“And you will make sure that those three, in particular, are your priority. Yes.” He sets his jaw, his eyes narrowed, tone firm. It’s a face that brooks no room for disagreement.
I sink back against my seat, my stomach churning. It has nothing to do with the coffee I hastily chugged earlier, and everything to do with how badly these orders sit with me. “Dad…” There’s no way that I can agree to this. Not in good conscience.
When I went to nursing school, it was because I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help people. Not just the people who have a ton of money or who have power and influence. Everyone. Including the ones who need it most.
Before I can protest further, though, Dad makes a left turn, drawing us close enough to pull within sight of the hospital. It towers over the apartment buildings to either side of it, a massive, hulking structure. I spot a cluster of doctors and nurses near the front entrance, on their way in to begin their day. Closer to hand, positioned right beside the street and lit up with at least as many spotlights as the OR itself, stands an enormous billboard with our last name emblazoned on it.
Thomas Cuthbert Owens General Hospital.
The hospital is family-owned, after all, passed down through generations from my great-great grandfather, who named the building after his father (or so he claimed, anyway—they had the same name, so I like to tell myself it was his excuse for being able to name a huge city hospital after himself). Now Dad, better known as Dr. John Owens, owns the place. Though, to judge by how it’s still run, like an antiquated old guard monolith, you’d think nothing much had improved except for surgical techniques since his great-grandpa’s day.
We pull past the drive, and we’ve barely made it to the front doors before Dad’s assistant leaps forward, the same way he does every morning.
“Dr. Owens.” He actually bows when Dad opens his door. You can’t make this shit up. “Today’s briefing,” he announces, withdrawing a tablet from his inside coat pocket while Dad passes over his keys.
I undo my seatbelt and slip out of the car, my folder full of marching orders tucked under my arm, while Dad’s assistant reads him the business of the day. A lot of meetings, from the sound of it, and some complaints from the board of directors that Dad will need to address.
I’m turning away already, heading for the large double doors, when Dad calls after me.
“One moment. We weren’t finished with our conversation, Maggie.”
I grit my teeth and stop, right beside the sliding glass doors. They whir open to admit a pair of surgeons and a nurse, all chatting happily, one laughing. I envy them. They don’t have the hospital owner breathing down their necks, demanding impossible, unethical tasks from them.
“Yes?” I ask, plastering on my best faux polite smile. Over Dad’s shoulder, I watch his assistant pull away from the curb in the car, off to go park it in Dad’s place of honor right next to the main entrance. Because Dad was too lazy to even pull the car ten more feet over to his own parking spot and then walk back to the doors.
And he calls me spoiled.
“I want to hear you say it,” Dad says, stopping beside the sliding doors, close enough that they whir open and shut in a stuttering rhythm, every time Dad shifts on his feet. Which he does, staring me down, willing me to relent.
“I’ll give those patients the attention they need,” I reply cagily.
“Maggie.”
“Dad. I know you want to keep the board happy, and I understand that you don’t want your son’s friend to be neglected. But I’m a nurse. I took this job to help people. I’m going to take care of all of my patients. Equally.”
“Do you like your position?” Dad tilts his head to one side, his eyes flashing. “Do you want to stay in this hospital? Because this is the kind of work it takes.”
“No!” I blurt out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to be halfway around the world where all my friends are, doing some actual good.”
“Margaret Owens,” he says, my full name. That means trouble.
But I’m already storming away, too furious to play pretend right now. Maybe once I calm down, take a few deep breaths, I can go back and simper and pretend to agree to his rules. But right now, I need to clear my head.
“You look after those patients,” he calls after me. “You’ll do as I say or missing out on your friends’ vacation will be the least of your worries.”
Vacation. The word rankles, along with everything else about Dad’s attitude. Like my friends are just off galivanting around the world enjoying themselves, instead of risking their lives in dangerous situations, trying their best to do some good. I ball my fists so tightly that my nails dig into my palms. Screw Dad’s oblivious attitude. And screw his marching orders. I’m not putting up with it, not today.