully if you need to view this record, the screen warns.
IsTaylor indeed authorized? Vivian is technically no longer her patient, but still.
She takes a deep breath and clicks “Providing Clinical Care” as the reason, and then she’s prompted to type in her password. But when she hits Submit, instead of Vivian’s online chart being displayed, Taylor is suddenly booted off the portal completely. And when she tries to log back on, it says thatheraccount is now restricted.
Fuck.
Taylor leans back on the kitchen stool, drums her fingers on the countertop.
Is she in trouble for trying to access Vivian’s medical information? But Vivianwasher patient. It’s no different from other patients whose progress she follows throughout their hospital stay. So, Taylor could just play the concerned-nurse card, if it comes to it. Isn’t that all it is, anyway?
But no. It’s more than that.
It’s the fact that this is the second time she’s been driven to click through Vivian’s chart from home.
It’s the fact that resting in front of her on the countertop is Vivian’s key. The key Taylor never returned. A tiny oval tag hangs from the key ring that, when magnified with Taylor’s phone camera, reads: Home.
An uncomfortable idea sprouts inside her, its tendrils tickling her conscience.
To distract herself, Taylor decides to call her dad.
He’ll be at the restaurant, even though it’s not open. He’s a creature of habit. His restaurant didn’t used to close for the off-season, but since it took a significant hit during Covid, her dad can no longer afford to keep it running year-round.
“Hiya, T.J.,” he answers. She can just picture him sitting behind the desk in the small office in the back, across from the employee-only bathroom. He probably cooked up some beer-battered Old Bay–seasoned shrimp and is enjoying that now with a cold ale. “How’s Boston treating you?”
“It’s okay,” she says, trying to keep her voice even. She suddenly feels homesick. But not for North Carolina—for him. She couldn’t come home for the holidays because tickets were too expensive. Plus, she had to work. He’ll never visit; he’s never left his home state.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Same old.”
This makes her smile; she doesn’t doubt it. “Dad, I have a question.”
“Shoot. I can’t guarantee I’ll have an answer, but I’ll try my best.”
“Can you remind me how long Mom was in Boston, before…well, you know?”
He pauses. “Why do you ask?”
“I was…I was just thinking of her.”
“Well, can’t say I’m surprised. I’m sure being in Boston is…making you think of her. She was there for five months.”
“That’s all? Five months?” Taylor swallows. That’s how long she herself has been in Boston.
“That’s all.”
“Wow. It felt so much longer…. Maybe because I was young?”
“It felt longer to me, too, T.J.”
