I met with Susan Hudson the following morning. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in her fifties who seemed to navigate an incredibly difficult job with relatively good cheer. Spending most of the day on the phone arguing with insurance companies, speaking to patients about various past-due accounts, or letting people know that one procedure or another wasn’t covered by their health plans would have made me absolutely miserable. She was nonetheless friendly and apparently relieved that I’d come in, which I hadn’t anticipated. Motioning for me to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk, she made a quick call, telling someone that I’d arrived. Less than a minute later, a physician entered the office.
“Dr. Adrian Manville,” he said to me, offering his hand. “I’m the chief medical officer here,” he said.
“Dr. Trevor Benson,” I replied, wondering why he had decided to join us.
“You’re a physician?” he asked.
“Orthopedic surgeon,” I said. “Retired. I hope I didn’t do anything wrong by transporting Callie to the hospital myself.”
“Not at all,” Manville responded, taking a seat. “We appreciate you coming in today.”
“I’m still a little confused as to why you needed me.” I met Manville’s gaze. “Or why you’re here. I thought this was just about my late grandmother’s social security number.”
Susan reached for a file beside her computer. “We weren’t sure what else to do. I understand you’re not family, but we were hoping you’d be able to shed some light on the situation.”
“We?”
“The billing department,” she said. “The hospital. No one here is exactly clear on how we should proceed.”
“I doubt I can be helpful. I don’t know anything. I’ve only met Callie a couple of times and I don’t even know her last name.”
“Well, we don’t, either.”
“Excuse me?”
“She doesn’t have any identification, and we’re having trouble verifying anything about her.”
My eyes flashed toward Manville, then back to her. “Maybe you should start from the beginning? Tell me what you do know.”
“Of course,” Susan said. “As I mentioned on the phone, Callie is using your grandmother’s social security number. Frankly, we were fortunate to catch it. Your grandmother was last here as a patient a long time ago, before all the records were computerized. We’ve been catching up, but it takes time and we got lucky. Do you have any idea how the patient could have gotten it?”
“I’d be guessing, but I’m assuming that either she found it, or my grandfather gave it to her.”
Susan’s pen hovered in place over the file. “Why would your grandfather have given it to her?”
“Because he always had a fondness for strays. I think she does, too, by the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“He would feed stray animals if they happened to enter his property,” I explained. “Maybe Callie showed up and he thought she needed his help, too.”
“It’s illegal to knowingly let someone use another person’s social security number.”
“It’ll be hard to press charges,” I said. “As I mentioned on the phone, my grandfather passed away last fall.”
She scrutinized the file and made some notes before setting her pen aside. “It’s complicated, but because Callie’s treatment falls under a charity program we have at the hospital, we’re going to need her to be truthful on her admittance forms. There are reporting requirements and paperwork, and the documents need to be accurate.”
“Have you tried asking her?”
“I have,” she said. “So has Dr. Manville and some other administrators. That’s in addition to her regular physicians. At first, we thought the head trauma might have left her confused, but when we spoke to her employer, he verified that was the same social security number she’d given him when she’d been hired. Further, the previous address she listed on the form doesn’t exist. After we pointed those things out to her, she stopped answering our questions about it.”
Dr. Manville cleared his throat. “She’s also begun asking when she can be discharged, and that’s concerning, too, but for entirely different reasons. Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell us about her?”
I shook my head, realizing that everything I’d heard seemed consistent with what I knew of Callie. “Her name is Callie. She told me she wasn’t from New Bern, but I don’t have any idea where she lived before. Currently she lives in a trailer park near my house and she works at Slow Jim’s Trading Post.” I paused, looking over at Dr. Manville. “But this is less about a billing issue than something else, right? I’m guessing you think there’s a possibility that there might be something seriously wrong with her beyond her head injury. Maybe because she fainted before falling off the ladder, or because of her pallor, or maybe because of something the tests have shown. Maybe even all three. That’s why you’re worried about her insisting that she be discharged.”