Was she really a workaholic? Was she just diving back into the rat race of her life as an orthopedic surgeon? But wasn’t that the nature of the job?
For some reason, Emily actually cared about what Tessa had said about her and her lack of personal life, her tendency to bury herself in work. So much so that the drive to work felt like a blur. Her mind was too busy. Her thoughts were all over the place. When the bridge stretched out ahead of her, the view of the water sparkling beneath the early morning sun, she was barely distracted.
It was only when she arrived at the hospital and parked her car in her designated spot that she remembered her appointment with Bette.
Taking a few deep breaths and checking her face in the rearview mirror––twice––Emily made her way into the hospital and up to the rehab center, already dreading the hour ahead.
The doors were open and when Emily walked in, she felt that familiar knot in her stomach. It wasn’t that Bette was intimidating—or maybe she was. But it was more so the idea of being scrutinized, of being evaluated like she was
“Good morning, Doctor Sharp,” said the woman behind the receptionist's desk. She was young, no doubt, with her hair sleeked down the middle and blush on her cheeks. “Bette will be with you in a minute. She said to head to bed number six.”
Emily gave a nod, wondering why she hadn’t called in sick or canceled altogether. This was a catastrophe waiting to happen. With a last glance at the exit, she meandered to bed six and sat down on the plinth. The rehab center really needed an upgrade. She’d seen better ones at other hospitals with private treatment rooms. Not to mention the equipment was all outdated––
“Well, look who actually decided to show up on time,” Bette remarked, interrupting her thoughts. There wasn’t a hint of bitterness in her tone, just the opposite actually, yet Emily still felt the comment like a sting on her side.
“I’m usually very timely,” she replied, straightening her spine. The only reason she’d been late last time was because she had paced back and forth in her office debating whether to show up at all. “Last time was just an…anomaly.”
“Right,” Bette said, her smile bordering on the amused. She pulled the curtain closed and dropped the clipboard on the chair beside the bed. “Let’s get started. I didn’t get a proper assessment last time, so best we do that first.”
Emily’s stomach dropped all the way down to her hips––or so it felt. She wasn’t sure why the sudden discomfort. Was it because she anticipated pain in her shoulder? Or was it because the only way for Bette to do a proper assessment was to get close again, to enter Emily’s personal space, to touch her with those long slender fingers?
“If you’ve got a tank top on underneath your scrubs, please slip that off,” Bette instructed.
“I’m wearing a bra,” Emily said, feeling stupid for not thinking her outfit through. Of course, she needed to expose her shoulder. It was the only way for Bette to assess her shoulder properly.
“If you’re comfortable––”
“I am,” Emily interrupted, cutting off whatever Bette was going to say. She shrugged off the scrubs shirt and dropped it to the end of the bed, hyper aware of the black lacy bra she’d insisted on wearing. Her mom always said you should dress like you might get hit by a bus—a phrase that now carried a little too much irony given her recent car accident. But Bette barely glanced her way before she instructed Emily to lie down as if itwere just another Tuesday and Emily was just another patient. Technically, she was.
“This might feel a little uncomfortable,” Bette said, guiding Emily’s arm into different positions. She stood so close Emily could smell her perfume. Was it citrus? Or were there hints of jasmine in there, soft and floral without being overpowering? Whatever the scent, Emily didn’t think she’d ever smelled something that good. It was distracting, far too distracting, frankly.
The assessment was as thorough as Emily would’ve done it if she was seeing a patient of her own. She didn’t even mind that she had to bite the inside of her cheek once or twice when Bette had lifted and rotated her arm. The woman’s hands were gentle, softer than she could ever imagine, and by the time Bette had stepped back, the separation felt almostjarring.
“You’ve got some tightness in the joint capsule,” Bette observed, her tone clinical. She picked up her clipboard to jot down her observations. “And your range of motion is limited, especially external rotation.”
“I’ve noticed,” Emily said sarcastically—she couldn’t help it, it was her first line of defense—but then quickly changed her tone when she found Bette staring at her. “The pain wasn’t unbearable.”
Bette nodded. “It’s quite normal for where you’re at in recovery. The good news is there’s no obvious instability in the joint. You’re still healing and as you already know, there’s still a lot of work to be done.”
Emily didn’t like the sound of “a lot of work to be done.” She wanted it done now. A quick fix so she could get back in the OR. Preferably by tomorrow.
As if Bette read her mind, she said, “We’ll focus on restoring your range of motion and strengthening the surroundingmuscles. It’s not a quick fix, but it’s doable.Ifyou put in the work.”
Emily pulled a face and then expected a lashing, but Bette only shook her head and chuckled. “Doctors make the worst patients.” She stepped closer to the bed once more and placed her hands on Emily’s shoulder. “Can I ask how it happened? The injury, I mean. I know it was a car accident, but there’s always more to the story, isn’t there?” She met Emily’s eye, something flickered across those irises, and then as if she felt that she was overstepping, quickly added, “You don’t have to answer. Really. But from my experience, I’ve learned that it’s beneficial for people to talk about what happened. Helps with the rehabilitation.”
Emily was caught slightly off guard. Most people never gave her the option to choose; they only watched her with severe curiosity in their eyes, as if begging for the details, as if they would pry it out of her like a tooth with forceps if she didn’t give it to them.
Emily stared at her hands in her lap for a moment. For some reason, she wanted to share. She wanted to tell Bette all about it. “A drunk ran a red light.”
Bette opened her mouth to say something but for some reason, Emily wanted to keep talking. “I keep thinking about how stupid it was,” she said. “I’d been working nonstop. Back-to-back surgeries, consults, and more paperwork than I could keep track of.” She let out a hollow laugh. “I was exhausted, but I kept going. Told myself I had to. And then…” Emily hesitated, catching a glimpse of Bette’s brown eyes, how they looked almost golden under the harsh fluorescent light. “I just didn’t see him, you know. If I’d just looked. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would’ve double-checked and seen him––”
“You know it’s not your fault,” Bette interrupted, holding onto her gaze. “It’s the person’s fault who thought drinkingbefore driving was a good idea. They’re the only ones to blame for this. Not you, Emily. No matter how exhausted you were.”
“I know,” she muttered softly, more to herself than Bette. “But maybe if I had just looked after myself, I could’ve kept myself safe.”
Bette was silent for a moment, just watching her, and it was that silence that made Emily feel like she could breathe a little easier.
“You’re not the first person to be hard on themselves,” Bette said after a beat. “We all do it. But you’re here, and you’re still working and that’s something.” She checked her watch, snapping back into professional mode. “Now let’s focus on the shoulder.”
