Page 33 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

Chapter Thirty

Jason

This is so fucked up.

It’s Saturday, and the hospital has convened a special board meeting to deal with me. With my surgery. Because they don’t think I’m mentally fit to handle it.

What a fucking crock.

I dress in a pair of navy slacks and a crisp white shirt. No tie, because ties make me want to strangle someone. Kind of fitting for today’s proceeding.

The boardroom is on the sixth floor, as far removed from life-and-death situations as possible.

It’s all pristine glass and sleek chrome adorned with uninteresting paintings that look like giant blurs of something no one wants to see.

Abstracts. Modern art. It’s all crap. The hospital probably paid some pompous artist millions for them—money that could have gone toward saving lives.

I wish I were anywhere but here.

But if I want my surgery, I’m going to have to prove to these self-important asses that I’m mentally and emotionally capable of handling it.

Why wouldn’t I be?

Only my entire life was stolen from me three years ago.

And these people want to steal my only opportunity for getting part of it back.

I recognize the chief of surgery, Dr. Peter Bailey, and the CEO and president of the hospital, Dr. Roger Stanich. I recognize the faces of the two other board members present, but I can’t recall their names. I guess they didn’t need to convene the entire board for this.

It’s only my life, after all.

Also seated at the table are my doctors, Louisa Matthews and Gita Patel, alongside my former psychiatrist, Dr. Vanessa Morgan.

Why the hell is she here? She’s responsible for my wife’s death.

One more woman is seated next to Dr. Morgan, and she looks slightly familiar to me. She’s older, with graying blond hair, a slightly wrinkled but still beautiful face, and striking green eyes even brighter than my own.

“Welcome, Dr. Lansing.” Dr. Bailey stands and gestures. “Please have a seat.”

“We don’t need to stand on ceremony, Pete,” I say dryly, taking the seat at the foot of the table.

Peter sits opposite me at the head, with Dr. Stanich and the other board members to his right, and my doctors plus the familiar-looking woman to his left.

“Let me make introductions just as a formality,” Peter says.

“Dr. Stanich, our CEO and president, and board members Dr. Lisa Frohike and Mr. James Pigg, president of Long Pharmaceuticals here in Boulder. On my left, of course, are Drs. Matthews and Patel, Dr. Vanessa Morgan, and our former board member who we’ve asked to join us, Dr. Melanie Steel. ”

I catch myself before my jaw drops.

No wonder she looks familiar.

Not only is Dr. Steel one of the most preeminent psychiatrists in Colorado—hell, in the whole country—she’s also Angie Simpson’s aunt.

What the hell is she doing here?

Angie said yesterday she was in town…

Did Angie somehow put her aunt up to this?

No, she couldn’t have.

“Good morning,” I say. “It’s nice to see all of you.”

Did that sound sincere?

Probably not.

Peter clears his throat. “As you know, Dr. Lansing, we’re here to make a decision about whether to allow Dr. Patel to perform the experimental nerve graft on your right hand at this facility.”

I nod. “I’ve already consented to the procedure, and Drs. Matthews and Patel have been forthcoming about all the risks.”

“One of which is the possibility of you losing all function in your right hand,” Peter says.

I grit my teeth but manage a fake smile. “I read the informed consent, Peter.”

“We know you have,” Dr. Stanich interrupts, leaning back in his chair, “but the board feels it necessary to ensure, given your past medical history, that you fully understand the potential consequences.”

I meet his gaze, remaining steady. I will not let their words undermine me. They’re not concerned about my past medical history. They’re concerned about the losses I’ve endured. Why not just say it?

I draw in a breath. “I’m not asking for any guarantees. Just the chance to regain what was taken from me.”

Dr. Frohike leans forward, tapping her pen against the notepad in front of her. “That’s precisely why we’re here, Dr. Lansing,” she says calmly. “We need to ascertain whether you are prepared mentally and emotionally for this change, given your history.”

I can’t help scoffing. “I lost the use of my hand in an automobile accident that took the life of my daughter. Then my wife took her own life a few months later. And you”—I point to Dr. Morgan—“said you could help her. That you could help me . Why is this quack even here?”

“With all due respect, Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Morgan says, “you and your wife didn’t complete?—”

“Leave it, Vanessa,” Dr. Stanich says. “We’ve all seen the records.”

Of course they have. Because privacy doesn’t exist here. HIPAA means nothing. This is all a “consult.” Board business.

Psychiatry is quackery.

How I want to say the words.

But that won’t help my cause.

“It won’t change anything,” I say sharply. “And neither will all this. Can we just get to the point, please?”

Peter nods. “All right, Dr. Lansing. The board has thoroughly analyzed your medical and psychological records. We have concerns about the potential impact of the surgery on your mental health, particularly given the trauma you’ve experienced from the loss of your family.”

“My mental health is none of your concern anymore,” I retort. “The trauma I’ve experienced doesn’t invalidate my right to regain what I lost, Doctor. And I don’t see how it relates to this.”

Dr. Morgan opens her mouth but then closes it after a gesture from Dr. Steel.

“Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Steel says, “I don’t know you. I’d like to, if you’re open to it. The board has asked me to assess your mental health with regard to the trauma you’ve experienced and how it might relate to this experimental surgery should it fail.”

“I see no reason to talk to yet another therapist,” I say.

“I understand,” Dr. Steel replies, her voice even and nonconfrontational. “This isn’t about therapy, though. It’s about understanding your capacity to handle the potential outcomes of this operation.”

“You think I can’t?” I shoot back, my patience wearing thin.

“I have no opinion on the matter,” she says gently. “I don’t know you. The board simply wants to ensure that you’re adequately prepared for all scenarios, good or bad.”

“Your concerns are noted,” I reply tersely. “But let me make myself perfectly clear. I am willing to take any risks associated with this surgery if it means regaining some semblance of my old life. So can we move along?”

The room goes quiet as everyone exchanges glances.

Dr. Stanich finally breaks the silence.

“Very well,” he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “You have two choices, Dr. Lansing. You can meet with Dr. Steel, and if she believes you are mentally fit to handle the surgery, the hospital will allow Dr. Patel and her team to perform it here.”

“What’s my other choice?”

“Find another hospital,” he says.

My jaw tightens. The audacity of him—of them —to tell me that I have to jump through their hoops or find another hospital, like it’s as simple as changing clothes. This is the best facility in Colorado, a top hospital in the country with state-of-the-art equipment. I trained here, practiced here.

“Is that a threat, Roger?” I ask, my voice low.

“It’s not a threat,” Dr. Stanich says calmly. “It’s your choice.”

“Your free will, Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Frohike adds.

“Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Stanich says. “This isn’t about punishing you. It’s about making sure that we’re acting in your best interest.”

I scoff at his words. My best interest. As if any of them could truly understand what that is.

“One shrink couldn’t help me.” I glare at Dr. Morgan. “What makes you think another one can?”

Dr. Steel folds her hands on the table before her, those bright-green eyes of hers meeting mine. “There are no guarantees, Dr. Lansing,” she says, her voice calm. “And I am not here to ‘help’ you in the general sense of the word. I’m here to make an assessment, nothing more.”

“Your opinion could block my surgery,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Only if I believe it’s not in your best interest,” she replies.

My best interest—that seems to be today’s catchphrase.

I look at each face around the table, one by one. They’re not individuals to me. They’re a tribunal passing judgment.

“I’ll tell you what’s in my best interest.” I stand abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “ My best interest is reclaiming my life, my career—whatever remains of it.”

“And what if you can’t?” Dr. Steel’s words slice through the tension in the room, her tone still even. “What if, despite your surgeon’s best efforts, the surgery fails? Can you handle that?”

“Are you implying that I’m too weak to handle failure?” I snap back.

“No,” she answers calmly. “I’m asking if you’re prepared for it.”

“Preparation has nothing to do with it,” I scoff. “None of us is ever truly prepared for anything.”

“Perhaps,” she concedes. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. And that’s all we’re asking of you, Dr. Lansing. To try.”

I ball my hands into fists. The arrogance of these people, thinking they can tell me what’s best for me.

“I don’t need to try.” I scowl. “I am ready. Completely and utterly ready.”

Dr. Steel leans back in her chair, studying me with her thoughtful green eyes. “Are you ready to live with the possible consequences, though? If it fails, if it causes more harm? Can you handle that?”

I grit my teeth and hold her gaze. “I’m not afraid of the consequences.”

A silence descends upon the room, heavy and thick.

Peter clears his throat, breaking the tension. “Dr. Lansing, we understand how desperate you are for a second chance, but desperation can cloud judgment.”

I shoot him a nasty look. “Are you implying that my judgment is impaired?”

“No one’s implying anything,” Dr. Frohike interjects. “These are just precautions we have to take to ensure everyone’s safety.”

“Everyone’s safety ,” I echo mockingly, “or the hospital’s reputation?”

“That is not fair, Jason,” Peter retorts, a harsh edge to his voice. “This is not about our reputation. This is about you, your health, and your well-being.”

“Is it?” I shoot back, my blood boiling at their condescension. “Or is it just another way to cover your backs? Just in case the ‘world-renowned surgeon’ fails?”

“Dr. Lansing,” Dr. Steel says, her tone still annoyingly diplomatic, “nobody here doubts the strength of your resolve or your right to pursue this procedure. And we certainly don’t doubt Dr. Patel’s skills.

We are merely trying to ensure that you take the step with an understanding of all possible outcomes. ”

“You think I haven’t thought about the possibilities?” I snap back.

“I’m sure you have,” she replies calmly. “But have you truly prepared yourself for them? Even the worst ones?”

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to still the whirlpool of emotions threatening to spill over.

“I’ve lived with the worst outcomes already,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“I lost my family, my career is in shambles, and every day is a constant reminder of what I used to be.” I meet Dr. Morgan’s gaze with daggers in my eyes.

“ You were supposed to help my wife. And she killed herself. She’s dead because of you.

And I won’t leave my fate in another psychiatrist’s hands. ”

I walk out of the room, rage boiling inside me.

And I know exactly where I need to go.