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Lachlan
Ithought about sending my brother a text:Remington, I hate you. Move somewhere else. Idaho is boring.
But he would probably have responded with a middle finger emoji, and really, what good would it do? Remington had chosen to move to our childhood hometown after finding a remote job that supported his young family, and I couldn’t exactly blame him. His wife, Michaela, was from this town, too, and her family lived close by.
Happy wife, happy life.
I didn’t have to live in Idaho near my only sibling, but it felt wrong to live in New York near the father who had mostly abandoned us in our childhood, anyway. At least in this small town, I had some family. And a life, whatever that might be. At the moment, that life consisted of stitching the gash of a clumsy kid. Again. I’d had three of them that day already.
After reviewing her chart, which was blissfully small, I turned to give the mother a reassuring smile. I nearly dropped my chart in surprise.
Enormous, sapphire eyes stared at me above a disposable, blue mask, blinked twice, and then did a quick up-down thing as she made a mental opinion of me.
But I wasn’t thinking about what she thought about me. I was too stunned by her. I’d never seen eyes like that. They were blue, yes, but a rich hue like the deep end of a cold lake in November. Around her pupils, yellow fringed the black centers like sunflowers. Her bright, sunshine dress with puffed sleeves and a sweetheart neckline over her generous bust only accentuated my first impression that she was a knock-out. I let my eyes quickly take in the rest of her: Hands clasped together—no wedding ring—and her feet in strappy sandals had lifted on their toes in a nervous gesture. If this really was the patient’s mother, she was very young. And… single. Possibly.
Pull it together, Cade, I reminded myself.You’re supposed to be assuring her that you’re halfway competent.“You must be Mom?”
She jumped, as if remembering where she was, and held out her hand in a jerky motion. “Yes, Laurel.”
She had a voice like summer nights—soft and warm and imbued with a relaxing calm. When she grasped my fingers, her grip was firm, but she released my hand quickly, as if my skin scalded her.
Calla, the young patient, shifted on the table and the paper crinkled underneath her. Right, patient. Doctor. Job.
I gave Laurel a reassuring smile from behind my mask that I hoped would soothe her nerves. No parent came into my ER calm and collected. “Well, Laurel, it sounds like Calla bashed her brains in.”
She laughed, rubbing her forehead. Her light brown hair, highlighted naturally here and there from time spent in the sunshine, fell in wisps around her temples from a disheveled bun. “Uh, yeah. She fell at the daycare and hit her head on the corner of a table.”
I pried my interest away from the patient’s mother and turned to wince dramatically for Calla’s benefit. “Ouch.”
Calla pulled a face, wrinkling her freckled nose. “It only hurt for a little. Then they gave me a popsicle, so it’s okay.”
It was impossible not to immediately like this kid. She had wide, almond eyes like her mother, although hers were caramel-colored, and I could see from her comically exaggerated expressions that she had quite a sense of humor already. I put up my hands in defeat. “A popsicle? You don’t need me. Those fix everything.”
She giggled. “Nooo,” she said slowly. “You have to fix me, silly. That’s what Mom said.”
“Oh, do I?” I asked looking back to the mom, Laurel.
She smiled from behind her mask, and even half her face couldn’t hide the radiance of that look.
Shit, am I going to have to dismiss her from the room? I’m about to forget all twelve years of medical training, I thought deprecatingly.
Calla gave me a serious look. “Yes, and you probably have to give me a shot.”
That sobered me. Nothing sucked more than a kid who freaked the hell out over needles. It was best not to lie to them, though. I had found, with children, that a straightforward approach that gave them the illusion of control was the least painful course for scary things like needles and scalpels. “Hm,” I hummed. “You might be right. What else?”
“And probably stitches,” she said with all the confidence of a very young person with too many ER trips under her belt.
Small chart, vast knowledge—that made me uncomfortable. I approached her, zeroing in on the paper towel she held to her forehead. “Have you had a lot of scrapes, Calla?”
“So many,” she said, her eyes rounding dramatically. “Mom says I’m assidert prone.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. A glance over my shoulder at Laurel was all the question she needed. “We just moved to town,” she filled in. “But Calla has had quite a few spills since… she could walk, really. I can have her records forwarded to you if you want,” she said quickly. I heard worry in her voice, like we might judge her for her daughter’s injuries. “I do try to keep her safe. She just… likes to run.”
I didn’t miss that she said “I” instead of “we” when talking about her child. I mentally added it to theInteresting Things About This Womanlist, which included a ringless finger, young age, and stunning presence that, so far, had felt like being bathed in sunbeams.
“You’d be surprised how many kids come in here with the same injury,” I assured her. I went to the sink to wash my hands, stepping on the pedal below the outdated, cream cabinets, and let the motions of scrubbing my chapped hands take over.
“I feel like we’re always in the ER,” Laurel admitted. “She hit her head on a rubber, rounded table corner this time. Those are supposed to be safe.”
