Page 39 of Dr. Brandt

“And just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “the lights come on, the doctor is in, and my work here is done. Good luck in getting that surgery scheduled, my man.”

Jake practically skipped out of the room, leaving me standing there and shaking my head. Now that my head was out of the clouds and I was grounded, I knew exactly why Jake was here. Word spreads quickly when you lose a patient and even faster when you go MIA. If it weren’t Jake, who was free when he got word I’d lost a patient, Collin would’ve been in here with some pointless conversation, trying to get me to stop replaying the surgery over and over.

I had to give the man some credit, though. He managed to snap me out of it.

Now, I needed to focus on the next patient, and that was my boy. He needed this surgery, and I wanted to know what Jessa and Jackson thought of their visit with Lisa. Were they on track to make a decision, or were we going to load up in Jim Mitchell’s private jet and set off to Monterey to watch whales and shit?

Chapter Nineteen

Jessa

I pulled on my sweater, loving the West Coast weather more than I cared to admit. Well, Southern California’s coastal weather, anyway. There was virtually no humidity, just brisk temperatures and light, breezy air.

It was quite a stark contrast from what I was used to in Manhattan during the late August months, which consisted of humid temperatures, and me begging for the sultry summer to end quickly. Fall in New York was my favorite time of year; not too hot and not too cold. That was the perfect weather to wear the sweater I was pulling on, and lucky me, in this part of the country, I got to wear it mid-summer in the evening.

It was the little things. And that’s what I was focusing on these days, the little things and finding joy in them. Like this silly brown cashmere sweater that absolutely did not go with the current season—and most certainly did not go with the fashion of Southern California—but it brought a smile to my face, and that’s all that mattered.

Smiling these days felt like a bit of a struggle since getting slapped in the face with the reality my son was facing, but I hid my emotions from my very observant son. Then, last night, I heard him crying in his room. It was to be expected, though. We’d met with Lisa that morning and didn’t talk much about it after we left the hospital.

I had heard him crying after I’d finished drying up tears of my own. The sad part was that we were both afraid to show emotion to the other, which I knew wasn’t good. We needed to come together to work through our fears and reservations. We wouldn’t be able to make a sound decision—or any decision at all—if we didn’t.

Again, I wanted to text Warren for some advice but knew it was best to leave him alone. I’m the one who decided to go this route, making my own decisions on behalf of my son and me. Besides, I had Dr. Palmer’s number, Lisa’s number, Lisa’s mom’s number—though I’d never met her—and the obvious number, Cameron’s, if I needed any help or advice.

“Mom?” I heard Jackson call. I saved my work and sent the final transcript that Warren needed for his afternoon meeting today. It was seven-thirty in the morning in California, and given that my new boss was three hours ahead of me, my workdays started early and ended early.

“Mother?” Jackson said. He seemed to be in good spirits this morning, a big change from when I held him last night and let him cry into my shoulder.

“Yep, yeah?” I said, sending off the last email to Warren’s secretary and turning back to see Jackson wearing his favorite Knicks jersey. “Is there another game tonight?” I questioned.

“Nah.” He playfully tugged on my ponytail. “This jersey just puts me in an unbeatable mood. That’s why it’s my good luck shirt,” he said. “Is there breakfast?”

“Oh crap,” I said, pushing back and standing up. “I’ll fry some eggs.”

“No biggie,” he said. “I can do it.”

“Jacks, let me make breakfast,” I said, hurrying into the kitchen.

I snatched the spatula out of his hand and was shocked when he turned and looked at me with frustration.

“Why would you do that?”

“Do what?” I said, grabbing the eggs from the fridge and bending to grab a skillet from the cabinet.

“Take this from me.”

“Jacks?” I questioned. He was pissed, and I couldn’t understand why.

“Pretty soon, I won’t have use of my right hand. Don’t you think I should enjoy it while I still can use the fucking thing?”

“I—Jacks,” I started, not knowing how to respond. I stood there, my heart racing and breaking simultaneously. The thought never even occurred to me.

“It’s fine. Just make breakfast and call me down when it’s ready.” He turned and left before I could say anything.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I felt selfish for not considering what my son was dealing with. Maybe if I weren’t so in my head all fucking day, I’d know my son was just putting on a brave face, knowing that his life is about to be changed forever. Oh, my God. I need help with this!

And as if God answered me in that split second, my phone rang.

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