Chapter 7
I could hear Richard before I saw him. That was new. Usually he moved quiet through the house, and you had to listen for the change in the air conditioning when a door opened to know where he was.
I had parked my old Civic around the side by the staff entrance, out of view from the front drive, and came in through the laundry. My tote was over my shoulder and my hands were wrapped in white gauze up to the wrists. The urgent care nurse had taped the edges down and told me not to get them wet. The discharge papers were folded inside the tote in a manila envelope the clinic gave me. I held the tote against my hip with my forearms.
Richard was standing at the end of the hallway by the console with the white flowers. He wasn't in the black suit anymore, just a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, the gold watch catching the sconce light. Vanessa was with him, still in the cream wrap dress, her heels off now, one hand on the console like she was steadying herself.
"You left," Richard said when he saw me. He didn't raise his voice. It was flat and controlled and that was worse. "You left the property without checking out. Without telling anyone. Sophie asked for you and no one could find you."
I nodded. My throat was dry from the drive. "I had a medical appointment."
His eyes dropped to my hands. He stared for a second too long.
"And you didn't think to ask permission to take my daughter's nanny out of the house in the middle of the afternoon?" he said. "You turned off your phone."
"I told Marisol I was going to urgent care," I said. Marisol came twice a week to clean the upper floors. She was the only other person I'd seen before I left. "My hands were getting worse. I needed to have them looked at."
Vanessa stepped forward a little. "Claire, what happened to your hands?"
I lifted them slightly. The gauze was clean now, no red showing through. "Chemical burn. The clinic documented it. They said it's from the bleach concentrate. Direct contact."
Richard made a short sound through his nose. "A burn. Claire, you had red hands from cleaning product. We have lotion in every bathroom. Now you've gone to an outside clinic and made it a thing."
He said it like I'd chosen the words on purpose. Made it a thing.
"I wasn't trying to make it anything," I said. "It hurt. The blistering was spreading. I needed treatment."
"You overreacted," he said. He took a step closer to me in the hallway. The runner muffled his shoes. "This is what you do when you want attention. You go dramatic instead of talking to me first. I could have had Dr. Patel look at it here. Discreetly."
I felt my pulse in my bandaged wrists. I kept my tote tight against me.
Vanessa looked between us. Her voice stayed even. "Do you have paperwork? From the clinic? Can I see?"
I pulled the envelope out with my forearms, pinching it between my hands. It was awkward. The paper crinkled. Richard reached his hand out immediately, palm up, expecting me to give it to him.
"Let me see that," he said.
I didn't hand it over. I held it back a half inch. That small movement made his jaw tighten.
"This is my medical record," I said. My voice shook a little and I hated it. "I'll give you a copy. I'm keeping the original."
Richard's hand stayed out. "Claire. Don't be difficult. Hand it to me and I'll handle it with the clinic. We handle things internally."
"She can keep the original, Richard," Vanessa said quietly. She looked at me, not him. "A copy is fine. May I have the copy?"
I swallowed. I had asked the front desk to make me two copies before I left. The girl there had done it without question. I unfolded the envelope and slid one of the copies out. The discharge sheet was on top, with the diagnosis printed clearly: irritant contact chemical burn, bilateral hands, PPE not used, recommendation follow-up. The nurse's notes underneath: patient reports no gloves provided, new concentrated product.
Vanessa took the copy from my gauze-covered fingers, careful not to touch the bandages. She scanned it, her brow pulling together.
Richard tried again, reaching for the envelope itself. "The original should stay in the house file."
I stepped back toward the laundry door. My shoulder hit the white panel. The brass LAUNDRY plaque was cool against my arm.
"No," I said. It came out louder than I meant, then I lowered it. "No. The original stays with me. In my bag. You can have the copy."
For a second nobody moved. The warm light from the sconces made everything look still, like a photograph. Vanessa folded the copy in her hands.
Richard slowly lowered his arm. His expression didn't change but a muscle moved in his cheek.
"So you've decided you don't trust us," he said.
"I've decided I need to keep my own paperwork," I said.
Vanessa slipped the copy into her clutch. "We'll keep this. Thank you, Claire." She looked at Richard. "We should let her rest. And we need to pull that new concentrate from the laundry."
Richard didn't answer her. He looked at me, at the envelope tucked back into my tote, at my bandaged hands, and I could see him calculating what this meant now that there was an outside record with a timestamp and a doctor's signature.
May you like
"You're still on shift tomorrow," he said finally. "We will discuss coverage later."
It wasn't an apology. It wasn't permission. It was a reminder that I still lived in the small apartment above the garage and needed the job. But he turned and walked back toward the kitchen, and Vanessa stayed for a moment longer, her eyes on my hands, and I understood the shift had already happened whether he wanted it or not.
