Cheating to Survive (Fix It or Get Out) by Christine Ardigo Page B

glare.
    He slanted in again. “I could be as gentle or as rough as you like my little Libra.” Silvatri strutted away never glancing back, his mystique left her pinned to the wall.
    Maddie slithered by and gobbled her up.
    Heather unlocked her feet, shuffled down the hall, then once she reached the far end of the corridor, dashed up the stairs to the top landing in a chemically altered state. Looks like she’d be late for their meeting.

     
     

Chapter 8
Catherine
    Catherine squirmed in her chair and picked at her cuticles. At 9:59a.m., she sucked in her bottom lip and bit down until certain it would slice off. Victoria scribbled on a yellow, lined notepad but crossed off more words then she kept. Heather absent, and it was unlike her to be late since she usually secured the chair directly across from Jean, probably to intimidate her. It made Catherine more nervous.
    The door flung open but this time it wedged securely into the sheetrock. Jean attempted to pry it loose but the image of an obese woman in a strawberry-milkshake colored smock grasping and pulling on a door handle was comical. Catherine’s breathing slowed and eased, her tension loosened.
    Heather entered, not realizing Jean was to her left. She sauntered to the right to her usual seat, with an enormous grin on her face. “Where’s the ogre?” Heather began. “Eating herself to death?”
    Catherine and Victoria cringed, neither spoke. Catherine’s heartbeat soared, thumping faster than previously. She pinched her eyes shut and clasped the middle of her yellow flowered skirt.
    Heather pulled out her chair, still unaware. She flopped securely into her seat and met Jean’s gaze as well as the acid that poured from her eyes. A smirk appeared on one side of Heather’s face. It was slight, but Catherine picked it up immediately.
    Jean let go of the door handle and stepped toward her podium, a new addition to the conference room after Jean snapped off an arm on the chair she tried to sit in. She positioned her loose papers on the podium. The now unresponsive room echoed the volume of Catherine’s heartbeat.
    “Heather,” Jean shuffled her papers, “I have been asked by the hospital’s administrative staff to host a catering event for its board members to promote our new patient-centered care initiative.” She scowled at Heather, her enormous chest rose and fell like an accordion. “You,” Jean paused, “will be at my side for the entire event.”
    Any remaining upturn of Heather’s mouth dove along with her forehead. Heather’s leg flinched under the table.
    “Victoria, would you like to explain to them what patient-centered care is?”
    Catherine knew as much as the rest of them what it was. Jean’s ignorance became more evident as Catherine grew to know her. This was Jean’s way of learning something without admitting she was oblivious.
    Victoria tilted her head toward Heather and rolled her eyes. “It’s when a patient’s culture, personal preferences and family situations are taken into account when making clinical decisions. Instead of the traditional ‘I know what’s best for you’ approach, we take patient’s lifestyles into consideration; abide by what patients are willing to do.”
    Jean stared at Victoria. For a good fifteen seconds. The information processing and formulating inside her brain. “Yes, that is correct, Victoria.” Jean rolled her neckless head back to Heather. “We’ll meet in my office every Wednesday at eleven o’clock to discuss the particulars. We have a lot of work to do.”
    Bile built up under Catherine’s tongue. She swallowed it, preventing herself from vomiting. Glad it wasn’t her. Heather deserved it.
    ****
    Tuesday, on Catherine’s day off after working the weekend, Peter woke and took his shower. The sound of the water spray lulled her deeper into sleep. She felt his presence float in and out of the room, into the closet, back into the bathroom. She vaguely heard Peter mumble something but