Page 4 of Doctor Charmer

“Two victims are still out there. The driver and the coach. She was bleeding profusely but refused treatment. Wouldn’t leave the scene until everyone else in the van was taken care of first.” Ralph provides the backstory for me to prepare.

People high on adrenaline underestimate their injuries in the moment. They ignore symptoms that are time-sensitive and require immediate treatment. Ralph disappears, the slam of the gurney a reminder that any thoughts of a quiet post-holiday evening are long gone.

“You taking the coach?” Dr. Carmichael snickers next to me, familiar with how I run my ER. She was on the floor meeting with Timmy when we received the MVC alert. It quickly became all hands on.

“Yeah, you know me and stubborn women,” I joke with her about our shared history.

“One man’s stubbornness is another man’s determined. Brayton has no issues.” She reminds me of her fiancé, the man she fell in love with and who now shares her bed. They are a perfect couple, and I’m happy she’s found her forever partner.

Angie will take the driver, and I’ll take the coach, who doesn’t follow medical advice. “Page me if there are any complications with the driver. Ralph said he was pinned in the vehicle and had to be extracted by the fire department,” I say to Angie’s back as she takes a step forward, two ambulances racing around the bend.

Angie stands half a head shorter than me and blows into her hands. It’s freezing in the bay, and we ran out with only the protection of our thin lab coats. She pulls up the collar of her white coat and gives me a quick wink. “I’d say the same, but everyone knows Dr. Morgan doesn’t ask for help. He does everything by himself.”

The approaching ambulance’s siren drowns out any opportunity I had for a smart retort. The rear doors swing open,and the chaos returns. Verna shouts from the rear as Angie approaches. “Male, age twenty-four, driver…”

I ignore the rest and stride toward the last ambulance. I smack a hand to the back door just as it snaps open. I expect an attendant to step out but stop when a wave of dark curls steps out. Ice pack pressed to her forehead. The woman shouts back into the rear of the ambulance. “I told you I’m fine. I need to check on my girls and Griffin. They are who matters.”

“Ma’am, wait. You shouldn’t be standing on your own. You blacked out.” Poppy, the attendant, huffs out the frustrated command and shoots me ado you see what I’m dealing withglance.

I step forward, taking our uncooperative patient by her elbow and helping her down from the ambulance. Poppy follows, stepping next to her. “She refused to be strapped to the gurney.”

“Thank you.” The woman directs her comment back toward me as her feet hit the slick pavement. The quick wobble is the first clue that she’s not fine.

“You’re getting on this gurney right now,” I order her, and she snaps her head in my direction. African American, dark skin, curls matted across her head, thick with dark blood. Her sweatshirt is covered in blood, as if she were onstage next to Carrie at the prom. She presses an ice pack to her forehead, which is wrapped tight. The gauze peeking out beneath is crimson red. She is still bleeding, thirty minutes after the accident. “Status,” I bark toward Poppy.

“Ivy Springwood, female, aged thirty-three, front-seat passenger. Head laceration — knocked unconscious at the scene momentarily. Dizziness, elevated blood pressure at the scene, within normal range as of five minutes ago.” She waves a hand toward the bloody sweatshirt the coach is wearing. “She refused initial treatment until the driver was extracted from the vehicle.”

I hold Ivy steady as Poppy and the driver prepare the gurney. She turns to me, the one eye not covered by the ice pack pleading with me to not do what I’m about to do. “Ivy.”

She freezes, her gaze boring into me, assessing me. “Coach Springwood.”

“Coach Springwood.” I keep my voice calm and steady. I won’t know what condition she’s in until I get her into the exam room. I tap the gurney next to us. “You’re safe now, and we’re going to take great care of you. Just focus on my voice, okay? I’m Dr. Morgan. Don’t get distracted by the cape I wear. Just keep those gorgeous eyes on me.” I use charm to distract her from the surrounding chaos, to get her to take a beat and breathe. When I notice her brow furrow, I pivot my approach. “It’s the fastest way to travel. To get you to your girls.” I give her the one reason I know will get her to cooperate.

“Fine.” She hops on and twists to lie flat. As Poppy straps her in, Coach Springwood grabs my forearm. “Right to their rooms, no detours. I’m responsible for them, and they are probably freaking out right now.”

I wait for the click of the strap before shouting my instructions to Nurse Reynolds. “This one goes to room nine.” I turn to her, and she slips her hand into mine. “We’re going to take good care of you.”

Coach Springwood’s eyes lock with mine, filled with suspicion. “You’re not taking me to the girls, are you?”

Her gaze pierces through my intent, so I do the same and let her know I see her, too. “I will, once you are taken care of. I get the sense you don’t allow many people to do that for you.”

“And I get the sense you are used to spewing half-truths to women to get them to do things they don’t want,” she fires back without hesitation, quick and sharp. And she’s right, again.

“Things they should do and will feel better about later,” I feel compelled to respond. She refuses to release my hand as thegurney moves through the bay doors and down the hall, forcing me to tag along.

“I guess you have to believe that. Maybe one day, you’ll learn to listen because most women already know what they want.” Underneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital, I can see her eyes are clear, responsive. No sign of a concussion. I look away when I feel the slight squeeze of her hand, drawing my attention back. The corners of her eyes crinkle with a warmth that was missing a moment ago, and her mouth curves into a slight smile, despite the situation. She’s calm in a crisis, a trait I admire and relate to.

I take the lead and lock the gurney next to the bed in the exam room. “Brace yourself,” I instruct as my team grips the corners of the sheet. “On my count. One… two… three.”

We lift her in a synchronized move worthy of a ballet. One slow day last summer, Nurse Jimenez estimated we perform this maneuver over ten thousand times a year.

“Let’s get that bandage off. I want to see what I’m dealing with.”

I step back as a flurry of hands work efficiently. Bandage removed, monitors attached, her vitals appear on the screens. My hand finds its way back to hers. Her wide eyes snap to mine, seeking reassurance. “It’s going to be okay. We got you, all of you.”

She offers me a fragile smile and exhales. These were the words she needed to hear.

“I’ll get you updates on the others as soon as possible.”

---