Chapter 4: Elevated Markers
Three days passed without incident.
I kept my face neutral.
I brought Garrett his meals, managed his medication schedule, helped him with his morning routine, and said very little to Douglas or Gertrude beyond what was necessary.
I was polite.
I was forgettable.
I made sure of it.
On the fourth morning, Evelyn found me in the kitchen.
Garrett's mother was a small woman, seventy-three years old, with white hair pinned back and hands that moved carefully, like she was always afraid of knocking something over.
She had barely spoken to me since I arrived.
She set her cup on the counter and looked at the window.
"How is he sleeping?" she asked.
"Better than the first night," I said.
"He seems more comfortable."
She nodded.
A long pause.
"He used to sleep through anything," she said.
"Even as a boy.
Nothing woke him." She turned the cup in her hands.
"He hasn't slept well since the accident."
"That's common with recovery," I said carefully.
"The body is working hard."
"Is it." It wasn't a question.
She looked at me then — directly, for the first time.
"You're not like the others," she said.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"The other caregivers.
They were always asking Douglas questions.
About the house, about the company, about Garrett's schedule." She set the cup down.
"You don't ask Douglas anything."
"I ask Garrett," I said.
"He's my patient."
Something moved across her face.
Not quite relief.
Something older than that.
"Good," she said quietly.
Then she picked up her cup and left the kitchen.
That afternoon, Garrett's physician arrived for a scheduled visit.
Dr.
Ellison was a compact man in his late fifties, efficient and brief.
He checked Garrett's reflexes, reviewed the medication log I'd been keeping, and asked me two questions about Garrett's sleep and appetite before closing his bag.
Douglas stood in the doorway the entire time.
When Dr.
Ellison moved toward the hall, Douglas followed him immediately.
I stayed to help Garrett with his afternoon medication.
Through the wall, I could hear voices — low, overlapping.
I couldn't make out words.
"He does that every time," Garrett said quietly.
"Follows the doctor out?"
"Has a private word.
Has done it since the second month." Garrett watched the closed door.
"Dr.
Ellison started being less specific in his reports after that.
More general language.
'Progress is slow but consistent.' That kind of thing."
"Do you have a copy of your full medical records?"
"I've requested them twice.
Both times I was told the request was being processed." He paused.
"The requests were made through Douglas."
I set the medication cup down.
"Make the request yourself," I said.
"In writing.
Directly to the clinic.
Not through anyone in this house."
Garrett looked at me.
"I can't exactly walk in," he said.
"You don't have to.
I can take a signed letter from you.
Hand it directly to the clinic administrator.
No one here needs to know."
He was quiet for a moment.
"You'd do that?"
"It's a letter," I said.
"It's not complicated."
He almost smiled.
It was the first time I'd seen anything close to it.
That evening, after dinner, I was passing the study when I heard Gertrude's voice through the half-open door.
"She's too calm," Gertrude said.
"The others got nervous.
She doesn't."
"Give it time," Douglas said.
"We don't have time, Douglas.
The board review is in six weeks.
If Garrett shows any meaningful improvement before then—"
"He won't."
A pause.
"You sound very certain."
"I am certain," Douglas said.
"Dr.
Ellison understands what's at stake."
May you like
I stood completely still in the hallway.
Then I walked to my room, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed with Patricia Howe's card in my hand.
