Chapter 9: What Doreen Had Built and What It Cost Her
Gerald spread three documents on the bedside table.
The first was the Mercy General case summary — twelve pages, the edges soft from handling.
The second was a letter from the Ohio Medical Board confirming receipt of his complaint against Dr.
Rusk.
The third was a single-page document that Leah did not recognize.
"What's that one?" she said.
"A civil complaint.
Filed this afternoon by the family from Mercy General." Gerald tapped the corner of the page.
"They've been waiting four years for a second documented incident.
Today gave them one."
Leah looked at the names on the complaint.
A couple she had never heard of.
A child who would now be four years old.
"They lost fourteen months," she said.
"Yes."
"And they've been waiting."
"They never stopped." Gerald folded his hands.
"When I called them this morning to tell them what I was walking into, the mother asked me one thing.
She said: *Is the baby safe?* That was her first question.
Not about the lawsuit.
Not about Doreen.
The baby."
Owen was asleep again, his face turned against Leah's shoulder.
"Tell me what happens now," Leah said.
"Specifically."
"Dr.
Rusk's ethics board meeting is tomorrow morning.
If she provides a full statement confirming that the psychiatric history was supplied to her by Doreen Carver in a written document, and that she included it in the evaluation without independent verification, then she has committed a serious breach of medical ethics.
Her license will be reviewed.
Suspension is likely.
Revocation is possible."
"And Doreen?"
"Doreen provided false medical information that was used to initiate a fraudulent psychiatric hold on a new mother for the purpose of gaining custody of a child.
That is not a civil matter.
That is a crjminal matter." Gerald said it plainly.
"The question is whether the prosecutor's office considers it worth pursuing."
"And the hospital's cooperation?"
"Helps significantly.
The administrator has already indicated that Briar Glen will not be protecting anyone's reputation at the expense of a patient's rights.
Doreen's history with the fundraising committee is no longer an asset to her.
It's a liability."
The door opened.
Nathan came back in.
He had his phone in his hand and his face looked like a man who had just had a conversation that reorganized everything he thought he understood about his own family.
"Claire is flying in tomorrow morning," he said.
"She's already spoken to a family law attorney in Columbus.
She wants to know if you need her to come directly here or to the apartment."
"Here," Leah said.
"Tomorrow morning."
Nathan nodded.
He looked at Gerald.
"My mother called me while I was in the hallway.
She wants to meet.
She says she wants to explain."
"Don't meet with her without an attorney present," Gerald said immediately.
"I know." Nathan sat down.
He looked at his hands.
"She said — she said she was doing what was best for the family.
That Leah wasn't ready.
That the baby needed stability." He stopped.
"She said it like she believed it."
"She does believe it," Leah said.
Nathan looked at her.
"That's what makes her dangerous," Leah said.
"She's not doing this because she's cruel.
She's doing it because she decided years ago that she knows best, and no one has ever stopped her long enough for her to learn otherwise."
The room was quiet.
"She had it prepared before you even delivered," Nathan said slowly.
"The paperwork.
She had it ready."
"Yes."
"That means she planned this before she knew if you and the baby would be healthy.
Before she knew if there would be complications.
She planned it regardless of what happened to you."
Leah did not answer.
She let him sit with that.
Nathan stood up.
He crossed the room and stood beside the bassinet.
He looked at Owen for a long time — at his son's face, at the pale blue blanket, at the small curled fists.
"I'm going to call my mother back," he said.
"I'm going to tell her not to contact you, not to contact this hospital, and not to contact our son.
And then I'm going to call an attorney of my own."
He walked out.
Gerald watched the door close.
"That may be the most useful thing he's done today," he said.
Mae appeared in the doorway.
She had changed out of her shift scrubs — her own clothes now, a gray cardigan, her bag over her shoulder.
She was technically off the clock.
She had stayed anyway.
"Doreen just left the building," she said.
"Her attorney is with her.
She didn't look at the nurses' station when she passed.
She didn't look at anyone."
Leah thought about that.
About what it meant for a woman like Doreen to walk through a building she had helped fund and not be able to meet anyone's eyes.
"Good," she said.
Mae came fully into the room.
She sat in the chair beside the bed — not the professional chair, not the advocate's chair.
Just the chair.
The one a person sits in when they are staying because they want to, not because they have to.
"How are you?" she said.
Not the clinical question.
The real one.
Leah looked at Owen.
"I think I'm going to be all right," she said.
"Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
But eventually."
"That's enough for now."
"Mae." Leah looked at her.
"Why did you move me?
The moment you saw the paperwork — why did you act?
You could have lost your job."
Mae was quiet for a moment.
"I have a daughter," she said.
"She's twenty-six.
She had a baby last year." A pause.
"When I saw Doreen bring those forms onto the ward, I thought about my daughter.
I thought about someone doing this to her." She looked at Owen.
"I didn't think about my job."
Leah reached out and put her hand over Mae's.
Neither of them said anything.
Outside the window, Columbus was going dark.
The parking structure lights came on one row at a time.
Somewhere down the hall, a baby was crying — a healthy, furious, brand-new sound — and a nurse was moving quickly toward it.
Leah held her son and listened to the hospital settle into its evening rhythms, and for the first time since she had been hurried through that unmarked door, she let herself believe that Owen was going to come home with her.
But in the morning, Dr.
May you like
Rusk would sit in front of the ethics board.
And Doreen would be waiting to hear what she said.
