Keeping Him Warm Counted for Something

Chapter 3: The Signature

I called an attorney the morning after Celeste barred me from Julian's room.

The attorney, Dana Price, had represented me during the divorce. She listened while I explained the hospital's decision, then asked me to read every word of the directive aloud.

"It's valid," she said. "Unless there's a later document or evidence that he revoked it."

"Celeste says the circumstances changed."

"Being divorced doesn't automatically cancel an appointment. But his family can still challenge your ability to serve. They'll say your judgment is compromised because you were his wife."

"Was."

"I'm not giving you a prediction. I'm telling you what they'll argue."

I stared through my windshield at the hospital entrance. A nurse wheeled a patient past the glass doors. "What do I do?"

"Get the medical records you're entitled to. Ask for the hospital's written explanation. And don't talk to the press."

"I haven't."

"Keep it that way."

Celeste's lawyer filed a petition two days later asking a judge to appoint her as temporary guardian. The petition described me as an "emotionally involved former spouse whose actions may be driven by unresolved personal attachment." It didn't mention the directive until the final page.

Dana read the filing in her office and tapped a paragraph with her pen. "She's trying to turn your history into evidence against you."

"She's right that I'm attached."

"That doesn't make you incapable. But you should be prepared to explain why you're doing this."

I looked at Julian's handwritten note, now in a clear sleeve on Dana's desk.

"Because he told me to let him have time."

"That's a good answer. We'll need more than one."

I went back to the hospital with a copy of the directive and a written request for access. The administrator who had asked security to stop me met me in a small conference room. He looked tired and uncomfortable.

"We received a formal complaint from the family," he said.

"I'm the named agent."

"Your appointment is being contested."

"By whom?"

"Ms. Vale."

"Does she have a later document?"

He paused. "Not that we've received."

"Then I need to see the treatment plan and talk to his attending physician."

He folded his hands. "I can't give you full access while the matter is under review."

"I'm not asking you to give me access as a favor. I'm asking you to follow the document he signed."

He glanced at the folder, then at me. "I'll have counsel review it."

The hospital's lawyer called that afternoon. He told me I could receive limited updates, but no one would act on my decisions until the court ruled.

It was a small victory. It was also a warning.

I used the limited update to speak with Dr. Lin, Julian's neurologist. She explained that his condition was serious, but not static. He showed small responses to stimulation. The team couldn't predict whether he would wake or what abilities he might regain.

"Does the family want to stop treatment?" I asked.

"They've asked about what a transition to comfort-focused care would involve."

"What did you tell them?"

"That we're not at a point where I can recommend a specific path without a fuller discussion."

I thought of the note in my bag. Ask my doctors what remains possible. Let me have time.

"Has the family told you about this?" I handed Dr. Lin a copy.

She read the page slowly. "I hadn't seen it."

"Can you add it to his chart?"

"I can. I'll also make sure the team knows the agent is disputed."

When I left the hospital, a woman with a camera waited by the entrance. She called my name.

"Ms. Ellis, did you crawl into bed with Julian Vale after his accident?"

The words struck hard because I knew exactly where she had got them.

I didn't stop walking. I didn't answer. I reached my truck and shut the door before I let myself cry.

Celeste had not merely challenged my legal authority. She was building a story in which my care was a performance and my presence was a claim.

I could handle the insult. I could handle the questions.

What I couldn't handle was the possibility that, by staying silent, I'd let them turn Julian's wishes into a family inconvenience.