Page 10 of Iron Will

I wonder how Paisley’s doing. And if Mickey ever came back.

Almost without thinking about it, I decide I’m gonna go over to the hospital tomorrow morning, and check on the situation.

Just in case.

4

Laney

Work gets pretty busy after my run-in with the biker. I get called away to talk to the family of a patient who’s transitioning to hospice care for stage four cancer. Then after that, I help with planning a move to a drug treatment facility for a patient who was brought in after an overdose.

For a few hours, the little girl with the concussion and the broken arm moves to the back of my mind.

But as I’m leaving the hospital later — at least an hour after I was supposed to be off the clock — Paisley’s pale little face comes back to me. I meant to check back at her room before I left, but I’m already in my car and halfway home before I remember.

The truth is, I’m worried about the girl. The fact that she was unsupervised when her accident happened concerns me. Her mom did seem embarrassed about it — though she claims the boyfriend was home, just not paying attention. In the end, I’m not sure what to think about the whole thing.

The mom— who gave her name as Bethany Hawn — reacted with shock when we told her Paisley had been lugging a load of laundry down the stairs when she fell. “I told you never to leave the room when we’re gone!” she hissed at the little girl, before catching herself and looking at me guiltily. As though she could sense that her fitness as a mother might be on the line here.

“I know,” Paisley mumbled back, staring down at the bedspread. “But Mickey was there. And Callista said I smelled.”

“Who’s…” Bethany started, then went silent. Swallowing, her voice shook a little when she continued. “I’m sorry, baby,” she half-whispered. “Money’s a little tight right now.” She leaned forward and gathered the little girl in her arms. Paisley visibly relaxed, sinking into her with the ultimate trust of a child toward a loving parent.

Then Bethany turned to me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wide.

“I’m not a bad mother, I swear,” she pleaded.

In her eyes was a fear I know only too well. I’ve seen it before. On the faces of the poor, who know that their actions are scrutinized more closely by people like me than others with more money. Rich people have more cash to throw at their problems, and to dress up their faults and their mistakes.

Everything tells me that this mother loves her child. And that the child loves her. I don’t see abuse or neglect there. Just struggle against a world that gave them the short end of the stick. I’ve been wrong before, but I’ve seen enough to at least partially trust my gut.

However, I’m worried that’s not the whole story.

In talking with Doctor Methaney, the doctor who examined Paisley, he told me he noticed a bruise forming on Paisley’s upper arm, consistent with being grabbed roughly. He said it looked like a larger size hand. And that, of course, makes me think of one thing.

The boyfriend.

I know I need to talk to Paisley’s mom about this. But I also want to try as hard as I can to make sure she trusts me first.

Paisley’s safe in the hospital for now,I reason as I pull up in front of the tiny house I rent on the north side of town.I’ll go talk to Bethany some more tomorrow.

The sun is just startingto set as I emerge from my car. Keys in hand, I’m walking toward my front door when my phone buzzes in my purse. I reach inside and glance at the screen.

It’s my own mother. What a coincidence.

Groaning, I purse my lips and decide to answer it. If I don’t, it’s just prolonging the inevitable — and probably earning myself a passive-aggressive voice message in the process.

“Hi, Mom!” I say brightly. “What’s up?”

There’s a short pause. “Well, I’m fine, Delaney, thank you for asking. How are you?”

Ugh.And so it begins. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, gritting my teeth. “How are you?”

“As I said, I’m fine.” God, she can packsomuch judgment into just a few words. It really is a talent.

“I’m glad to hear it,” I reply, trying as hard as I can not to be snippy back to her. “I’m doing well, also.”

There’s a pregnant silence on the line for a few seconds. I open my mouth to try to fill it, but then the stubborn part of me takes control. If I ask her why she’s calling again, we’ll just be back at square one. I know that sometimes with my mom, there’s just no winning. This already feels like one of these times. So, my basic strategy is to just try not to play the game at all.