Scarlett
How is this my life right now? Maybe I’ll wake up and it will be last Thursday, and I’ll just make sure I’m on time to work. However, if that were the case, I wouldn’t have met this hottie nurse man, so that would be a downside. I’m not sure a hot guy is worth all this crap, though. I’d still rather wake up in my bed back in Boston.
I see the sign for Radiology at the end of the hall. I’m not sure how I’ve managed to make it twenty-nine years without having an X-ray, but I’m not a bit into activities that might end with stitches or a broken bone so that probably explains it.
“It’s just over here. The technician will take care of the X-rays, and I’ll be back afterward to take you back to triage. Sound good?”
“Okay,” I tell him. In a strange way, I kind of wish he’d stay, but I guess that’s not allowed. Something is definitely broken in my wrist. It’s not a sprain. I feel it. I just hope it’s not too bad. I still have to start work in two days somehow.
“Everything will be okay,” Austin says, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I look up at him—his stupid, pretty blue eyes, and his mess of sandy brown hair. So far, all I’ve seen are bronzed people down here. Must be nice to have a sweet tan in April since I’m still paler than an unripened strawberry. “I seriously doubt that. Do you tell your dying patients that too?”
He looks taken aback by my crass comment. “Not usually,” he says with a raised brow, “but don’t worry. I don’t think your wrist is terminal.”
“I guess that’s good to know,” I tell him.
“Look, let me just give you a piece of advice, okay?”
“I don’t need advice,” I tell him.
“Well, I’m going to give it to you anyway. People down here away from Boston are typically friendly, with a little less attitude compared to what y’all northern folk must be used to. You might want to take it down a notch.”
“Are you fuckin’ kidding? I’m in pain. I’m pissed off, and I don’t want to be here. On top of all that, I’m probably going to end up with a cast on my arm for the next six weeks while trying to start a new job, so you’ll have to excuse me for having an attitude.” I’d like to tell him to stop being so damn chipper like the rest of the people down here, but that’ll probably have just as much effect on him as his words have on me.
“Just givin’ you a word of advice—take it how you want.”
“Well, thanks. I’ll keep it in my back pocket in case I need it.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, bruiser.”
I pull in a deep breath, wanting to push this guy out of my way, but I hold the air inside my lungs as he spins me into the Radiology department.
* * *
That was a super fun thirty minutes of life, I think to myself as a nurse from Radiology pushes this stupid chair I’m forced to sit in, down to the waiting area where I find Austin waiting.
“Do you spend a lot of your day waiting on people?” I ask him.
“Actually, I spend my day taking care of people, but whatever you’d like to think of it as is fine by me.”
“You’re like a man handler of sorts,” I tell him. I might be trying to get under his skin, seeing as he was trying to get under mine earlier, but I don’t think it’s working much.
“Sure, I’m a man handler. Is that better?” he gives in. “Why don’t we get you back to triage now.”
“Do you have any other patients, or am I just getting special treatment?” I realize I’ve never had to spend time in a hospital before, but I wouldn’t think I’d have my very own nurse carting me to and from where I have to go.
“The ER is quiet today,” he says.
“So, I’m your entertainment?”
“You are pretty entertaining,” he quips.
“Pain entertains you?” I reply. The conversation ends abruptly, which I would normally call a win, but I might have taken one step too far this time, and I don’t feel like I won. “I’m kidding.”
Austin stops and steps in front of the wheelchair. “Oh,” he says, placing his hand on his chest, “I’m sorry, were you just trying to be funny? I must have missed the punchline.”
I narrow my eyes at him and return to the back of my chair, continuing this trek back to triage. How is it a man like him keeps his job, but I’m a few minutes late here and there, and I’m shipped halfway across the country? This must be why Dick thought I’d do well down here. They have the patience for late arrivals and rude nurses.
I settle back into the triage bed, and I notice Austin watching my every move. Obviously, I’m watching his too since I’m aware that he’s studying me. I should be paying more attention to what I’m doing, though, since I accidentally move my wrist the wrong way and let out a yelp. “Do you want the ice back?” he asks.
“Sure,” I tell him.
He leaves the curtain-walled exam area I’m sitting in and returns with a cloth bag of ice. He’s gentle while placing it down on my wrist, which hurts more now after getting the X-rays taken. They turned my arm every which way to get pictures of all angles of my wrist, and it’s really throbbing right now. “How’s that?”
“Cold,” I tell him.
“Good,” he says. “We should have your results soon, so just hang tight for a few more minutes.”
Austin leaves and I hear him tending to another patient nearby. He’s sweet as pie to that person, who sounds like a middle-aged female, but she is also being the same to him. I know I’m pissy, but who wouldn’t be right now?
This sucks. Brendan is freaking out over my wrist and the fact that we’re living in a studio apartment made of cement walls. I feel like I’m in a completely different world here. They don’t even have a grocery store in this town. They have a butcher shop, a garden market, a bakery, and a store that sells all the other little shit. That’s what the brochure described, anyway. I grabbed it on the way out of the hotel and was reading about the uniqueness and history of Blytheville, as well as the reason why they try to keep the old-time southern charm here. Apparently, they’re all about supporting local small businesses and community growth. At least the hospital is somewhat modernized.
A new doctor pulls the curtain open and walks in with an iPad-looking device that has an x-ray image taking up the entire screen. “Miss Scarlett, hello, I’m Dr. Lane, the orthopedic surgeon on staff here. How are you doing?” he asks.
“Crappy,” I tell him. “I’m in a lot of pain and nervous to hear what’s wrong.” I’ll take a guess that the news isn’t good, considering this doctor is a surgeon.
“I can certainly understand why,” he says. He takes a seat on a rolling stool that was sitting beneath the computer monitor and pulls it up to the bed’s side. “It appears you have a type of fracture of your radius where the bone is just out of place enough that it can’t be fully corrected by just a cast. My suggested plan of action is going to be a surgical procedure. We need to realign the fractured bone and then place a metal pin or two so we can force it to heal properly.”
I’m not sure I just heard every word this doctor said, but my head feels numb, I’m breaking out in a cold sweat, and I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating about thirty seconds ago. This is a joke, right? “I—I need pins?”
“I know this sounds scary, but it’s a very common occurrence, and the procedure is performed all the time.”
“When do I have to have surgery?” I ask.
“The sooner the better. We don’t want the bones beginning to heal in the wrong place. I would suggest tomorrow if we can get you scheduled for then. For now, we’ll immobilize your wrist and send you home with a pain reliever to help you get through the night. Are you okay with that?”
I can hardly put a logical thought together, but I need to know how long this will take. “How long is the recovery?” Oh no. I’m going to be let go from my job before I start. This is a nightmare, and Dick will have the last laugh.
“A full recovery can take up to a year, but you should regain full use of your wrist in six to eight weeks. We’ll put on a cast after the surgery so you can continue on with most normal daily tasks after the pain has subsided.”
I might just pass out from the information overload. This is unreal. “Okay, I guess I don’t have a choice,” is all I can manage to say.
“You are making the right decision. For now, you should just focus on taking it easy tonight and get some rest. Do you have someone to help you out at home?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. Home. I don’t have a home. I’m living in a shack.
“Okay, we’ll get you wrapped up for now, and I’ll have Austin see about getting you scheduled for surgery tomorrow.”
The doctor leaves fairly quickly, and I’m left sitting here with crazy thoughts and fears of all the what-ifs. One thing I’m sure about though, Brendan is going to freak. I’m going to be left with a basket case when I’m the one going in for surgery.
Just breathe, I tell myself.
Austin reappears a few minutes later with a splint and a sling and sits down on the stool Dr. Lane was just using to give me all my great news. “This will help your arm feel better,” he says as he takes my wrist and places it in the splint. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. Dr. Lane is great, though.”
“Okay.”
“So, I was able to get you an appointment for tomorrow at nine in the morning. You’ll need someone to be here while you’re in surgery and to stay with you the rest of the day after you get discharged since you’ll be coming off general anesthesia. I have already talked to Brendan. He’s still processing everything right now, but he said he’ll be here with you tomorrow. I’m assuming he’ll also be able to help you out tonight, right?”
“We can only hope,” I tell Austin.
“Do you have transportation for tomorrow?”
“I’ll call an Uber.”
He gives me a long, concentrated look, then shakes his head a bit. “Okay, well, don’t have anything or drink after midnight, and if you need anything between now and then, give the hospital a call.”
“I will.”
Austin stands up and circles around before spotting whatever it is he’s looking for. He snags a piece of notepaper and removes a pen from his pocket. “This town is small. We all help each other out around here, so if you really need anything, you can give me a call, okay?” He hands me the piece of paper with his number on it, and I’m probably giving him a look like he’s crazy because that’s sort of what I’m thinking. We just met, and nurses don’t give their numbers out to patients like this.
“Are you seriously giving me your phone number? Couldn’t you get fired for this? Like … isn’t there some kind of ethical code against giving your personal number to a patient?”
He smiles. “We’re in Blytheville, land of the olden days. Doctors and nurses still make house visits in this town. So yeah … ”
“What a welcome this has been,” I tell him with a fake burst of enthusiasm.
“Hang in there.” He places his hand on my shoulder again, and this time I feel the warmth of his hand seep through the thin material of my t-shirt. I’m vulnerable. I’ve been here less than a day. Ignore the white smile against his tanned scruff. Go away, hot nurse. I don’t need you or your Southern charm.
“Well, we know my arm is hanging in there, literally,” I say, pointing to the sling, “so don’t worry about me.”
“Good one,” he says, pointing at me with a wink.
Ugh. “I try.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he says.
“You live here?” I ask.
“No, I work here … ”
“All day, every day?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fun.”
“It hasn’t been so bad today,” he says, leaving me, and taking the last word with him.