I never said I didn’t have any more questions, but I’m sure he’s busy. And I’m still processing the information he’s just thrust at me so carelessly.Oh, yeah, that? No big deal. Just a hole in your spine. A form of spina bifida—you know, that genetic neural tube defect.
Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to begin if I knew what questions to ask.
“I’d recommend seeing a neurologist at your earliest convenience if the back pain persists. An MRI should give you more insight,” he says flippantly, tucking the swivel chair in.
“Okay . . .”
I look at Brandon for reassurance, feeling like a lost, helpless child for the first time in a long time. He squeezes my hand before standing. He shakes the doctor’s hand, and they exchange a few pleasantries, but I can no longer hear a word they’re saying. Something about a referral to the university. A mutual connection of theirs.
It’s like I’m not even here anymore.
And then Dr. Ramirez is gone, leaving my life flipped on its head like my totaled Corolla.
Chapter 7
Brandon
BertGriswold’shouseisa dusty-blue ranch-style home that has clearly seen better days. A winding wooden wheelchair ramp leads up to his front porch, but it’s currently frozen over like an ice rink. I wobble like Bambie as I navigate the death trap, making a mental note to come back and lay down some salt before someone breaks their neck doing a welfare check on the poor old man.
Thankfully, I make it to the door in one piece. Balancing a set of plastic food containers on my open palm, I ring the doorbell, then step back and wait. No one answers, so I approach the window and tap the glass. “Bert? My name is Brandon Wright. I live a few blocks over. Evie Montgomery sent me.”
A tired, gravelly voice emanates from a camera next to the door. “The key’s in the flower pot.”
I let myself in and am stunned by the stench that greets me. No wonder Evie was so concerned about Bert. His place smells like expired beer and urine. The last time I was here, his place was immaculate.
I approach the bed in the center of his living room. “Here are those leftovers Evie promised,” I say, setting the containers on the end table. He eyes me warily. “Evie was in a car accident last night,” I explain. His face turns sheet-white. “Don’t worry. She’s doing fine. She would have called last night, but she only just got her phone back from the towing company.”
“Oh, dear. Poor Evie.”
Poor Evie indeed.
I’m caught off guard by the sudden glare that darkens his features. “You said your name was Brandon, didn’t you, son?” he asks, scrutinizing me.
I nod, wondering if he remembers me.
He grunts once, still scowling at me. “Thought I recognized you.”
Huh. He was perfectly friendly with me the first time we met. Perhaps he isn’t feeling well. Or maybe spending the holiday alone has left him feeling blue.
I sit down on the couch, hoping to strike up a conversation. “So—”
“You can leave now.”
Stunned, I simply stare at him.
“I’m not interested in small talk. So, unless you have any other updates on Evie, I think we’re done here.”
I’m so taken aback by his hostility that I almost laugh. More out of shock than anything else. “Well, minus a few bumps and bruises, I’m sure she’ll be just fine. Granted, she’s a little sore, but . . .” My mind drifts back to her imaging results.
I’ve spotted a small gap in your spine right where it meets your pelvis.
Evie isn’t dealing with the news very well. She refused to talk to me about it, both in the hospital and on the drive home. While that was frustrating, it was also unsurprising. I know she needs time to process this information before deciding what she wants to do about it—if she decides to do anything at all. And she might not. Evie was a sickly child, and she spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals as a kid. She even spent some time in a children’s psychiatric hospital as a teenager. She doesn’t like hospitals or doctors and avoids them where possible.
Bert continues to glare at me like I have personally offended him somehow. It doesn’t bother me, but it does confound me. I deal with misplaced hostility all the time as a physician, but it has never felt personal. But judging by the way Bert is glowering at me right now, you’d think I stomped on his sand castle or kicked his dog.
“I’m sure she’ll be back on her feet in no time,” I conclude.
The marionette lines on his chin deepen. “Still. This won’t be good for her back.”
