The rest of the session went off without a hitch. Bette worked with the calm, unshakeable confidence of someone long in the profession, someone who had seen it all––amputations, fractures, polytraumas and everything in between––and by the time, the clock struck the hour, Greg was left exhausted but atleast still smiling. “You know, if I had known that hauling those damn fifty-pound bags of supplies would wreck my body like this––”
“You’d probably do it all over again,” Bette interrupted, knowing most people never regretted the battles their bodies had fought, even if they ended up paying for it later.
He chuckled, grabbed his jacket swung over the chair close to the bed, and nodded. “You’re right, Doc. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
“Well, just another three weeks, Greg, and you’ll be getting your new knee.” She escorted him out of the treatment area. “I’ll see you for our next session at the end of the week.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Greg said, waving goodbye.
Bette watched him shuffle down the hallway until the wisps of silver hair disappeared around the corner. Her next appointment was only in thirty minutes, which was perfect considering the load of paperwork she still had to do. She headed to her office, a small, but neatly organized room tucked at the back of the rehab center. Textbooks lined the shelves, papers were stacked neatly, and the only thing personal in the entire space was a fiddle leaf fig she miraculously hadn’t managed to kill yet.
Just as she reached for the door, Steven walked in.
“Got a new referral for you,” he said, a little too reluctantly. Steven was young, eager, and just starting to find his rhythm in the department. He’d been with Oakridge for just under a month and was still a little too green to know how to mask his nerves.
“A new referral?” Bette asked, nodding at the clipboard, masking the fatigue she was already feeling from the day. Which wasn’t ideal, considering it was still mid-morning. “Who’s the patient?”
Steven glanced down at the clipboard, his eyes scanning the details. “It’s Doctor Emily Sharp. She’s an orthopedic surgeon here.”
The name was a vague memory, a name on a board somewhere, but apart from that Bette had no real memory of a surgeon called Emily working at Oakridge Hospital. The only orthopedic surgeons she worked with daily since starting the job were Dr. Alison Henry, who had immigrated from Australia two years ago and was thinking of moving back home, and Dr. Barry Meissner who looked as old and grey as the hospital itself.
“Why does she need therapy?” Bette asked, sticking out her hand for the referral letter.
Steven handed her paper. “She had a car accident and has been dealing with some shoulder issues since. It seems to be affecting her range of motion. And I’m assuming she’s got some pain too.”
“How long ago was the car accident?”
“Seven weeks,” Steven replied, glimpsing down at his watch. It was obvious he had somewhere else to be and Bette was keeping him from it. “She’s been off work ever since but is coming back this week.”
An orthopedic surgeon with a shoulder issue. There was something in that dynamic that felt intriguing, like a puzzle she was ready to solve. Her mind quickly ran through the usual protocol—a thorough assessment, a treatment plan, and a careful balance of pushing the patient without pushing too hard. For some reason, Bette had a feeling Dr. Emily Sharp wouldn’t be the easiest patient. Surgeons, after all, were notorious for their control issues, and Bette doubted this one would be any different.
“I’ll take the referral.” She was just about to ask Steven to let Maggie, the receptionist who was currently out getting coffee,know to schedule an appointment for the new patient when Steven suddenly interrupted her train of thought.
“Doctor Sharp said she’ll pop in tomorrow sometime.” His face suddenly tightened, eyes darting toward the floor like a guilty child caught sneaking dessert before dinner, and quickly added. “If that’s fine with you? I think she’s trying to fit the session in between surgeries, or meetings, or something.”
Bette felt the prickle of annoyance at the back of her neck. “Pop in?” she repeated, the words tasting sour on her tongue. “This isn’t a coffee shop, Steven. There’s a schedule we follow every day to accommodate all the out and in patients. There’s no time for anyone topopin.”
Steven’s panic deepened, his ears turning pink. “I know, I know! It’s just…she’s Doctor Sharp, and you know how orthopedic surgeons can be.”
Bette knew all too well. Orthopedic surgeons often placed themselves on pedestals above the rest. They wielded scalpels like magic wants and strutted through hospitals like gods. Bette had been a physical therapist for just under twenty years, and things never changed. There would be no reason to think otherwise of Dr. Emily Sharp.
“Fine,” she relented bitterly. “I’ll await her majesty.”
Steven gave a strangled chuckle and practically bolted through the door, clearly relieved to have escaped with his life. Bette watched the doors swing closed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
If Dr. Sharp wanted to pop in at her convenience, Bette would be ready.
2
EMILY
Doctor Emily Sharp walked into the orthopedic wing of Oakridge Hospital, the place that had once felt like her second home, but now felt more like a stage she wasn’t sure she remembered how to perform on. The polished floors gleamed, the faint tang of antiseptic still clung to the air, and her colleagues all bustled around her with that purpose that once fueled her.
Now, it all just felt… loud. The voices, the movements, the relentless energy of a place where no one ever sat still—where life had carried on without her.
“Doctor Sharp!”
Emily turned at the sound of her name to find Dr. James Caldwell striding toward her, his usual charming smile fixed firmly in place. The female patients loved him.
