Page 7 of Scythe & Sparrow
I shake my head just a little to clear it, as though I might free myself from the way she looks at me. “Until we get to the hospital …?”
“No.How long have you lived in Hartford?Or maybe we should go back to the credentials question. I don’t want you amputating the wrong leg. Do you have short-term memory loss?”
Her faint smile is full of pity and mischief. But her dark eyes betray her. They’re searching. Filled with distress. Filled with fear.
“No one’s amputating your leg,” I reply, gently squeezing her hand.
Rose swallows. She tries to keep her face set in a neutral mask, but the heart rate monitor betrays her. “But the bone issticking out. What if—”
“I promise you, Rose. No one is amputating your leg.” Rose’s liquid eyes stay fused to mine, dark pools of molten chocolate. I slip her mask back up over her nose and mouth. Even though she says nothing in reply, I realize her words have been repeating in my mind since the moment she passed out in my exam room.Help. Help. Help.“I’ll assist with the surgery,” I say. “I’ll be right there with you.”
Rose tries to nod again, and I place my free palm on her forehead, where her bangs cling to her skin. I tell myself I’m just doing it to keep her still. But something aches beneath my bones when she closes her eyes and a tear rolls down her temple. When I pull my palm away, I let my fingertips graze the streak it leaves behind.
What the fuck, Kane. Get your shit together.
I refocus on her vitals. Try to concentrate only on the blood pressure monitor and the steady beat of her quickened pulse. I can’t count the number of procedures I’ve done or medications I’ve administered or patients I’ve treated in my short career so far. But there’s only been one whose hand I’ve held in an ambulance. Only one whom I’ve brought through the emergency bay, one for whom I’ve sat in the blue vinyl chairs outside the imaging ward to wait for her X-rays, my knee bouncing with impatience. Only one for whom I’ve asked to scrub in at the surgical suite so I could assist the orthopedic surgeon with the hours-long internal fixation procedure. So I could be there to reassure her that I would keep my promise as she fell unconscious on the surgical table.
Only one whose whispered plea for help still keeps me here at the hospital, hovering near her bed in the recovery room, her chart clasped in my hands even though I’ve read it enough times that I could recite it from memory.
Rose Evans.
I’m absently staring at her sleeping form, her leg splinted and suspended. I wonder if she’s comfortable. If she’s warm enough. If she’ll have a nightmare about the accident. Maybe I should get the nurses to check on her again. Make sure her other minor injuries have been properly addressed.
I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I don’t notice Dr. Chopra until she’s standing right next to me.
“Know her?” she asks. She pulls her reading glasses down from where they’re nestled in her silver hair so she can skim the details of Rose’s chart. I shake my head. She presses her lips into a line, the fine wrinkles around them deepening. “Thought you might, given the request to scrub in.”
“She showed up at my office in Hartford. I felt …” I trail off. I’m not sure what I felt. Something unfamiliar and urgent. Unexpected. “I felt compelled to stay.”
Dr. Chopra nods in my periphery. “Some patients are like that. Reminding us why we chose our path. Maybe you might want to scrub in more often? We could always use the help.”
A smile teases the corners of my lips. “I thought you’d given up asking.”
“It only took me four years to wear you down. Now that I know it can be done, don’t think I’m going to stop.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you,” I say as I cross my arms and straighten my spine.
“Shame. I know it’s not as exciting as Mass General must have been, but we do still get some interesting surgical cases in the boonies. I had one tonight shortly before you came in. A patient of yours according to his records, actually. Belligerent prick, if you ask me. Cranmore? Cranburn?”
“Cranwell?You had Matt Cranwell in here?” I ask, and Dr. Chopra nods. “Yeah, I don’t think you’re far off with the belligerent prick assessment. What was he in for?”
“He had a handful of cocktail sticks in his eye.”
“He …what?” Dr. Chopra lifts a shoulder. My brow furrows as I turn to face her. “He wasn’t transported out to a level-one trauma center?”
“No. There was no salvaging the eye. Dr. Mitchell performed the surgery. Must have been an interesting story, but the delightful Mr. Cranwell wasn’t willing to share.” Dr. Chopra passes Rose’s chart back to me with a faint, weary smile. “You should go home and get some rest. When are you in next?”
“Thursday night,” I say absentmindedly as I stare down at Rose’s name on the chart.
“See you then,” Dr. Chopra replies, and then she disappears, leaving me on my own with my sleeping patient.
The one who smelled like piña colada. The one who didn’t call an ambulance despite her injury, choosing to break into my clinic instead. Who seemed surprised when I asked her if it was a motorcycle accident.
I head to where Rose’s clothes are folded on the vinyl chair next to her bed. Only her boots and her black leather jacket are left. Everything else was cut from her body. There’s a small black pouch in one pocket. Inside it are metal tools, some of them streaked with dried blood. Realizing they must be the tools she used to break into my clinic, I put them back. Her wallet is still in the inside jacket pocket, and I take it out next. I pull out her license, the one I skimmed for vital details when I was on the phone with the emergency dispatcher. The card is registered in the state of Texas, an address in Odessa. I look through the rest of her wallet but there’s not much to find, just a debit and credit card and twenty dollars in cash. Nothing that confirms or denies the twinge of intuition that creeps through my guts.
At least, not until I replace her wallet inside her jacket and my fingers graze another card, one that’s loose in the interior pocket.
Another driver’s license. One belonging to a man.
