Chapter 3 - THE CALLS TO THE PEDIATRICIAN
Juniper’s pulmonologist was Dr. Nolan Reeves.
He called me personally the next morning.
“I owe you an explanation.”
I sat at my kitchen table with Juniper asleep upstairs.
She had been discharged after midnight.
Breathing comfortably.
New rescue inhaler.
New spacer.
Written follow-up.
No contact with Tabitha pending police and child-services review.
Orson also excluded for now because we did not understand his role.
Willa was allowed to visit only after I asked Juniper if she wanted her.
She did.
“Tell me about the calls,” I said.
Nolan pulled the chart.
Eight months ago:
Caller identified as Tabitha Voss, paternal aunt and emergency contact.
Report:
Juniper arrived at grandfather’s house without rescue inhaler.
Question:
What should caregiver do?
Office advised:
Use backup medication if available; seek urgent care if symptoms develop; father should maintain rescue inhaler with child.
Six months ago:
Another call.
Same claim.
Four months:
“Corbin has again left Juniper without her inhaler.”
Three months:
“Can we document repeated noncompliance?”
I stopped him.
“What?”
Nolan’s voice changed.
“That note is why I’m upset.”
“Who asked?”
“Tabitha.”
“What did staff say?”
“That any medical concerns could be documented, but we don’t make custody conclusions.”
Custody.
The word landed.
“Did she say why she needed documentation?”
“She said family was worried about your travel schedule.”
I stood.
Walked to the counter.
Back.
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“We should have.”
He did not hide behind policy.
“Your number remained primary. But the calls were framed as same-day caregiver questions. A nurse responded. They were not routed as allegations against you until the last note.”
“What happened then?”
“I instructed staff to discuss concerns with you at next appointment.”
“When was that?”
“Scheduled next month.”
Too late.
Not malicious.
System weakness.
Then Nolan said:
“I reviewed medication refill data.”
“What?”
“Your insurer shares dispensing history.”
“Okay.”
“Your refill pattern is appropriate.”
There.
No evidence I chronically failed to obtain medicine.
“Could Tabitha pick up inhalers?”
“Not through us. Pharmacy may allow pickup if a person has enough patient information.”
True.
Medication pickup does not usually require being the prescriber or guardian if the pharmacy releases to authorized individuals depending policy.
I called the pharmacy.
Manager reviewed records after verifying identity.
Two rescue inhalers had been picked up by someone other than me.
Signatures:
T. Voss.
Tabitha.
“How?”
“She had the patient name, date of birth, address, prescription number.”
“Was she authorized?”
“Our policy allows pickup unless restricted.”
I had never restricted.
Another assumption.
One of those inhalers was the replacement I thought I misplaced at Orson’s house.
Tabitha picked it up the next day.
Why?
Maybe she was helping.
Maybe.
Then Detective Rowan arrived.
Search warrant?
Not yet.
Voluntary requests first.
Tabitha had retained counsel.
She denied intentionally worsening Juniper’s asthma.
Her statement:
She occasionally removed the inhaler because Juniper “uses it too quickly when anxious.”
No medical authority.
She claimed Orson agreed.
Orson’s statement?
Different.
He admitted seeing her hide it twice.
Why allow?
“She said Corbin was teaching Juniper dependence.”
My father had believed that?
Rowan said:
“He also says Tabitha told him you were planning to move.”
I went still.
“How does that relate?”
“He didn’t explain.”
I had been planning to move.
Not secretly.
Voss Commercial Recovery had opened a Denver office.
I had considered relocating after Juniper finished preschool.
Better air quality? Not necessarily. Denver altitude can complicate asthma; not ideal. Let's choose Portland, Oregon? Pollen and wildfire smoke too. Maybe Boston? Hmm. Need not tie health. Let's say Charlotte, North Carolina. But then family fears distance. Could be.
I had accepted a twelve-month assignment in Raleigh to build a new regional team.
Not finalized move.
Juniper and I would relocate after summer if school and pulmonologist approved.
My father hated it.
Tabitha hated it more.
“You’re taking her away from the only family she has,” she told me once.
Juniper’s mother, Mara, died in a car crash when Juniper was eighteen months old.
Afterward Tabitha became deeply involved.
Too involved maybe.
At the time I was grateful.
She learned bottle schedules.
Preschool forms.
Asthma plan.
Mara had first noticed Juniper’s recurrent wheeze before she died.
Tabitha helped me through the diagnosis later.
I trusted her.
That made the missing inhalers worse.
Then Rowan handed me a copy of one of Willa’s older videos.
Easter.
Juniper coughing near a patio door.
Tabitha holding the inhaler behind her back.
Orson says:
“Give it to her.”
Tabitha:
“She needs to show Corbin what happens when he leaves.”
My throat tightened.
“What happens?”
Not:
What happens without medicine.
What happens when he leaves.
Rowan paused.
“Your father remembers a conversation after that.”
“What?”
“Tabitha said if there were enough documented episodes, someone would finally take your travel seriously.”
“Someone?”
“He says she did not name them.”
The word remained vague.
Someone.
A doctor?
Judge?
Child services?
Family?
Then Rowan added:
“We found one more thing in the pediatric chart.”
“What?”
“Three weeks ago Tabitha asked the office for copies of Juniper’s urgent-care visits.”
“Did they give them?”
“No. She lacked authorization.”
“Why did she want them?”
“She said she was preparing a ‘family safety file.’”
The phrase meant nothing to me.
But Willa had heard it before.
When I called, she went silent.
Then:
“She has a binder.”
“What binder?”
“Blue. Thick. She brought it to your dad’s house last month.”
“What was inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Dad?”
Willa whispered:
“I think so.”
May you like
And suddenly my father’s silence at the party looked less like confusion—
and more like a man who had already seen the plan on paper.
