Page 125 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

“I need to talk to him.”

“We can arrange that, but it won’t change what needs to happen tonight.”

“Well, how will Malik have his operation if his doctor is out of the country?”

“Dr. Reynolds is covering pediatric neurosurgery. She’s finishing another procedure now.”

“She hasn’t treated Malik before.”

“No, but she has reviewed his records and scans.”

My skin prickled beneath my sweatshirt. They wanted a stranger to cut into my child’s head.

“No.”

Dr. Shah paused. “Ms. Mellows⁠—”

“I want his doctor.”

“Dr. Hawkins cannot be here.”

“That’s unacceptable!” I shouted. “What is the purpose of having a primary doctor if they are not there when you need them?” Tears fell down my face, and I swiped them quickly.

“Dr. Reynolds is a pediatric neurosurgeon. She has performed this procedure many times. I understand that this is frightening, but Malik’s intracranial pressure is rising. Waiting for another surgeon could cause permanent injury.”

Malik’s fingers remained limp inside mine. I rubbed my thumb across his knuckles. A machine measured his heartbeat in steady green peaks. Every sound in the room reached me separately—the rush of air through the vent, rubber soles outside the door, the soft hiss of oxygen beneath his nose. Another name pushed through the noise.

“Elijah.”

Dr. Shah’s brows drew together. “Excuse me?”

“Dr. Elijah Valentine. Call him.”

Recognition entered her face.

“Dr. Valentine practices adult neurosurgery.”

“He’s a neurosurgeon.”

“He isn’t part of Malik’s pediatric care team.”

“He knows about his shunt. He can do the surgery.”

I had given Elijah permission weeks ago after Malik’s routine appointment to review his records. He had asked questions without taking over, then sat at my kitchen table while I showed him the folder I kept for every surgery, scan, and medication change.

He had read it all.

“Dr. Valentine doesn’t practice pediatric neurosurgery,” she repeated. “Dr. Reynolds is the appropriate surgeon.”

“Call him.”

“We need your consent so the operating room can⁠—”

“Call Elijah!”

I was losing my patience and my sanity, and anger began to rise in my chest. My tears blurred the doctor’s face. I wiped them away but more replaced them before my hand lowered.

“Please.” The word tore through my throat. “You said my son’s brain is under pressure. You said he can’t wait. Elijah can do this. Get him on the phone.”