Page 12 of Healing Hazel

He pulled away the covering to examine the wound, and the muscles around his eyes tightened. “The ligaments are sliced,” he muttered. He looked up at the older man, who hovered nearby. “¿Que hizo esto?”

“Una bayoneta.” The man wrung his hands so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Losbritánicos.”

Británicos? Even with her limited understanding of the language, Hazel recognized the word. But to her knowledge, the British army wasn’t in Spain. Surely she’d have heard about it if they were involved in the fighting. The man must be mistaken.

She looked back at Dr. Jackson, but seeing as he was examining the patient’s abdomen, she held her questions for later.

“Keep pressure on the artery.” Dr. Jackson spoke without looking up, as if he sensed that Hazel had been distracted by the interchange. He motioned to an orderly and, with help, rolled the patient carefully to look at the man’s back.

Hazel kept hold of his arm, leaning forward as the man was moved.

“No exit wound,” Dr. Jackson muttered. They rolled him back. “He needs surgery immediately.” He called out in Spanish, giving orders.

Hazel realized the wound had been made by a bullet. In spite of herself, her stomach went hard. The idea that the man had been hurt deliberately, that an enemy had inflicted this wound with the intent to kill... it unsettled her much more than the injuries caused by a train accident. She pushed the thoughts away and focused on the patient. She could ponder the full implications later.

“Senor,” Hazel said to the older man. “Is he your son?”

Seeing his blank look, she tried again, tapping the injured man’s chest softly with her free hand. “What is his name?”

“¿Cuál es su nombre?” Dr. Jackson said, standing and motioning for orderlies to lift the stretcher.

“Mikel,” the older man said.

“¿Su hijo?” the doctor asked.

“Sí.”

“Mikel is his son,” Dr. Jackson told Hazel.

She straightened with the stretcher, keeping her grip on Mikel’s arm, and gave a smile she hoped was reassuring to the father. The man looked beside himself with worry, and with good reason. Hazel had never seen so much blood.

Dr. Jackson pressed a wad of cloth to the bullet wound, holding it in place as they hurried from the entryway toward the surgery.

The operating chamber was a small room that had likely been used by the monks for storage. Shelves lined the walls, holding bottles, surgery instruments, and bandages, and there was very little space for moving around the surgery table. For just an instant, a pang of worry pinched in Hazel’s chest. A small, crowded room... but she shook her head. Sometimes one of her spells came on just because she feared it might.

Breathe in. One... two... three. Breathe out. One... two... three.She breathed steadily and kept her thoughts on the patient. She slid along the side of the table, reassuring herself that she could get to the door easily if needed, and maintained her hold on Mikel’s arm as he was transferred from the stretcher.

A nurse scooted behind her, pressing Hazel against the table as she passed. The nurse’s hair was streaked with gray. Her brows were dark and pulled together in a serious expression. She took her place at the head of the table and settled a cone over Mikel’s nose and mouth. Pulling the cork out of a bottle, she tipped it, letting a few drops of chloroform fall onto the cone. The patient’s eyes closed.

A younger nurse with pink cheeks and bright eyes took the doctor’s place, applying pressure to Mikel’s abdomen.

Dr. Jackson rolled up his sleeves and began scrubbing his hands and arms with a thick chunk of soap. Hazel was pleased to see he subscribed to Lister’s theory of germs. Miss Nightingale was a believer in cleanliness as a means of preventing disease as well. The doctor dipped his hands into a basin of water to rinse and then spoke to the pink-cheeked nurse in Spanish, motioning toward Hazel with his chin.

The nurse came to stand beside Hazel, and she slid her hand into place to hold the artery. She nodded, indicating that her grasp was sure, and Hazel released her grip, understanding that she was being dismissed. She was too embarrassed to look at the others, and started toward the door, her face heating. Of course she would not be permitted to assist. Not when Dr. Jackson believed her to be entirely incompetent.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice gruff.

Hazel turned back. “I—”

“I require all in my surgery to wash.” With his hands raised to dry, he darted his eyes to the water basin.

Hazel blinked, feeling even more embarrassed at her assumption. She hurried to the basin and scrubbed her hands quickly, washing around the bandage that covered her palm. Once she was finished, she stepped back to the table.

“Keep hold of the brachial artery, Miss Thornton,” Dr. Jackson said.

She returned to her place and took hold of Mikel’s arm.

The young nurse washed, and when she finished, she brought a tray of instruments.

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