I laugh, because I know how I sound. Because I know he doesn’t get it. But inside, I worry. Because sometimes it feels like he reads the pattern of my heart and gives it back to me, complete and translated, like a gift. I nod. I know he’s right; he’ll be fine. But when my head hits the pillow, I can’t stop wondering, hoping. Thanking him, silently, from afar.
Chapter 10
The Eyes Of Obelus
The pager shrieks me awake. I fumble, mumble, drool pooling around my face.
Really?Five a.m.?
I sigh, check my phone for the triage notes as I swing my legs over the bed. At least it didn’t happen during the concert, I think bitterly.
35/M presenting w/ blunt force trauma. Patient reports seeing stars and blood spots/dots. ER visit inconclusive. Needs urgent exam, ASAP.
Great. Probably a bar fight.
I drag myself up, scrubbing eyeliner and glitter from my face as best I can. Despite my efforts, stubborn flecks still cling to my cheeks. The exaggerated eyeliner is smeared but passable, reasonable for a five a.m. wake-up, I tell myself. I shove my glasses onto my face and notice my hair is a fuzzball from dancing and humidity; I twist it into the usual unwieldy bun. Kind of professional, at least on the surface. Nobody needs to know I was in a mosh pit five hours ago. And nobody will care about me, not when they’re afraid of losing their eyesight. I pull on the first set of wrinkled scrubs I can find before rushing out the door. By the time I throw my white coat on at the clinic, the chart is waiting. The on-call tech has done the basics but skipped dilation.
“Good instincts,” I tell her. “Concussions and pupils go hand in hand, better if I check it myself.”
Name:Rafe Ashton.
I square my shoulders, push open the exam room door. “Good morning, Mr. Ashton. I see from your chart we’ve had a knock to the head today?”
And then I look up. My breath stops. Because sitting in my chair, veil gone, hair black with streaks of red glowing under the fluorescents, tucked inside a black hoodie, it’s him.
Obelus.
The man whose voice has haunted my nights since I was sixteen. Whose veiled face hung on my wall. The man I swore saw me in the crowd last night. The man whose name is not Obelus at all butRafe Ashton.And right now, he’s looking at me like he already knows exactly what I am, someone who was in his pit a few hours ago, screaming like a mad woman. I shake the idea from my mind, no, he can't know. Just get through this, be the doctor you are, Kasia.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and ask the first question like I would with anyone else. “Explain to me what happened and if you've had any symptoms since then? Seeing any curtains across your vision? Flashes?”
He explains the fall, the ER visit, the headache, almost throwing up. His voice is calmer in person than I imagined, steady, but rough at the edges. Almost normal, human. A little worried, maybe even scared. My instincts kick in, the training, the reassurance, the calm voice I’ve used on a thousand patients takes over. I reach for the blood pressure cuff on the wall.
“I’ll need to check your blood pressure before dilation.”
As I lean close, he glances up, and I nearly combust. Heat floods my chest, but I shove it down. My hands stay steady, thank God, as I wrap the cuff around the arm he just freed from his hoodie. But inside? I’m hyperventilating. This is the arm I’ve seen a thousand times, veinsand muscle flexing under stage paint, tossing a guitar like it’s nothing, undulating as he plays the piano. I force myself to focus on the dial, the hiss of the pump, the tick of the red line. Just that, just the sound in my ears, muffled except for his heartbeat, thudding, pulse too fast.
“It’s a little elevated,” I murmur.
He shrugs. “Probably the concert. Or the fall, maybe the ER wait. Which do you think?” He says it casually, like it’s nothing. The same way another patient would mention walking their dog or grocery shopping.
To my surprise, I laugh. He does too, the sound is quick, unguarded. He’s not demanding, not larger-than-life. Just… a guy who hit his head and ended up in my exam chair.
“All valid reasons,” I agree, jotting notes. “I’ll use Tropicamide to dilate you for the examination. You'll be light sensitive for about four to six hours.” I glance at his plus one, slouched in sunglasses across the room, before looking back to him. “Do you have anywhere you need to be this morning?”
“No, doctor…” He tilts forward, squinting at the embroidery on my coat. “Swa—”
“Sawadzka,” I finish for him, saving us both the stumble. “It's Polish, a bit tricky for most.” Heat rushes to my face, did I just imply he'sstupid?Breathe Kasia.
“Doctor Sawadzka,” he repeats, leaning back with a grin that pulls electricity through me. “I’m in your care for the foreseeable.”
It’s probably nothing. A throwaway charm, the same one that’s made arenas scream. But it feels hotter than it should, curling under my skin. I flip his chart open just to give my hands something to do.
“Okay,” I say briskly. “Focus on my face.”
His gaze locks on mine, unwavering. The air thickens instantly, my throat goes tight, and for a moment I can’t breathe. “Don’t take yourfocus off of me. Now cover your left eye. When you look at me,herein the center, am I blurry or clear?”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even twitch. He holds my stare with a force that makes me feel pinned, considered too intently. Finally, he answers, voice low. “Clear.”
