Page 24 of What's Left of Us

Finally, after another five minutes, my doctor knocks on the door and walks in.

Dr. Lucero gives me a withered smile, extending his hand toward me to shake. “Good to see you, Lincoln,” he greets, dropping my hand, sitting, and rolling his stool over to me. He scans his badge at the computer to sign in and clicks a few buttons. “Although, I’d rather see you on the golf course or anywhere else if I’m being honest.”

“You and me both.” I chuckle halfheartedly. “Maybe you can help me get back to the country club. My swing needs some work. Heard you play a hell of a game, so I could use some pointers.”

Buttering him up certainly can’t hurt, and I’m willing to do what I need to for him to sign off on my paperwork. I woke up today with a purpose, and dammit, I was going to accomplish that. His signature is a big step in the direction I need to get back to work full-time. I need to be hands-on again, taking pictures and searching crime scenes for evidence. Interviewing witnesses and suspects. Not helping my coworkers with their paperwork or making phone calls to the DA’s office about cases I couldn’t give less of a shit about.

“My handicap isn’t what it used to be,” he admits, still smiling. “But I haven’t lost it yet. One day, we’ll have to go out together.”

One day. Meaning not now. “Is that your way of saying things haven’t been healing the way they should be?”

Dr. Lucero’s smile doesn’t go anywhere. “I wouldn’t say that necessarily. The wound itself has healed quite nicely, but the MRI scan you had done a few days ago showed that the muscles surrounding it are struggling to recover the way we’d hoped.”

My eyebrow twitches. “What does that mean? You said before that full recovery usually takes three months. It’s been five, doc. Almost six. I did physical therapy when you asked. I took it as easy as I could until my parents drove me mad. I’m in pain, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was. That has to mean something.”

Lucero pats my leg before standing and moving the gown off to the side to get a better look at the ugly scar mere inches from my heart. Everybody who saw me in the hospital when I was admitted after the incident said I was lucky, but I knew whatmost of them didn’t—that somewhere else in the hospital was a cop in a body bag.

Don’t go.

“Our concern is that the muscles may never return to their full functionality. It’s not impossible, given the extent of the injury. The bullet caused a significant amount of damage when it entered—”

“I know where it entered and the damage it caused,” I cut him off angrily. “What I want to know is when I can get signed off to go back to work. Are you telling me this is going to make that harder?”

Dr. Lucero pauses, giving the injury one last look, before putting the gown back into place and sitting. “Do you want me to be blunt with you?” he asks. When I nod once, he sits up straighter and says, “Considering this isn’t your dominant arm, I can’t give a clear reason why youcan’tgo back to work. Eventually.”

Hope has my shoulders easing, but the look on his face tells me not to get ahead of myself.

“However,” he adds, eyeing me, “there can be permanent damage in your left arm if you don’t consider more physical therapy or even another surgery.”

The answer comes easy. “No.”

“Lincoln—”

“In the last five and a half months, I’ve had three surgeries. If I didn’t have good health insurance, I’d be in massive debt right now that I wouldn’t even be able to pay off because I haven’t been able to work the entire time.” I grip my knees. “Doc, I need to get back to work. I don’t want to be sitting behind a desk or picking up lunch orders or helping with inventory. I’m losing my mind there.”

Sympathy masks his face. “I know it’s frustrating—”

“You’re damn right it is! This is mylife. I’ve been fucked enough over the past few years. I don’t need any more bullshit that takes away the one thing I have left.”

He doesn’t flinch at my raised voice or try telling me what I want to hear. Instead, he dips his chin in acknowledgment and tells me the facts. “I can’t sign off on your paperwork until you pass your physical. Once you do that, I have no reason to hold you back. I want you to get back to normal, Lincoln. I do. You deserve it. But I need to make sure that I’m not putting you, or anybody else, at risk by not doing my job and making sure you’re good enough to go back one hundred percent.”

As much as I hate it, I know he’s right. If I were him, I’d do the same thing. If he signs off on false pretenses and I get into an altercation that gets anyone hurt because I’m unable to perform basic maneuvers, it’ll fall back on him as much as me. “So, when can I get the physical scheduled?”

Dr. Lucero stands. “You can make an appointment at the front desk when you leave. But I really do suggest at least another month of physical therapy.”

Sliding off the table, I peel off the gown and put my shirt back on. “No offense, doc, but I’ve done enough therapy for a lifetime. Not sure how much more of that I can take either.”

“It’s for your benefit,” he reminds me. “But I can’t and won’t force you to do what you don’t want to. Just remember what I advised you.”

The stiff nod is all he gets in reply, earning me a saddened smile as he scans me. He’s known me for a long time—almost my entire career in law enforcement when my last doctor moved out of state with his family. He knows I love what I do and need it in my life right now.

But that doesn’t stop him from saying the same thing he’s told me once before. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but retiring early is an option too. I know you said you weregiven the paperwork. I could write you a letter that backs up the medical necessity if the time comes.”

The suggestion isn’t as insulting coming from him as it was my boss back when I had little hope of recovering. But I’m not nearly as bad as I was then. There’s still hope.

“I’m not you,” I answer stiffly, grabbing my wallet and phone from the counter and sliding them into my back pocket.

“No,” he agrees, opening the door. “No, you’re not.”

---