Page 17 of The Potter

Twisting the handle, I open the door and force out a smile at the woman sitting atop the table. “Ms. Sims,” I greet her, extending my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The skin on her cheeks reddens, darkening the rigid flesh there. “You’re um…” She shakes her head. “I mean, it’s very nice to meet you, too. I’ve been looking forward to this appointment for a long time.”

Unfortunately, she’s not the only one.

The knot in my stomach tightens, strangling me from the inside out.

“So, tell me,” I try for a change of subject, “how you’ve been since,” I glance at her chart, “the infection.”

Like with most burns, infections are common. In Ms. Sims’s case, she had consistent bouts of them, requiring debridement of her wounds and many painful surgeries. She’s had several months now being infection-free, which is why she’s here.

“I’ve been great.” Her face brightens as she begins to fill me in on all her accomplishments amidst the infections and setbacks she’s had this year. “I can’t wait to get back to the old me!”

But that’s just the thing, I can never give them back what they had.

The “old them” is gone in the same way that the old me is, too.

I take a step closer, taking her hand. “I can’t promise the old you, but I can promise a new you.”

Ms. Sims’s chin quivers, and I know she’s letting that blow sink in. Back to the time when she was scar-free—when the only worry was a rogue gray hair and fine lines. Tears well in her eyes as she fights them off, squeezing my hand tightly. “Anything is better than seeing my son cry when I show up at school.” She tries shaking off the memories I’ve heard from so many others. “Kids are so cruel…”

Adults are, too, but like most moms, Carly worries more about how her looks affect her child’s life. It’s a painful reminder of why I chose reconstruction as my specialty.

And why I can’t do it any longer.

I squeeze her hand. “Save your tears for recovery.”

Her strength literally forms in front of me as she straightens, talking as I examine the worst of the burns, noting in her chart where I can take the skin from and where I can tighten to reduce the look of the burns.

It’s something I couldn’t offer Halle.

It’s something I can’t offer Ms. Sims, either. Not yet anyway. All I can do is put her on my schedule and hope I can pull myself together before her surgery date.

I leave the room with a forced smile before I make it to the bathroom and retch.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

I’ll cancel on Ms. Sims, just like I canceled all the others.

I can’t operate on them.

I can’t take that chance again.

I can’t be a killer.

Getting up, I lean back against the wall next to the sink and slump down to the floor as my chest tightens and my breathing turns shallow.

No, no. Not now. Not at work.

Focusing on my breaths, I put my hand to my wrist and try to slow my rapid breathing, but it’s no use. This feeling is one I’ve become very acquainted with lately, therefore I know when I’ve lost control, and I let the darkness consume me.

Halle

Iwaited too long.

Really, I shouldn’t have taken the extra cup of coffee Astor offered me. But I did, and now, I’m wandering around the endless halls searching for a bathroom.

I could have asked Serena, but my gut said she would ignore me, and I hit the quota of dealing with twats today. Besides, how hard could it be to find a bathroom? Generally, they are labeled. Which was how I finally found one, two halls over from my office.

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