Doctor-Patient Confidentiality Box Set

by Eme Strife

  The pain is quite tangible, but not even that can shift my focus away from my heavy panting and the ridiculously loud throbbing in my chest called a heartbeat.

  My mind is still highly panicked and frazzled, my hands trembling even as they continue to grip the steering wheel like a vice. My breathing is heavy, and I feel goosebumps forming all over my body even though I have four layers of clothing on. I’m beyond terrified. I could have gotten seriously hurt…or worse.

  It takes me over twenty minutes to completely calm down and recollect myself.

  After a small—and very much needed—mental pep-talk, I pull onto the road again, driving with much more caution than I think I ever have in my life.

  I don't listen to any music for the rest of the drive.

  ***

  I’d managed to beat the worst of the impending snowstorm last night, but not by much. Thankfully, the forecasts don't expect any more snowstorms for the rest of the weekend. The memorial service doesn’t start for another two hours, but I’m already showered and dressed so I figure I’ll set the table for later.

  I grab a bunch of paper plates from Gran’s pantry, and I can’t help but notice how they’re vibrating, but only because the hands that are holding them are trembling. Truth be told, I couldn’t get much sleep last night, and I guess I’m still quite a bit shaky from the near accident yesterday.

  Just remembering the way I felt when my car swerved like that is giving me a serious case of goosebumps. How the hell would I have even explained flipping my car over or swerving into a pole to Gran, and on a day like this, no less? The fact that I almost crashed my car on my way to a memorial is ironic to say the least, and only makes me think of how fickle life can be.

  I grumble as I set the stack of paper plates on the dining table right next to the pile of gorgeous porcelain china ones that Gran stubbornly insists on having out for the guests. I think it's completely unnecessary, and will ultimately be a pain in both our asses, but all she keeps saying is special occasions call for special silverware.

  In her defense, and even though I don't want to admit it, I guess she is right. Even though I personally don't think the guests deserve to eat off her valuable china—especially since the set had been one of her prize wedding gifts all those decades ago—but at the end of the day, it's her china, her house, and the memory of her husband we're celebrating. She has the final say, so I try to keep my reservations to myself and go along with it.

  I look over the table and sigh at just how much food and silverware is all over it. I try not to think about how annoying it's going to be to clean all of this up after hours and hours of forced conversation with our "guests" preceded by even more hours at the memorial service in the church.

  I also try not to think about what it will be like when Danny and I see each other. I completely know what to expect from Jennifer so I'm sure there won't be any surprises there. I still find it interesting that even though they're both my half-siblings, I've never even for a moment thought of Jennifer as my sister. I can't see myself calling or even thinking of her as 'Jen' the way everyone else does. Danny and I, on the other hand, had been close at one point in time, or at least I thought we had, but that's obviously changed—drastically, might I add—and now my relationship with him is just like it is with his older sister; non-existent.

  "The original Gallos," they call themselves. Well, Jennifer does, anyway. I know she does it to spite me and my mother for "stealing" their father from them, never mind that he was my father, too.

  Danny's never explicitly said the phrase himself, at least not to my face, but he's never exactly disagreed with her on the matter, either. Heck, I'm not sure he's ever disagreed with her on anything—especially anything concerning the "second-hand Gallos".

  Whatever the case is between us, I just hope we can all be civil, if only for today. I really don't want any drama whatsoever, especially not now that I'm contending with this thing going on with my stomach and the financial issues it's posing. I have more than enough to worry about as it is. I definitely don't need any more problems added into the mix.

  ***

  I glance at my watch and it stares back at me, telling me it's exactly 11:00AM—and also time for the memorial service to start. From the corner of my eye, I see a couple who I'm pretty sure are the last two people coming for the service trickling through the main entrance of the church just as the pastor motions for us to rise. They both nod at Gran and I in acknowledgment as they walk by us, offering a pair of sympathetic smiles just before taking their seats.

  I look around and see that there are only about twenty or so people in attendance, including the priest. I can't help but notice how small the gathering is. It's considerably smaller than I'd expected it to be.

  I'm kind of surprised that more people aren't here considering the hundreds of people that had attended his funeral, but to be honest, I'm glad it turned out this way.

  I also can't help but notice that Danny and Jennifer aren't here either, though considering everything that's happened, I suppose I should have expected it. But, hey, I'm not complaining. Really, I’m not.

  To be honest, I'm glad they're not here. I can use as much peace of mind as I can get right now, and being around those two—especially Jennifer—would only serve to spike my blood pressure. And I sure as hell don't need that. Not today. Not ever. But especially not today.

  The service lasts just as long as I suspected it would. They play all his favorite songs and some of his own original works on the church organ and on his second favorite violin. He wanted to be buried with his first, and we'd honored his request at the funeral.

  Toward the end, all of his friends each say a few touching words and I learn a little bit more about the great Sylvester Gallo through their reminiscing, although Mr. Dickson decides, as usual, to give one of his extra-long, presidential-wannabe-type speeches. He just keeps going on and on and on, and I can't help but zone out after less than a minute of listening to him. It's almost like a reflex at this point.

  He does the same thing at pretty much every single event he attends—from funerals and memorial services, to weddings and children' birthday parties. He's one of those people who just really loves hearing himself talk. I'm sure of it. Even grandpa couldn't stand it when he went on his many tedious, overzealous tangents.

  I see a few people yawn intermittently, signaling that I'm not alone in my disdain for Mr. Dickinson's unwanted word-marathon.

  I absently look around the church again, eyeing all the figures haphazardly scattered across the wooden benches. There really isn't anyone my age here. Not even close to it. Most attendees are grandpa's former colleagues and friends.

  I admit, it is kind of lonely with no one here I can really relate to, but I guess it's okay. I'm just glad no one has shown up claiming to be his mistress or common-law wife like that disaster at the funeral last year.

  She'd sworn up and down that her name was Felicity Gallo, formerly Felicity Truman before her supposed marriage to grandpa. I still have no idea if even the former had been her real name, seeing what a lying snake she obviously was, but we'll just call her Felicity, anyway.

  Felicity—a pretty, tall, and slender, almost model-esque thirty-two year old woman—had walked up to Gran, politely offered her condolences, and then ever so calmly proceeded to tell Gran that she was grandpa’s wife and had married him the year before, and therefore was legally entitled to all of his money and possessions. She even came lawyered up, walking side by side with a thirty-something year old man who looked much closer to her age than my grandpa ever could. I was more than willing to bet that they were fucking.

  I'd been standing right next to Gran when it happened, and I almost couldn't believe my ears. The next thing I knew, Gran swung at her, and ended up getting a real good grip on her hair, yanking it in a hundred different directions. Felicity was screaming, trying to get away from Gran's unrelenting—and obviously very painful—hold on her.

  Witnessing that
had been one of the most shocking and out-of-this world things I've ever had the displeasure of seeing. A part of me still can't even believe that it had actually gone down. Gran had been absolutely furious, and in her grief-driven rage almost ripped all the blonde hair follicles right out of Felicity's scalp.

  I'd never seen my grandmother so angry before, but it was completely understandable that she would be. She had been angry with and disappointed in herself for losing her composure in front of so many people, especially on a day that was supposed to be about mourning her late husband and finally putting him to rest.

  I understand that she would be, but again, I couldn't blame her. I don't know what I would have done had I been in the same situation. Being faced with a woman making such outrageous and utterly disrespectful claims right after watching your life-long partner being lowered into the ground forever is more than anyone can bear, especially all in one day. I mean, Gran's only human for crying out loud. Even the most patient and tolerant people have their breaking point.

  And speaking of breaking points, I'm damn close to having one of my own if Mr. Dickinson doesn't end his damn speech right this instant!

  Thankfully, in her usual graceful and tactical way, Gran manages to "help" him wrap things up a lot faster than he would if he were left to his own whims.

  Soon after, the service is over, and we all head back to Gran's house.

  ***

  Rambunctious laughter erupts from the living room, and I immediately recognize the boisterous sound; Karl Vallemosso, grandpa's life-long best friend. A moment later, I hear Gran's hearty laugh as well. I take a peek in their direction from the corridor and I can't help but smile in gratitude.

  I'm glad she has so many good people around her who love and support her. I'm also glad to finally see a genuinely happy smile on her face after so long. I haven't seen or heard her smile and laugh like that since before Grandpa passed—not since my dad, and her only son, was still alive.

  I head back into the kitchen and my eyes dart over to the antique clock hanging above the sink. Its chrome pendulum swings back and forth in a slow and steady rhythm. It's almost eight, and after several hours of good food, great music, and lengthy conversations, there are only a handful of people left, and from the looks of it, they'll probably be leaving in the next twenty minutes or so.

  Just then, the doorbell rings, removing my attention from the clock and its ever-swaying pendulum.

  "I'll get it," I say as I spot Gran getting up from her chair.

  What the hell?

  Who could be coming over at this hour? The day's practically over.

  I walk over to the front door, figuring it must be Theodore coming back for something he'd forgotten.

  When I open the door, however, my eyes tell me otherwise. I feel my eyebrows rising in an obvious show of surprise at the sight of the figure standing in front of me.

  "Ramona? Who is it, darling?" Gran calls out amidst the swarm of voices from the living room.

  The figure cocks his head slightly to the side, and more of his face is illuminated by the porch light. It only takes me a second to figure out who it is.

  Liam Burrows: the youngest grandson of the late Jim Burrows, grandpa's first mentor and close friend. Liam's a musical prodigy in his own right, and as a result, is also the heir to his grandfather's fortune and legacy despite the fact that he has three older brothers.

  I'd had something of a crush on him way back then—when I was still young and fairly stupid and naive—but even then I knew that guys like him were out of my league. But even if—by some ridiculous chance that I know never existed for several reasons—he had wanted to date me, it never would have worked.

  Even if he wasn't seven years older than me, or if I hadn't been immensely jealous of his musical talents or intimidated by his family, it never would have worked. Some people just aren't compatible with each other.

  Behind my frames, I continue to regard him. After almost ten years, he looks exactly how I remember; tall, handsome, and arrogant. Even his features—from his dirty blonde hair to his forest green eyes—are exactly the same. He's even in one of his signature brown suits.

  Gosh, he doesn't look like he's aged one bit. Life's obviously been very good to him; the same way it's good to all rich and powerful men, I suppose.

  The last I'd heard, he’d gotten married about four years ago and had his first kid the year after that.

  Liam's expression seems to be one of surprise as well, only a lot less mild than mine. He slowly narrows his eyes at me in curiosity as he steps forward.

  "Ramona?" he asks with one of his eyebrows arched so high that I swear it's a second away from merging with his hairline.

  "Hi, Mr. Burrows," I offer with a smile. I haven't seen him since I was in junior high. He wasn't even present for grandpa's funeral last year. Which makes me wonder why he’s here now. And after the memorial is already over, no less.

  "Well, look at you, little Miss Gallo. Wow…you've certainly grown up, kid," he says with a smile and a stare that lingers two seconds too long.

  His gazing throws me off a bit, but I quickly get my wits about me. "Please come in," I offer, opening the door completely and moving to the side so he can pass. I turn to face him once the door's closed again.

  "Well, this is quite a surprise," I say, arching my brows and animating my facial features more than necessary. "I think you're the last person we expected to walk through here today."

  He nods in agreement. "I know. I wish I could have been there for the funeral, but better late than never, right?" he says with a wink.

  I can't believe this dude's nonchalance! He really is still as arrogant as ever. Maybe even more so now. I can only manage a slight, forced chuckle that I'm pretty sure sounds uncomfortable and insincere.

  "I suppose," I say with a tiny, almost invisible shrug.

  "So…how've you been, Roni?" he asks, removing his coat and hanging it over his elbow. "I'm assuming people still call you Roni?"

  I nod. "A few. Except Gran, of course," I add with another forced smile. "And I've been good, Mr. Burrows. Thank you for asking. You?"

  He waves his free hand in a dismissive motion. "Please, enough with all the formalities. And call me Liam. We're all family here," he says with a wide smile right before he engulfs me in a hug that I'm not prepared for.

  The awkward embrace lasts a little longer than I think it should, and I'm pretty sure the discomfort I feel from being enveloped so abruptly like that is written all over my face, but I do my best to hide it behind the most convincing forced smile I can manage.

  "Liam," I say with a concurring nod, and the forced smile still glued to my lips.

  He continues to stare at me even after I've freed myself from his grasp. I may not know Liam that well, but I certainly know that he isn't the quiet or innocent type—not even remotely—and his silence now, as brief as it is, rings pretty strange. Strange and…discomforting.

  I can't stand the awkward tension, and so I say the first thing that comes to my mind.

  "Uh, I can take your coat," I offer, my eyes darting to the long brown overcoat hanging over his elbow.

  "Oh, that's fine," he says with another dismissive wave. "I won't be here very long. Your gran in the living room?" he asks.

  I simply nod.

  With that, he heads into the living room, greeting the few people still there before I see him and Gran head out to the balcony, presumably for a private discussion. Just as I start to walk back to the kitchen, the doorbell rings again.

  "Ugh, who the hell is it now?" I grumble under my breath as I stomp back to the front door.

  In my irritation, I swing it open with more force than I mean to…and I immediately wish I hadn't.

  ***

  THE CONFIDENTIAL SERIES

  Okay, I'm pretty sure my eyebrows just jumped off my face and into my hairline—kind of like how Liam’s wanted to just moments earlier.

  My feet are immediately frozen in place, almost a
s if they've been physically cemented to the floor. My legs feel foreign, like a pair of oversized ice blocks, their weight suddenly too heavy for the rest of my body.

  A surge of ice shoots through them and flares throughout the rest of my body, making an especially notable impact as it slithers through my spine, and I know it's not because of the onslaught of cold wind now blowing over me.

  Icy blue eyes keep me paralyzed and mute for several moments, and I swear my voice just left with the last gust of wind that came my way.

  I feel my eyelids stretching themselves to the point of discomfort in an effort to accommodate the quickly-widening eyeballs within them. I'm even unable to blink as I behold the tall, imposing man standing at my grandmother's doorstep.

  "Doctor Frost?" I choke out before I even realize I'm saying the words. I don't even know when—or how—I’m able to get my voice back.