Page 51 of After We Fall

Why does he look so enraged? I haven’t even told him yet why he should be angry.

He scans my body, pausing on my left arm strapped to my chest, with another pause on the bandages surrounding my head. His attention shoots to the doctor, and he grinds out his question, his voice sounding rough. “How is she?”

Dr. Gallo, standing just a foot away at my bed rails, looks to me. While the years have textured his hair in silvery streaks, his thick black eyebrows have refused to age, throwing a stark contrast against his olive-toned face. A facial feature that even my blurred vision can’t miss. He raises those bushy eyebrows to me in question, I assume in regard to Luke’s presence in the room.

Am I honestly going to let Luke stay to hear the doctor’s report?

If I thought I could make sense of all the information being relayed, I would kick Luke out of the room. However, for the time being, concentrating is challenging at best. Plus, I need to talk to him about the girls. And finding Finley. I don’t want to give him the impression that I’m a complete invalid, but I don’t think I can handle all the details by myself.

I nod to the doctor’s question and, using my right arm, pull myself to a more upright position. The second I shift my weight, the room rocks as if I’m on a ship in the middle of a storm.

“Another wave of dizziness?” the doctor asks.

Eyes closed, I grunt an affirmation. Tears of frustration sting my nose, and I inhale to temper them. “Please continue,” I say.

“I’m looking through your intake. The nurse told me she helped you with your history. I wanted to clarify.” He peruses a few screens on his tablet. “You’ve experienced migraines since you were fourteen?”

“Yes.”

“They started with a concussion?”

“Yes.”

“What were the circumstances surrounding that injury?”

I swallow. This is exactly what I didn’t want to get into in front of Luke. In front of anyone. “I was hit by a baseball bat.”

Luke takes another step forward, his taut body zapping stress through the room.

“Where on your head was the impact?”

“Above my left eyebrow.” From years of habit, I want to make that first move to rub at the familiar scar. But it’s now split wide open with a new wound.

“What were the circumstances that caused the injury?” he asks.

Shame and embarrassment slither into my nerve endings. I ignore the sensation and, without emotion, deliver the story. “I was living in a group foster home at the time. On a fairly regular basis, my roommate felt like I should let her copy my homework. One day, she tired of my refusals and laid into me with a baseball bat.”

Luke grunts.

The doctor nods. “What kind of medical treatment did you receive?”

“I got stitches and was sent home.”

“A CT scan or MRI?”

“No.”

“Anyone talk to you about a post-concussion protocol?”

“No.”

“Did you have follow-up appointments with any medical professionals?”

“No.”

The doctor pauses, removes his bifocals, and studies me. “What about the stitches?”

“I took them out myself.” The rote words don’t feel like they’re coming from my body. It’s not a story that I have any practice telling. Jason is the only one who knows.