Free Imperfect Contract by Gregg E. Brickman Page B

pleaded, and she held firm.  She said the sellers were prepared to close on schedule, and I'd better get a mortgage."
    "Did you mention the promises about interest rate and terms Hutchinson made to you?"
    "Sure I did, but she said it wasn't in writing.  The contract specifies I have to get a mortgage at the prevailing rate.  I didn't put extra stipulations on it."
    "Sounds like you screwed yourself."
    "What do you mean, I screwed myself?  I asked the questions and that frigging Hutchinson told me what I wanted to hear.  He hurried me when it was time to sign, summarized it for me, and said, 'Don't worry.  I'll handle everything.'  He acted real happy and congratulatory."
    "I understand how that can happen.  But Van, you know you have to read everything.  If you don't look out for your own interests, no one else will either."
    "Craig used to read all of that stuff.  He wouldn't give me a chance, said I was too damn dumb.  Guess he was right about that at least."  She put her head in her hands for a moment.  I thought she was going to cry, but she looked at me clear-eyed.
    "Van," I said, "you're as smart as the next one, but you're inexperienced for a woman your age.  You need to get help with the things you don't understand."
    "Now you tell me."  She stuck an end of a napkin into her water glass and reached her long arm across the table.  She worked on my collar a moment.  "Okay, you'll pass for another day."
    "What happened with the mortgage broker?"
    "He's trying.  It looks like I'll have to pay a couple of points more than the prevailing rate.  If I forego a few things, I shouldn't starve to death.  What I'll have to do, I think, is put the house on the market as soon as I own it.  But it's a tough market.  I think that's why my sellers changed their minds and signed."
    "Maybe you need to get a lawyer to check it out."
    "I tried, but they want a couple of hundred dollars an hour.  By the time it's checked out, I'd spend as much money as I would lose walking away from the contract."
    "You're in a bind."  I ate the last bite of bagel.  When I took the last sip of my coffee, I asked, "Vanessa, as angry as you are with Hutchinson and Amelia, shouldn't you excuse yourself from his care?"
    "No, why should I?  I work on the unit, and I didn't invite him.  Why should I disrupt my work life because of him?  Really.  My personal and financial life may be in chaos because of his damned incompetence, but I'm a professional.  I'll take care of him just fine."
    "Point taken," I said, sliding out of the bench.  I wasn't comfortable with it.  She was confused, had been screwed over, though she asked for it, and she was being trapped into a deal because she hadn't read the contract.  And Amelia, for her part, pushed it forward rather than helping out.  
    I went upstairs and found Connie in Hutchinson's room seeing to his needs.  She took him as her assignment when I wasn't working and relieved me for meals or breaks when I was.  She formed emotional attachments to long-term ventilator patients, and Hutchinson was no exception.  Nothing distracted her from the patient's needs. 
    I watched her clean around the tube in his neck then fluff his pillow and put it back under his head.  She spoke to him all the time she touched him, just as we learned in school.  I noticed she'd changed the dressing on his head as well.  The putrid smell in the room had diminished.
    Connie wore a new uniform.  It reminded me of her swimming suit.  Matronly.  It was a jumper with a dropped waist and gathered skirt over a short sleeve pullover.  It came to about three inches over her shapeless ankles and accentuated her broad behind.  When I realized it was new, I touched it, and said, "Nice fabric.  It'll wash well." 
    She beamed and said, "Thank you." 
    I don't think she stopped to think about what I didn't say.
    As Connie finished, Amelia entered the room with a coffee cup in hand.  Perfect, I thought, Vanessa's in