Chapter 2 - Margaret Did Not Own The Hospital
The first thing Margaret told me upstairs was that she did not own Whitmore Medical Center.
She was not secretly the richest person in Boston.
Her husband had not built the hospital.
No forgotten will had made her its true owner.
She had been a public-school principal for thirty-two years.
She lived in the same two-bedroom house she'd bought with her husband in 1984.
The coat David had judged probably cost less than his tie.
What Margaret did have was one vote.
And a title.
Vice Chair, Board of Trustees.
Chair, Patient Access and Ethics Committee.
David had been employed by the hospital for eleven months.
Most board meetings during that time had been hybrid.
He knew Margaret Hale's name.
Apparently he'd never bothered to learn her face.
We sat in a small executive conference room.
Dr. Whitmore sat at the head.
Margaret beside him.
Three trustees stayed.
Two others returned to the boardroom.
I remained in blue scrubs with a hole where my ID had been.
David joined us five minutes later with hospital counsel and the head of nursing.
He looked composed again.
That was one of his talents.
He could turn a disaster into a meeting before most people finished being shocked.
Dr. Whitmore said:
“Emily, tell us exactly what happened.”
So I did.
Margaret arrived.
Asked for five minutes.
Reception said no appointment.
David ordered her out.
I objected.
He told me to move.
I refused.
He suspended me.
David listened.
Then said:
“She omitted that I instructed her twice to stop interfering with an administrative security decision.”
“I didn't think Margaret was a security problem.”
“That is not your determination.”
“No.”
I hated agreeing with him.
But he was right about that part.
David looked toward the board.
“Ms. Carter is a bedside nurse. She has neither the training nor authority to determine which visitors should have executive access.”
Margaret asked me:
“Did you try to take me upstairs?”
“Yes.”
David looked at me.
I continued:
“I told reception I'd walk her to Executive Services.”
Dr. Whitmore frowned.
“Without clearance?”
“Yes.”
There went the clean version of me.
Margaret asked:
“Why?”
I looked at her.
“Because you'd been sitting downstairs for forty-three minutes.”
David said:
“Waiting does not create access.”
“I know.”
“You were told no.”
“Yes.”
“And you decided you knew better.”
I glanced at Margaret.
“Yes.”
The room went still.
Margaret leaned back.
“Good.”
David frowned.
“Good?”
“Good that she's saying it plainly.”
She looked at me.
“Did I appear medically distressed?”
“No.”
“Confused?”
“No.”
“Did I tell you I was a trustee?”
“No.”
“Did you know who I was?”
“No.”
“Then why interfere?”
That was harder.
Because “kindness” would have sounded noble.
It wasn't the whole truth.
I said:
“Because of what David said.”
“What?”
“Before I stepped in.”
David's face tightened.
I continued.
“Reception asked whether you wanted Patient Relations.”
“You said no. You needed Dr. Whitmore.”
“David said, ‘The director isn't here for every lonely person who wanders in with a grievance.’”
Silence.
David looked at me.
“I do not recall using those words.”
“I do.”
“Convenient.”
My face heated.
Margaret watched neither of us.
She watched Dr. Whitmore.
Then said:
“That is close to the question I came to ask.”
Dr. Whitmore folded his hands.
“What question?”
Margaret looked at David.
For the first time, he seemed uncertain about what she knew.
She turned back to Nathan.
“Why are complaints reaching my committee only after David’s office has decided whether the person making them is credible enough to count?”
David immediately said:
“They don't.”
Margaret opened her handbag.
David's shoulders tensed.
She did not pull out some magic document.
She pulled out reading glasses.
Put them on.
Then looked at him.
“Four employees have been removed from patient-facing duty in seven weeks.”
He said nothing.
“Each one assisted a patient or relative who was trying to get beyond your screening process.”
David shook his head.
“That is a gross distortion.”
“Then correct it.”
He leaned forward.
“The employees were disciplined for different reasons.”
“Name them.”
Hospital counsel interrupted.
“We should be careful discussing personnel matters in a mixed room.”
Margaret nodded.
“Fine.”
She turned to me.
“Emily, you are suspended. You don't need to hear anyone else's file.”
I stood.
Dr. Whitmore looked surprised.
Margaret wasn't.
She said:
“Sit outside.”
I did.
No dramatic protest.
Because suddenly I understood why she hadn't restored my badge.
If Margaret made me her symbol before learning whether I'd actually broken rules, she would be doing the same thing David had done.
Deciding first.
Explaining afterward.
I sat outside for twenty-three minutes.
Then the door opened.
Dr. Whitmore stepped out.
He looked troubled.
“Emily.”
I stood.
“Am I fired?”
“No.”
“Yet.”
He almost smiled.
“Yet.”
Then his expression changed.
“Margaret wants to know whether you've ever helped a patient's family reach administration after they were denied access.”
My stomach tightened.
Because I had.
May you like
Three times.
And one of those times had ended badly.
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