Page 6 of The Healer

“What the…?” Her garbled words mimicked her confusion.

“Oh, thank God.”

“Gran?” Ilona whipped her head in the direction of the voice, all sounds merging to pulse a pounding headache behind her left eye.

In a chair sat her petite grandmother. Her skin had a parchment appearance, pale and brittle. The bright spots on her cheeks didn’t detract from the tears shimmering in her hazel eyes.

“What’s the matter? Where am I? Is this Amity?”

“There was an accident. A truck driver had a heart attack…” Gran shivered, then staggered to her feet, her gnarled hands gripping the armrests. “My Elise didn’t make it.”

“Mom?” Memories flooded Ilona of her mom’s lifeless eyes. She whimpered, agony sharper than her injuries squeezed her chest, her ribs, then her heart. “D…Dad?”

“He’s in a coma in ICU.”

Like sunlight on a cold day, warmth poured into every dark corner of her soul. Ilona melted into the bed with relief. “Good.”

“He’s stable, but there’s no brain activity.” Gran pinched her lips. “Living will, sweetheart.”

Ilona gasped and chanted a denial, “No. Please, no.” Sorrow strangled her voice. She wailed in silence as tears poured free, burning her cheeks.

“I didn’t need to convince them to let you say goodbye.” Gran’s smile was tremulous. “You know these doctors, nurses. Their hearts are…” She cupped her mouth, muffling a sob.

Ilona unstrapped her drip, slipped the needle out, and tossed it aside. “Have they run all the tests? CT? MRI?”

She flipped the blankets aside and grimaced. Bandages crisscrossed her legs, only then did she register the sting of grazed skin over the rest of her body, as if a thousand fire ants feasted on her flesh.

Gran straightened to her full height of five-foot-three and cupped Ilona’s hand. “You’ll have scars, and a modeling career is no longer an option.” She forced a smile. Ilona grabbed her hand, needing her touch and her core of strength to ground her. “Wearing your seatbelt saved you.”

“Saved me?” Ilona mouthed in disbelief. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed flooded her with weakness, and she swayed where she sat. “Concussion?” She ran her hand along the bandage across her face.

“And a nasty scar from temple to chin.”

“What are you doing, Dr. Devereaux?” Nurse Maddie crossed the room, placed a chart and a stainless steel kidney dish on the table, and crowded Ilona, preventing her from standing. “In you go, my dear.”

“My dad—”

“Isn’t going anywhere. Dr. Fernandez is on his way to chat with you.” She gathered Ilona’s legs by the ankles and tucked her under the blankets. As she worked, her gray bun bobbed, with escaped tendrils swaying across her ears. “I brought you Dr. Strickland’s chart.”

Ilona snatched it, running her bruised finger with its splintered fingernail down the results. Each one confirmed the worst, settling icy dread in the pit of her stomach. She slumped, sliding deeper under the blankets as reality sank in.

“It’s true?” Gran shuffled to the opposite side of the bed.

Maddie reconnected the drip, slipping a filled syringe from a kidney dish to insert into the injection port.

“Yes.” Ilona’s limbs warmed as the analgesics flushed her system, numbing her pain receptors but not the dark hole in her heart.

Time buzzed past. She didn’t stir until Gran kissed her goodbye. Gray shadows tarnished her porcelain skin, and exhaustion slumped her narrow shoulders. Ilona didn’t know what she could say to ease the sorrow twisting Gran’s lips.

She shuffled out of the private suite as Dr. Fernandez strode in. The wind his sharp movements generated whipped his coattails and tousled his salt-and-pepper ebony hair.

“Ah, Ilona, my dear, I’m so sorry.” By far her favorite mentor, his sympathy struck a chord.

An undulating wave of despair curled her fingers into fists—a pointless attempt to hold back the burning in her nostrils. She shouldn’t cry. Tears wouldn’t save her dad. Nothing in known medicine could.

“Let’s have a look at your injuries.” He peeled the bandage away from her face and smiled.

She twisted her lips in wry amusement. “That bad, huh?”

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