Vivian complies. “Hello,” she says, a little slowly, like she’s just woken up.
Charlie, the nursing assistant, enters the room and wraps the blood pressure cuff around Vivian’s arm.
“Do you know where you are right now?” Taylor asks, as she tapes a pulse oximetry probe over Vivian’s wine-colored nail tip, which matches her lipstick.
“Yes, of course. Mass General.”
“And what’s your full name?”
“Vivian Lawrence.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Vivian grimaces, but her skin remains smooth. It’s hard to believe she’s forty-four. Does she use Botox? She must. One of Taylor’s patients was prescribed it recently for a neck spasm, and Taylor was tempted to pocket the vial of leftovers. She’s read that it’s best to start early with Botox, in your twenties even. But who can afford it at that age?
“I…I fell. I think.” Vivian tries to touch her head with the arm that has the blood pressure cuff, and Taylor gets another whiff of Chanel N°5.
“Just a minute, we’re taking your blood pressure, so you need to stay still.” Taylor gently eases her patient’s arm down, noticing a blue vein that will be a good place to insert a large-bore needle. She also notices the gold Cartier watch and the Hermès Kelly brown leather bracelet that loosely hang from Vivian’s wrist—Taylor has the knockoff version of the bracelet. She resists the urge to trail her fingers over its smooth leather.
On her neck, Vivian is wearing a cervical collar—a shame, since Taylor can’t tell if she’s wearing a necklace—but on her elegant middle finger sits a giant emerald cocktail ring.
Is that emerald for real?
Taylor swallows, reminding herself to focus on the patient. She clicks on her penlight to check Vivian’s pupils. Her eyes are beautiful bright green olives that constrict appropriately to the light. Of course they are; only 2 percent of the world has green eyes. This woman seems to be a rarity, even among her wealthy counterparts.
Taylor could Botox till her face is as frozen as a sheet of ice, but she still can’t change some fundamental things, like her boring brown eyes.
Charlie picks up the Louboutin heels from the top of the bedsheet and deposits them into the same white plastic “patient belongings” bag where he’s already tossed the Chanel purse.
Taylor cringes. It feels criminal not to separate the items. What if the shoes scuff the handbag? Such beautiful, expensive items deserve their own space—their own protective cloth covers, really. Later, when Charlie’s not looking, she’ll individually bag each one.
As Charlie tucks the belongings beneath the bed, onto the metal storage frame beneath, Taylor tries to calculate their wealth. It’s easily equivalent to a few months of her apartment rent.
If she adds in Vivian’s jewelry—and if that emerald is natural, not lab-grown—it could perhaps cover the down payment on a Boston condo.
“My head hurts,” Vivian announces suddenly.
“On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?”
“It hurts.”
“I understand, Vivian. I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me on a scale from one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you’ve ever experienced, what number it is?”
“He didn’t clink,” Vivian says, ignoring the question.
“He didn’t clink?” Taylor repeats. Over the bed, she exchanges a look with Charlie, who is now holding a gown, waiting for Taylor to finish her assessment so he can help Vivian slip into it.
“The glass—the drink.”
But whereas Taylor’s feeling a bit of concern, Charlie appears amused. His eyes widen, and he’s stifling a laugh. Maybe this is the stuff that the rich dream of, Taylor can imagine him thinking. Clinking of champagne glasses. He’s not immune to Vivian’s apparent wealth after all.
“My head hurts,” Vivian says again, louder, as she shifts in the bed. Her skin looks paler than it had moments earlier, a sheen of sweat glistening her forehead. The monitor spits out the blood pressure, and almost immediately, an alarm sounds. The reading is high. Too high. Taylor silences the alarm. Something feels off. A clamminess trickles through her.
“Vivian, on a scale from one to ten, what is your level of pain?” Taylor tries again.
“A ten.”
Charlie’s grin is gone; he’s now scrutinizing the monitor.
