“A word, Doctor Decker,” she says, her voice cool and detached.
I push to my feet and follow her down the hallway, my pulse hammering, my ears ringing. Doctor Singh walks stiffly, her chin lifted, her nose turned up slightly, and I know that she’s thinking I’m a disgrace to my position.
Add her to the list of people who do.
I swallow hard as we move behind the heavy doors back to a private stretch of hallway where the Marshall’s can’t hear us.
“How is she?”
“Doctor Walker, I’m not going to mince words. The driver was texting when they swerved into her lane. It was a head-on collision, and it was bad.”
The words punch the air from my lungs. I know what that means. I know how bad it can be, and I know the potential outcomes.
Doctor Singh exhales, glancing at the scans in her hands. “The good news is, she came in alert. A little out of it, but talking.We ran a scan, and—” she hesitates, watching me closely before continuing, “—there’s significant swelling on her brain. We needed to put her in a medically induced coma until the swelling subsides.”
“No.”
Her expression hardens. “I’m her doctor right now, not you. And I’ve already made the decision, so I need you to respect that this was the right one when she arrived.”
“No,” I snap, louder this time, the word scraping out of my throat like it physically hurts to say.
Doctor Singh takes a measured step back from me, crossing her arms. “Please, for one second, try to separate your personal feelings from what’s medically necessary here to save this woman’s life and protect her brain. We’re trained for years to handle situations like this. I understand that feelings are involved here, but please trust that I would never risk my license by doing something that I didn’t feel was absolutely necessary.”
She extends the scans toward me across the space between us—the chasm she’s created with her logic, with her level-headed professionalism, with the very thing I should be exhibiting right now but can’t.My eyes drag over the images, frantic, scanning for any other possibility, any other option. I don’t want to agree. I can’t agree with this plan. But fuck.
She’s right.
This is what’s best for Regan. It’s what will give her brain a healing chance. The swelling needs time to go down. She needs time to heal. It’s the same call I would have made if she were anyone else.
I rub a hand down my face, across my jaw, dragging at the skin like I can physically pull myself together from this nightmare.
“Fuck.” My voice cracks. “Fuck, she has to be okay, doctor. She has to come out of this okay.”
Doctor Singh nods, her voice softening. “You know as well as I do what the likely outcome is when she comes out of the coma.”
And I do.
I know exactly what’s waiting for us on the other side of this. Best case scenario, a full recovery, some mild confusion and limited physical impairments. More likely outcome, they wake up disoriented, confused, unable to form new memories or remember recent events, physical difficulties such as ligament movements or speech that require therapy.
And worst case scenario?
Permanent impairment, or irreversible brain damage.
I nod slowly, swallowing down the knot in my throat, forcing some semblance of composure. “Can I see her now?” My voice barely works. “Please.”
She hesitates. She shouldn’t let me. She knowsshe shouldn’t. Not when I’m this much of a mess. But if she doesn’t, I’ll work tomorrow and I’ll come in here and see her anyways. What’s a few more hours?
I try to straighten, try to sober myself up, but I know I’m failing miserably. I’m still reeking of tequila and whiskey, my hand’s throbbing from the glass that’s planted in there, and my chest is full of regret. So, I plead with her.
“Please, Doctor Singh.” My voice wavers. “She’s my wife. I love her. She’s the love of my life.”
It’s not a lie. It’s actually the most honest thing I’ve ever said.
She exhales sharply, then nods. “Fine. But only from outside the room.”
I follow her down the hall, the air feeling heavier with every step. We stop in front of one of the ICU rooms—one of the few we’ve managed to get up and running since we started this unit. We have plans to expand it, hire some outside nurses who have the necessary skills that our hospital lacks, but for now, it’s just three small rooms and limited equipment.
I drag in a deep breath and force myself to look through the window. And then I wish I hadn’t. She’s not in her wedding dress anymore. She’s stripped down to a thin hospital gown, her head wrapped in stark white bandages, a ventilator tube down her throat, monitors beeping steadily.
