Chapter 5
Luke
“You’re ready to go home.” The discharge nurse swept into my room with a stack of paperwork and held it out to me on a clipboard, waving a pen.
The words blurred in their tiny print. I was still in my hospital gown, with my gluteus maximus more or less exposed, and they were asking me to sign away … what?
Who cared? I needed to get out of there, off observational status, which had taken far too many days, and get back to work. If my—albeit faulty right now—memory served me right, I had seven surgeries lined up in the next two weeks. Not the heaviest load I’d ever carried, but not a schedule to sneeze at either. If they cleared me for release, were they also clearing me for work?
I couldn’t read my own scrawled signature on the release order. It swam.
Hmm. Maybe I should cool my jets about getting back to the operating room.
Or not!
I want that MVS award.
“All done, doctor?” The discharge nurse reached for the papers I’d signed, checking all the highlighted places I’d initialed. “Now, just to recap what you agreed to with this paperwork, you’ve got six weeks of injury hiatus and then a reentry checkup.”
“Six weeks!” Quick math, six weeks’ downtime could total fifty patients’ hearts! “Th-that was in the paperwork?” I wasn’t a stutterer. At least not before then. Thanks a lot, pipe wrench weirdo.
“Of course. Didn’t you read it?” The nurse straightened some items on the rolling cart. “You should never sign anything you haven’t read thoroughly.”
“Thanks for the pro tip.” As soon as she vacated the room, I was getting dressed and out of here. Assuming my car was still in the parking garage. “What day is it?”
“Don’t you know? You just dated your paperwork, doctor. Next to your signatures and initials about a dozen times.” When I gave her a dry look, she relented. “It’s Saturday.”
Saturday. Saturday. It seemed like there was something important on Saturday.
My sister Lola was coming over. Saturday was always Lola and me, dinner together just to touch base during her husband’s basketball night with the guys.
But there was something else just at the back of my mind. It would come to me, probably. Since the accident, my thoughts had all been hazy—with the exception of the stark, shocking dream featuring an alternate reality where I was puppy-sick in love with Ms. Chandler.
In fact, that dream where I was—gasp—married to that angry life coach with the long waves of auburn hair was about the only thing I could focus on with any crispness.
And it was fake.
But it seemed real—more real than this hospital room. More real than anything I was living before hitting this temporary pause button on my half-lit life. That morning in her house—with her grocery lists and her off-key singing and the smells of everything—was fully lit, every sense at peak performance. I’d do anything to feel that again right now.
Uh, hold up cowboy. I was losing it.
In fact, if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up seeing Dr. Cook, staff psychologist.
“Dr. Hotwell. Nice to see you this morning.”
I startled and looked up. Speak of the devil and he appears. “Dr. Cook, what brings you by my room?” Please, don’t let it be that he wanted to sell me those tacky keychains. I wasn’t up for a sales pitch.
“Just checking in. I meant to come right after the accident, but family business detained me. Kids—they’re the biggest blessing and the biggest challenge, you know?”
Kook had a family?
“I wouldn’t know. I’m still slogging away as a bachelor.” And would be for the foreseeable future. Weird how that felt less appealing today than it had last week, or ever before in my life.
Speaking of life, it was great to have one. I could have bled out on the garage floor.
“Hey, do you happen to know who helped me?” I had some gratitude to express. “When I was hurt?” Those two jerks DadJoke and Chortle had laughed and walked on while I bled out. But someone else had showed up and made sure I received emergency care.
As if Cook hadn’t heard me, he said, “According to protocols, you’ll be out on leave for six weeks.”