Page 6 of Healer
“It’s okay. Thank you for rescuing me.” My hand rested on his forearm... fingers stiff with nervousness as they traced the defined muscles beneath his skin. The subtle movements of his muscles under my touch sent shivers down my spine.
“How long will it take us to reach the settlement?” I asked, trying to focus my mind elsewhere.
“Approximately seven of your Earth days, if my calculations are correct.”
“Seven days?” I already felt hot, sweaty, and itchy, not to mention the quality of my garments. I’d be completely naked in seven days. “Is there any way to get there faster?” A streak of moonlight filtered through the canopy, giving his visage the look of a marble statue. A marble statue of a Greek god. A very handsome Greek God.
He glanced down at me, expression softening.
“I’m afraid not, little human. We must keep to the unseen paths. The Aljani and Ulkommanian will search for you.”
Great, just great. Seven days of traipsing through the jungle in a paper dress with the ugly, asshole aliens….
Wait a minute.
My eyes widened, and I stared at Hakkar’s face. “Say something else.”
“What would you like me to say?” The corner of his lips quirked into a grin. But that was beside the point.
“Holy shit. You speak English?”
“Yes.” The grin widened. “I speak over six thousand of your Earth languages.”
“H—how? Why?” I gaped with surprise, which seemed to amuse him.
“The Bardaga is tasked with protecting Earth and its inhabitants. My chieftain felt we should know as much of your culture and language as possible.”
My mouth opened and closed several times, impressed beyond speech. I knew only two languages and spoke the second horribly.
Every muscle in Hakkar’s body tensed as I gazed at him, his golden gaze shooting past me to stare into the dense darkness. In the distance, faint to my ears but likely amplified for him, came a high-pitched squawk that sent chills down my spine. Jungles on Earth held a reputation for danger and death, but I couldn’t imagine the lurking horrors of this alien world. Even Hakkar, obviously a skilled warrior, seemed uneasy in this unfamiliar environment.
“Are there…. Is the jungle dangerous?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
Hakkar’s response was devoid of emotion, but his grip on my arm pulled me closer to his side. The warmth radiating from his body enveloped me like a protective cloak, and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of safety. It was as if his presence alone could ward off any danger or fear… at least... I hoped it could.
“The dose of ephadreiline I gave you will last for a while. We should put as many miles between us and the research facility as possible,” he suggested, his gaze ever scanning our surroundings.
I nodded, feeling a rush of warmth as he withdrew my hand from the crook of his arm. He interlaced our fingers, his grip firm and reassuring. The warmth spread through my body like a comforting blanket on a chilly night.
It reminded me of the last time my husband, Dereck, held my hand. At the moment, I needed his support most... when the doctor said those awful words, I felt his grasp… felt him slip away.
Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis
At first, I paid no attention to the creeping stiffness in my fingers. After all, I’d been knee-deep in my five-year general surgery training as a pediatric surgeon. My hands were constantly working, tirelessly practicing and perfecting surgical techniques, committing the monotonous movements to muscle memory. The dull ache in my joints was simply another reminder of the intense dedication and sacrifice required for my chosen profession.
I ignored it for years.
Until Tina.
It was a normal appendectomy. I’d done dozens of them, but during the final incision to remove the organ, my hand cramped, causing me to nick the three-year-old’s large intestine. Thankfully, it wasn’t a large cut and easily repaired with surgical mesh and a few stitches. Tina was now a rambunctious teen with no lasting issues, thank God. But that moment made me admit the stiffness and soreness plaguing my joints might be due to more than fatigue.
One doctor thought I might be in the early stages of rheumatoid arthritis… another suggested myopathy. Ultimately, my mentor and friend, Dr. Tom Smithson, ran the blood test that returned high levels of serum neurofilament light. A spinal tap and nerve biopsy confirmed the diagnosis—familial ALS.
Hearing the diagnosis, my inability to conceive a child felt like a blessing in disguise. Derek and I were busy surgeons whose careers demanded most of our time and attention. Adding a child to the mix had never been at the top of our priority list. Instead, we poured ourselves into our work, findingsolace and fulfillment in saving lives and making a difference in the medical field.
After Tina, I could never bring myself to wield a scalpel again. I switched to a general pediatrics practice, where the bright smiles and innocence of children helped me heal. My practice thrived as I poured my energy into caring for these precious lives. A glimmer of hope emerged when I entered my mid-fifties with no sign of the disease. Perhaps the initial diagnosis had been incorrect, or maybe I only inherited the familial gene but would never develop symptoms.
