So why ishehere, then?
“I…”
His eyes dart beyond her, and his face blanches. He quickly slips his mask back on. “Be careful,” he says in a low voice, as he brushes past.
“There you are,” Peter suddenly says, over her shoulder.
Taylor
In her apartment, Taylor poorly sketches the top hat she saw at Vivian’s place from memory: She makes the hat too flat, the flower much too simple.
What is this symbol?And how is it that both Vivian and her mom, two women who suffered unfortunate fates, were in possession of stationery embossed with it?
Her mom’s letter is back home, stored in a shoebox under Taylor’s childhood bed. She calls her dad, and he reluctantly agrees to look for it. If he finds it (he will), he says he’ll mail it to her. She knows he thinks she’s too consumed with her mom lately.
He’s right.
Taylor hangs her drawing on the refrigerator and steps back to appraise it. It feels like a clue, but how so? On Google, she learns that a top hat is traditionally associated with the upper class, viewed as a symbol of wealth. Fitting for Boston. But adding “Boston” to the search does mothing more than produce some local costume stores. The symbol remains a mystery.
She wishes she were not off from work for a stretch; she wants to go back to the hospital and check in on Vivian. Mostly, though, she wants to keep busy to bat down the restlessness she feels—and the shame. What kind of nurse is she to have broken into her patient’s apartment? What kind ofperson?
But then, when she recalls the luxurious contents of Vivian’s apartment, and the stationery she uncovered, she feels like a dead wire becoming live. And that awakening sensation makes her almost cry.
“You okay?” Sam asks, when he stops by one afternoon. He hasn’t brought up the missed haircut, but he hasn’t offered a makeup session, either.
“Yeah,” she lies, biting back the truth. She can’t exactly tell him how she played Goldilocks in her patient’s apartment.
Or can she? Can she confide in Sam, trust him completely? No—his late mom was a nurse. He might be so appalled he would turn Taylor in to the Massachusetts nursing board.
Meanwhile, she keeps waiting for a call from her nurse manager, or the hospital—or, worse, a visit from the police. But her phone doesn’t ring, so she holds out hope that she’s not in trouble at work. Or not inthatmuch trouble. Given the list of crimes she’s recently committed, she’ll gladly take the rap for breaching a patient’s medical records.
When Taylor finally returns to the hospital for a night shift, she immediately tries to log on to the patient portal at the nursing station. But her account remains locked.
Her nurse manager Jan’s door is open, but Taylor knocks nevertheless.
“Hi, Taylor,” Jan says from behind her desk. “What can I do for you?”
Jan seems oblivious. This is a good sign. Taylor moves inside. “I, uh, I’m having trouble with Epic.”
“Oh?”
“I’m locked out.”
“Did you talk to IT?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you give them a call.”
“Okay.”
Jan returns to look at her computer, but Taylor stays, rooted.
“I think, maybe, I uh, got locked out because I was checking on a former patient. Her account became restricted, and I still tried to access it.”
Jan’s expression is neutral. “I see.”
Taylor shifts, pressing her tongue against the gap in her two front teeth, like she often does. She does feel a little guilty, but it’s certainly not about the attempted login. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have. I just like to know if my patients are okay, when they get admitted. I’m used to working at the orthopedic center in North Carolina, where I’m with the same patients every day, sometimes for weeks at a time.” This is the answer she’s rehearsed. And it’s true, but Taylor also knows that if this situation had happened with another patient she’d previously taken care of, the warning message would have promptly stopped her.
