Page 102 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

“I already made your plate.”

I warmed from the inside out. She had expected me.

“I’ll call you.”

“We’ll be here.”

I ended the call and put the phone back in my pocket. Dr. Patel stood near the door, waiting.

“Let’s go.”

The surgery lasted nearly six hours. The bleeding had spread farther than the initial imaging suggested. Once we controlled it, swelling became the greater concern. Every decision depended on how the patient’s brain responded to the one before it. By the time I closed, my shoulders ached beneath my scrubs and pressure pulsed behind my eyes. Mr. Hargrove was alive.

The next twenty-four hours would determine what that meant. I spoke to his wife in a consultation room shortly before midnight. She sat between two women who shared enough of her features to be her sisters. All three watched my face as though my expression might reveal the answer before I spoke. “The surgery went as well as we could have expected.”

His wife’s breath broke. One of her sisters reached for her hand.

“We controlled the bleeding and relieved the pressure on his brain. He’s being moved to intensive care, where we’ll monitor him closely.”

“Is he going to wake up?”

“I believe he will, but I can’t promise when or what deficits he may have. The next day will tell us more.”

She nodded as tears slipped down her cheeks.

“Can I see him?”

“As soon as the ICU has him settled.”

“Thank you.”

I stood when she did. She wrapped both arms around me before I could step away. Her body shook as she cried. I squeezed her shoulders momentarily. Then she released me, wiping her face as though embarrassed by the emotion.

“Thank you for saving my husband.”

I learned not to accept that kind of gratitude too quickly. A successful operation wasn’t a full recovery. There were still too many things we couldn’t know. But she needed somewhere to place her relief.

“You’re welcome.”

I left the family with a nurse and walked toward the physicians’ locker room. The hospital had quieted without becoming still. Machines hummed behind closed doors. Rubber soles moved over polished floors. I changed clothes and checked my phone. Nine messages waited. Three were from my father and brothers. One was from the clinic administrator. The remaining five were from Frankie. The first was a photograph of Malik seated at her dining-room table. His Spider-Man shirt was visible beneath a blue cardigan, and a paper party hat sat crookedly on his head.

The second showed Frankie between Naomi and Journey. Her pixie cut framed her face, and a fitted red dress followed the shape of her body.

A banner behind them read:

Mellows Movement. Move Your Way.

I enlarged the photograph. Pride shone through her smile. She had spent weeks reviewing modifications, testing the movements, and listening to women describe why other programs had failed them. I should have been standing beside her. The next message was a short video.

Journey had recorded Frankie cutting a small cake while everyone cheered. Frankie laughed when Malik reached toward the frosting before she finished. Amelia guided his hand closer and helped him steal a swipe from the corner. The video ended with Frankie looking beyond the camera.

For me. The final message had arrived twenty minutes ago.

We’re still awake. How is your patient?

I pressed the call button. Frankie answered immediately.

“How did it go?”