Page 56 of Doctor Second Chance

I hesitate, but something in her motherly gaze breaks my resolve. "I screwed up, Marijka. With Elle."

"The hand surgery patient? You two did seem quite chummy. She’s an ex or something from your past, right? What happened?"

I unload it all—seeing the man in Elle's room, assuming it was her boyfriend, avoiding her, a hundred miles an hour to zero. Marijka listens, her eyes narrowing.

"You're acting like a pussy," she says bluntly. “The Dr. D I know doesn’t make assumptions and slink away from an unknown cockblock. You don't know who that man was. Could've been her brother, for all you know."

I wince. She's right, of course. And it’s the same advice, essentially, that Buster gave me. Obviously, I know it isn’t her brother; she doesn’t have one. But he could be any number of things, including a lover, sure, but that isn’t the only possibility.

I can’t figure out my deal with just addressing it with her. It’s like I have this fear to ask her. Or, maybe it’s a fear about myself, what learning that he is her lover might do to me.

"You owe it to Elle to talk to her," Marijka continues. "Especially after bringing up dating. Don't assume. Communicate.”

Marijka has a way with words—blunt, to the point, and usually laced with profanity. You would think a woman in her sixties who has spent her life as a nurse caring for other people would have a little more bedside manner when dealing with people.

"But what if she refuses to talk?" I ask, hating how uncertain I sound. She’s right, I’m being a complete pussy.

Marijka fixes me with a stern look. "Then you explain yourself anyway. She deserves that much. Then you’re not in your office throwing a perfectly good mouse and sulking around like a love-sick teenager.“

I nod, feeling a mix of dread and determination. "You're right. Thanks, Marijka. I needed some of that Mama Bear tough love.”

She pats my shoulder. "That's what I'm here for. Now go fix this mess before I have to knock some sense into you."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I walk back towards Elle's room. At this hour, the hospital corridors are eerily quiet, and most of the rooms are dark and still. My footsteps echo softly on the polished floor, each step bringing me closer to a conversation I'm both dreading and desperate to have.

As I approach her door, I notice the TV is off now. It was on just fifteen minutes ago when I last stopped by, so she can't be that far asleep yet. I have to talk to her. If I don't do it now, I may lose my nerve.

My heart pounds against my ribcage, a thunderous rhythm that seems to drown out all other sounds. I wipe my palms on my scrubs, surprised to find them damp with nervous sweat.

I raise my hand to knock, hesitating for a moment. What if she's asleep? What if she doesn't want to see me? The doubts swirl in my mind, but I push them aside.

My knuckles rap softly on the door before I can talk myself out of it. I slide the door open, peering into the mostly black room, illuminated only by the nurse's computer and the machines monitoring her heart and breathing. My mouth feels dry, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak.

"Elle?" I whisper, stepping inside. "Are you awake?”

An old episode of Matlock is on, and the speaker is barely audible.

My heart is racing so fast that I wonder if she can hear it. I feel like a teenager again, nervous and unsure, not the confident surgeon I should be right now. Doctors come into patients’ rooms at all hours, checking, monitoring, and waking them. But she isn't a patient, and this isn't a doctor's call.

I walk around to the other side of the bed where Elle has turned. Pulling up the chair— the same one I saw that man sitting in—I lower myself to her eye level. Her eyes are wide open. She is definitely awake. She watches me, and though she doesn't speak, I sense a tiny lifeline in her gaze.

She doesn't say no, so I jump in, worried that if I don't do it now, I never will have the guts again.

"Elle," I say softly. "Can you give me two minutes to speak? If you still want me to leave after that, I will."

She doesn't respond verbally, but her eyes don't leave mine. I take a deep breath, knowing I'm on borrowed time.

"I'm sorry I haven't been by in the last few days," I begin. "I came to see you at the end of the day you woke up and saw a man here with you. I... I felt jealous and angry. I assumed he was your boyfriend or lover or whatever. It doesn't matter. I reverted to some wounded version of myself and handled it poorly."

Still nothing, so I keep going.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of my next words. "There's been a situation with Ari, Opie's mom. As I'm sure you remember, she's been missing. While you were in a coma, I found out she was in the hospital in Houston, also in a coma. The house she was staying in had an oak tree fall on it during the storm, and it landed on her. On her head."

"Oh, God," she finally responds. I should have led with this story.

"I think it was the day after you woke up that she had brain activity for the first time, so it has been an emotional week or so, mainly because I don't want Opie to lose his mom."

"Of course. I'm so glad for him."

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