I offered it as a statement, not a question, and Manville straightened slightly in his seat.
“As you know, there are issues regarding medical privacy,” Manville hedged. “We can’t divulge a patient’s medical information without their consent.”
That was true, but I could tell by his expression as he spoke that my assumption was correct.
Susan cleared her throat. “We were hoping you would speak with her, so that at the very least, she’ll stay in the hospital long enough to receive the care she needs. And so that we can have accurate information on file and there are no remaining financial obligations for which she might be responsible.”
“Wouldn’t either of you be more appropriate for that?”
“We’ve been trying our best, but she still insists on being discharged,” Susan said. “She says that she feels fine.”
“You should speak with Claude,” I said. “Callie works for him, and he knows her a lot better than I do.”
“He came in yesterday,” Susan said. “He was the one who’d initially filled out the forms and he left his contact information, so we reached out to him. He didn’t have any luck with her—she wouldn’t answer his questions, either—so he suggested that we ask you. He says that because she knew and liked your grandfather, you might be able to get through to her.”
He obviously didn’t know that she’d practically screamed at me the day she collapsed. “I highly doubt she’ll be willing to open up to me.”
“Could you at least try?” Manville said. “It’s important medically. For Callie’s sake. We understand you’re under no obligation to help, but…”
After he trailed off, it was a few seconds before I finally nodded. My grandfather would have wanted me to help her, whatever that meant. Because she’d been important to him, he would have wanted me to treat her that way, too.
“I can’t make any promises that she’ll cooperate, but I’d be happy to speak with her.”
“Thank you.”
“I do have one condition, though.”
“Yes?”
“Can you get me a HIPAA form? So I can review her case and speak with her physicians?”
“Yes, but you’d still have to convince her to sign it.”
“Let me worry about that.”
*
Susan pulled out a HIPAA form and after borrowing a pen, I was on my way to Callie’s room on the third floor.
The hospital, like every hospital, flooded me with a sense of déjà vu. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, I saw the same fluorescent lights, the same speckled tile flooring, the same off-white paint on the walls that I remembered from my residency, in Pensacola, and even Kandahar. I followed a sign indicating room numbers, turning down a hallway as I debated which approach to take when I came face-to-face with Callie. I had no doubt that both Susan and Claude had tried the friendly, we’re here to help you approach, while Manville and her other physicians had probably leaned toward the we’re the professionals here and you should listen to us style of communication. And yet, Callie still insisted on being discharged, despite her illness. But why?
Because she was angry they were taking away her independence?
Possible, I thought. More likely was the notion that Callie was afraid and possibly on the run. Maybe from her family, from a boyfriend, or from the law, but it was definitely something. I guessed that as soon as she exited, she’d vanish within hours. She’d hit the road and start over somewhere else. It was also possible she’d use my grandmother’s social security number again. I didn’t personally care whether she did or not, though I had little doubt it would eventually land her in trouble again. I was more concerned that she’d end up in another hospital, maybe when it was too late to help her, if her condition was as dire as Dr. Manville’s presence suggested. At the same time, she was old enough to make her own decisions…
Or was she?
Was she truly old enough to be on her own? Or was she a minor who’d run away from home?
I walked past the nurses’ station, making for Callie’s room. Outside, I hesitated only briefly before pushing my way inside with a brisk step. The television was tuned to a daytime talk show, the volume low. Callie was lying in bed, her arm in a cast and her head wrapped in gauze; I surmised she’d had a craniotomy to drain a subdural hematoma. She was hooked up to monitors and her vitals seemed fine. Seeing me, she pointedly turned away, focusing on the television again. I waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.