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Chapter 10
JOSH SET THE bottle of bourbon beside the vanilla on the counter and turned to face Kat. “What’s the next step, Doc?”
She looked up from the chart spread out on the Summers kitchen table, documenting Josh’s symptoms from his injury. In addition to his short-term memory loss, her patient had difficulty concentrating and he had headaches. But unlike some of the professional athletes she’d treated, he’d been spared many of the symptoms caused by multiple head injuries. Epilepsy, personality changes—repeated concussions often led to a downward spiral. Treatment and therapy were always an uphill battle. But in Josh’s case, they weren’t climbing Everest. She had a good feeling that he could recover from this.
“If you can’t remember, go back and check the cookbook,” she said.
Her patient let out a frustrated grunt. He knew the layout of the kitchen—that part of his memory was still intact—but finding the recipe was another story.
“Doc, I don’t know where I put the damn cookbook.”
“It’s open beside the fridge,” she said, offering just enough help to keep the defeated feeling from pushing him to quit—or consult his notebook. If he even remembered it was in his back pocket. “We’re making Bourbon Pecan Pie.”
“I vote we skip straight to drinking the liquor.” Josh picked up the open book. His lips moved as he read the words.
“You picked it.”
His brow furrowed. “It says here, we need to place the piecrust in the refrigerator for thirty minutes. Do we even have a piecrust?”
“It’s in there,” Kat confirmed. “We made it first thing.”
“Shit, I don’t remember that part.”
“Focus on what you’re doing now,” she said. “What’s in your hand?”
Josh glanced at the mixing device. “Doc, I didn’t know what this was before I got knocked in the head.”
“It’s a whisk,” she said, keeping her tone calm and even. “Read through the recipe. Find out what comes next.”
“Brown sugar, eggs, cream, bourbon.” Josh glanced up from the book and focused on the ingredients on the counter. “I was holding the bourbon.”
“That’s right,” Kat said.
“But I don’t have a clue about whether I put it in there or not,” he said.
“I guess we’ll find out when we taste it.” Chad Summers waltzed into the room wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and white T-shirt that read, My Hero, My Veteran, My Girl, in big black letters.
“Dip a spoon into what you have so far,” Kat suggested as Chad claimed the seat next to her at the table.
“Figuring out if there is bourbon in the batter will help his memory?” Chad murmured.
“Taking stimuli, in this instance, taste from an external source and processing it helps.” Or at least that was the hypothesis of their clinical trial.
“It’s in there,” Josh confirmed. He picked up a bottle and took a swig, then winked at Kat. “For good luck.”
Her somewhat unruly patient turned back to the counter and picked up the pecans. Kat watched for a moment before turning her attention to the man beside her. “He remembered that the pecans went in next without having to check.”
“So this is a slow and steady wins the race sort of thing?”
“Regaining memory takes time and patience,” Kat said. “The best thing you can do for your brother right now is offer support and do what you can to keep his environment the same. I can get him started on the path to recovery, but then he’ll need his family and caretakers to help him.”
“Oh, I fully intend to give him my support and have a slice of pie. And we’re not letting the nursing student go. We’re making it clear to Megan that she has to keep her clothes on while we’re paying her. But during her down time . . .” Chad shrugged. “They’re adults.”
“Good.” Kat kept her voice low while her patient worked on his pie. “We’re on the same page, then. I think a sexual relationship that extends beyond a handful of encounters might be a good thing for him. It helps with the depression.”
“Dr. Arnold, I don’t need a medical degree to confirm that sex goes in the plus column. To be honest, I’m not worried about Josh’s emotional state when you leave. But Brody’s another story.”
“He’s all grown up too,” she said, glancing back at her chart.
