Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(23)
Author: Jen Frederick

The car Steve is driving is not the gunmetal gray one that idled outside Malcolm’s building but a black one, and it’s amazingly luxurious inside—even more so than Ian’s other vehicle. The interior is covered with sumptuous tan leather. In the back, there are two bucket seats separated by a polished wood console where glass tumblers rest in the cup holders. One is full of orange juice.

After my mom climbs in, Steve bends down and—with a flick of a switch—her seat reclines and a footrest pops up. Mom releases an audible sigh of comfort as she settles into the butter-soft leather.

Once again I’m overwhelmed with Ian’s thoughtfulness. It’s touching yet disturbing at the same time. He wants something, and it must be more than a quick roll in the hay. Surely he doesn’t need to be this . . . kind to get a f**k.

I’m sure the models who hang out in his neighborhood would pull up their skirts and ask for it on the brick-lined road if he seemed interested. Based on his body and looks alone, some would probably even be willing to pay for it. Add in his money and there’s just no way that he doesn’t have women—and some men—beating down his door. None of this makes any sense to me.

Mom rubs her hand along the creamy leather. “A recliner in the car. Have you ever seen such a thing, Tiny?” she asks in wonder.

“No, never.”

“Steve,” Mom calls up to the front. She has to raise her voice slightly because the distance between our rear seats and the driver’s seat is sizable. “What kind of vehicle is this?”

“Maybach, ma’am,” he answers.

“Your man, he’s very nice.” Mom picks up the orange juice and sips it. “Mmm. Even fresh squeezed.”

Of course it is. The oranges are probably flown in from a special orangery kept in some remote island that is full of dirt specially formulated to create the best juice in all the world. I can’t even be angry because Mom’s eyes no longer look dull and disinterested. She fiddles with various buttons, one raises and lowers her footrest and another flips open a panel and offers up a phone.

“Look at this, Tiny!” she coos.

It is so amazing that we are almost reluctant to get out of the car. “Maybe you could drive around the city for a few hours,” I joke when we arrive at the hospital. Steve ignores me and climbs out of the driver’s seat to open the door for us. The Maybach is left illegally idling at the front while he silently assists us into the waiting room.

Inside, we head to the nurse’s station to check in. Mom’s chemo is done in a room with other cancer patients. It’s fairly cold in the room, and I always ask for another blanket.

“Mrs. Corielli,” the nurse calls out, “I have a big surprise for you today.”

The staff at NYPH has always been great to us even though we’re criminally behind on our payments. Perhaps they’ve fixed the broken footrest on the recliner she normally sits in but we don’t stop at the main treatment room. Instead, the nurse leads us down the hall to the very end. Inside is a hospital bed, a comfortable chair, and a big-screen television. It’s a large enough room for four patients.

“What’s this?” Mom looks askance at the room. It screams “expensive” and that’s not a cost we can manage right now. Or ever.

“Your new room!” The nurse throws out her arms like she’s a game show host displaying one of the grand prizes.

“Um, didn’t realize Medicaid paid for private rooms now.” We’re on state aid, and I know it doesn’t.

The nurse drops her arms and looks flustered for a moment. Walking over to the bed, she picks up the chart hooked at the foot. “Sophie Corielli?”

Mom nods.

“No, no mistake.” She pats the bed. “Why don’t you climb up and we’ll get started.”

“Go on,” I say. “I’ll get everything squared away.”

It’s going to be a tiring day, so rather than argue my mother nods and climbs into the bed. With the help of the nurse, we get the head and foot of the bed raised so she’s comfortable. Once the drip is started, I follow the nurse out of the room. “What’s this all going to cost?”

“I’m sorry,” she smiles at me and pats my arm. “I’m in patient care. You’ll have to call billing.”

A young girl, likely in her teens, brushes by and enters the room. I hear her voice echo out in the hallway. “Mrs. Corielli?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Hallie Sitton, a volunteer. I was wondering if you might like to be read to today? I have Emma?”

“That’d be lovely, dear.”

While mom is occupied, I call billing with the number left me by the nurse. “Hi, um, this is Victoria Corielli, and my mother is a patient here at NYPH. She was moved into a private room today, which we never asked for or authorized. Can you explain this to me?”

“Sure, please hold,” the bored voice says. A few moments later, the voice returns. “The bills are being covered by your new employer, Kerr Industries, under their family plan. The transfer was made today.”

“Oh, okay,” I mumble.

“Anything else?”

“No, thanks.” I end the call and walk into the room.

“Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.” Hallie’s voice is surprisingly soothing, and while I’d like to drop into one of the chairs and give myself over to the story of the rich, spoiled, good-looking girl who tries to arrange everything in her life to suit her, I have my own Emma to deal with.

I’m starting to feel like I’ve already accepted that million dollar payment, and for what? I haven’t done anything. I’m unbalanced and the vertigo is making me sick.

“I have to make a phone call,” I tell Mom. When she waves me away with a smile, a little kernel of resentment lodges at her apparent happiness. I can’t read to her. I can’t really support her. I feel so f**king useless. Stomping out of the room, I press “Call” on the one number in my phone that I don’t know by heart.

Ian answers on the first ring, and I unload. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing sending Steve, paying for a private room, and saying I’m your fricking employee!”

“Bunny, I’ve missed you too.” There’s a creak, as if he’s leaned back in his chair and thrown his feet up on a desk.