Chapter 6: The Person Richard Forgot to Mention
I didn't respond that night.
I sat with the message until almost midnight, turning it over.
It could be nothing — someone with a grudge, someone who'd seen Chloe at the facility and put things together.
But the phrasing bothered me.
*Things Richard hasn't told anyone.* Not *things your mother doesn't know.* Anyone.
In the morning I showed it to Chloe.
She read it and handed the phone back without a word.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"I think if it was nothing, they wouldn't have texted twice."
I replied with a single line: *Who are you?*
The response came within two minutes.
*My name is Gavin Mercer.
I was Dana's fiancé before the accident.
I think you should know what Richard did.*
I called the number.
He answered immediately, like he'd been holding the phone.
"Thank you for calling," he said.
He was younger than I'd expected from his voice — mid-thirties, I guessed.
He spoke carefully, like someone who had learned to measure his words after being dismissed too many times.
"Tell me what you mean," I said.
"What did Richard do?"
"Before the accident, Dana and I had been together for two years.
We were engaged.
I was going to be her emergency contact, her next of kin — everything.
We had it all planned." A pause.
"The accident happened three weeks before we were supposed to file the paperwork."
"I'm listening."
"When she was in the coma, I was at that hospital every day.
Every single day.
And then Richard arrived." His voice tightened.
"He'd only known Dana for less than two years at that point.
They were still figuring out their relationship.
But he came in with documents — I still don't fully understand how he moved that fast — and within ten days, he had himself listed as her primary next of kin.
Her emergency contact.
Her medical decision-maker."
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
"He had me removed from her approved visitor list," Gavin said.
"I couldn't get in to see her.
I tried for three weeks.
The facility said they could only follow the listed next of kin's instructions, and Richard had told them I was not to be given access."
"Did you fight it?"
"I tried.
I spoke to a patient advocate.
I contacted a lawyer.
But Dana was still in the coma, she couldn't speak for herself, and Richard had paperwork.
I had a ring and two years of photographs." His voice was flat now.
Not angry.
Just flat, the way a voice goes when the anger has been sitting too long to feel like anger anymore.
"By the time she came out of the coma, she didn't remember me.
Not my name, not my face, not what we were to each other.
The doctors said it might come back.
It hasn't."
I sat down.
"Does Richard know you've been trying to reach her?"
"He knows.
He had the facility send me a formal letter six months ago.
It said that Dana's legal next of kin had reviewed the visitor policy and that my name would remain off the approved list unless Dana herself requested otherwise." A pause.
"She can't request otherwise.
She doesn't remember I exist."
"Gavin." I chose my next words carefully.
"Why are you telling me this now?
Why not before?"
"Because I've been watching from the outside for almost two years.
I've had no way in.
And then last night, a fifteen-year-old girl walked into that lobby and Richard panicked." His voice shifted slightly.
"I was in the parking lot.
I saw his face when he saw her.
And I thought — finally.
Someone on the inside who might actually listen."
I looked across the room at nothing in particular.
"What is it you want?" I asked.
"I want someone to ask Dana if she wants to see me.
Not Richard.
Not the facility following Richard's instructions.
Someone neutral.
Someone she might actually trust." He paused.
"I'm not trying to take anything from anyone.
I just want her to have the choice."
After I hung up, I sat for a long time.
Then I called Richard.
He picked up on the third ring.
"Gavin Mercer just called me," I said.
The silence on the other end was immediate and total.
"I see," Richard said finally.
"Do you want to tell me your side of it?
Before I decide what to do with what he told me?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"I was protecting her," he said.
"From the man she was engaged to marry."
"From someone who—" He stopped.
Started again.
"It's more complicated than he made it sound."
"Then uncomplicate it," I said.
May you like
"Because my mother is planning to bring your daughter a tin of shortbread in ten days.
And I am not letting her walk into something she doesn't understand."
