Page 45 of Veil of the Past
I head over to the attending physician to get the final sign-off on Mr. Wallace’s discharge, weaving through the crowd of staff in the busy corridor. Doctor Harris is at the counter, flipping through a stack of charts, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Doctor Harris,” I say, stepping up beside him. “I’ve got a patient in 312, Mr. Wallace, ready for discharge. Just need your signature to finalize.”
He looks up, his expression softening when he sees me. “Ah, yes, Mr. Wallace,” he says, taking the papers from my hand. “Good work on his case, Alessia. You managed his post-op complications well.”
I nod, feeling a small flush of pride at his words. “Thank you, Doctor Harris. I’ll make sure he understands his discharge instructions before he leaves.”
He signs the papers with a flourish and hands them back to me. “Good. Keep up the good work, Doctor.”
I take the papers and head back toward Room 312, feeling a little lighter, a little more focused. I glance at the clock on the wall; it’s still early, the day stretching out ahead of me like an endless road. But for the first time in days, I don’t feel weighed down by it. There’s a clarity in the work, a purpose, a sense of moving forward.
I step back into Mr. Wallace’s room, finding him sitting up, his expression a mix of hope and impatience. “Good news,” I say, holding up the discharge papers. “Looks like you’re getting out of here today.”
He breaks into a grin, the lines on his face softening with relief. “About damn time,” he mutters, but there’s a twinkle in his eye.
I laugh, setting the papers down on the table and pulling up a chair beside him. “Okay, here’s the deal,” I say, my tone serious but gentle. “I’m going to go over these instructions with you, and I need you to listen carefully, okay?”
He nods, his eyes fixed on mine, and I start explaining—how he needs to keep the wound clean, what signs of infection to look out for, when to take his medication. He listens carefully, nodding along, asking questions here and there, and I feel a sense of satisfaction settle over me. This is why I do what I do, why I push through the exhaustion, the long hours. To help people, to make a difference, even in these small ways.
When I finish, he reaches out and gives my hand a firm shake. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says, his voice sincere. “You’ve been really good to me.”
I smile, squeezing his hand back. “Just doing my job, Mr. Wallace. But I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
He nods, his smile widening. “I’ll make sure to keep this arm elevated, like you said. And maybe I’ll hold off on the beer for a little while.”
I laugh. “Sounds like a good plan.”
Standing I gather the papers and turn to leave. But before I go, I pause, glancing back at him. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Wallace,” I say softly. “And take care of that dog of yours, too.”
He nods, his expression softening. “I will, Doc. And you take care of yourself, too.”
I smile, nodding. “I will. I promise. I’ll have someone finish up your discharge papers and get a wheelchair ready for you. Take care now.”
I step back into the hallway, the noise and bustle of the hospital surrounding me once again, but there’s a lightness in my step, a sense of purpose that carries me forward. I feel a faint buzz in my pocket and reach for my phone, already knowing who it is before I see the screen light up.
A message from Romiro.
Romiro
Miss me yet, Red?
I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my lips, a warmth spreading through my chest that wasn’t there a moment ago. The memory of him, drenched in rain, pulling me against him, the world blurring around us, flickers back into my mind. For a second, I let myself remember the way his hands gripped my waist, the way he kissed me like he needed me more than air. How, even after everything, he found me, found a way to bring us back from the brink.
I type a quick reply.
Me
Don’t get too cocky. I’m busy saving lives over here.
I hitsendand slip the phone back into my pocket, a smile lingering on my lips as I turn and head back toward the nurses’ station.
There’s a flurry of activity as I approach—nurses and techs moving quickly, charts being shuffled, and I see Sheila again, her face pinched with concentration as she types something into the computer.
“Sheila,” I say, catching her eye. “Can you make sure Mr. Wallace gets his discharge paperwork and a wheelchair to the front? He’s ready to go.”
Sheila nods, a quick smile crossing her face. “Got it, Doctor Visconti. I’ll handle it.”
I thank her and turn back to the hallway, moving toward the next task on my never-ending list. I feel a buzz in my pocket again, and my heart skips a beat. I pull out my phone, glancing down at the screen.
