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But the thing was, it wasn’t like Ama had never changed out her wallet, or the contacts in her phone over the years.
She had to have done it several times.
Each time, she chose to keep me there.
Ama was someone with an intense attention to detail. There was no way she actually overlooked the contact.
She chose to keep me there.
Because, despite all the hurt and the animosity, I was the person who knew her best, who would know her wishes if she were in a worst-case scenario sort of situation.
After all, I’d been the one to help her study all the various conditions that could lead to her being incapacitated. Like traumatic brain injuries.You leave my plug alone for at least three months. The brain needs a chance for swelling to come down before you can really make a decision.
I refused to think that was what she had going on right now, though.
Not her.
She was just in a hospital, and maybe the staff thought she should have someone by her side.
Sure, she could have gotten knocked in the head, but not badly enough to put her into a coma or anything like that.
I refused to accept that as even a possibility.
I wanted to run through the hospital when I got there, to jump over the fucking desk and rip back every curtain and open every door.
It took a superhuman sort of self-control to calmly and quietly speak to the staff, to let them know I was there, to hear them tell me that a doctor would be around to speak to me when they had a moment.
Theirmomenttook way too fucking long, though, leaving me to have my mind go through every possible worst-case scenario as I waited.
“You’re here for Dr. Stone?” a doctor asked, giving me a half-smile.
“I am,” I agreed, getting to my feet. “How is she?” I asked.
“Dr. Stone sustained multiple injuries,” she started, her kind eyes looking a little vacant. And, I guess, when you’d likely given not great news hundreds, if not thousands, of times before, it was hard to let yourself feel too much when you did so. “Including several blows to the head, a broken arm, and a very close call laceration to the neck.”
“A cut to the neck. She was attacked?” I asked, my jaw going tight. Because, I guess, in my mind, I figured she’d been in an accident or something like that.
It was late, but it wouldn’t have been weird for her to have been at work until the wee hours, then driving home, sharing the roads with the drunk drivers, and someone rammed her car into a pole or something.
And while it was possible to get nasty lacerations from a car accident, one to the neck seemed unlikely, thanks to the airbags.
“Y…yes,” the doctor said, nodding.
“In her apartment?”
“At her workplace,” she clarified.
“Where is she? Is she okay?”
“She’s in surgery.”
“Surgery?” I asked, my voice sounding choked.
“For her broken arm,” the doctor said, holding out a hand at me, her tone calming. “She needed a pin.”
“Okay. Alright,” I said, nodding. “What about her head? What is going on with her head? She said that if she had a TBI that she wants to be on the machines for three months at least,” I told her, watching as her lips twitched a bit at that.
“As far as we can tell, her brain is okay. A concussion, but no traumatic brain injuries. She won’t be needing plugs, least of all ones that would need to be pulled,” the doctor said. “We are probably just going to keep her one night to make sure her head is okay. But she can leave after that.”
