“We have the results of your scans back.” In the way of all harried ER docs, the Doogie Howser lookalike wasted no time grabbing the rolling stool shoved into the corner and scooting it next to Eliza’s bed.
Upon the physician’s entry, Britt had gotten up to make room. And now the former Ranger stood next to Fisher. If the stillness of Britt’s chest was anything to go by, he too was holding his breath as they waited to hear the doctor’s assessment of Eliza’s condition.
Head injuries were a tricky business. A person could seem perfectly fine one minute. And the next they could be dead on the floor from an intercranial bleed.
“There’s no bruising or fractures.” Doogie eyed the glowing image on his tablet’s screen. “But you certainly have a concussion. Something between stage one and stage two.”
When he glanced up, it was to see Eliza’s dark eyebrows pulled into a V. He was quick to explain. “A stage one concussion has no loss of consciousness and no amnesia. Or the amnesia only lasts for less than thirty minutes. Stage two has a loss of consciousness, and/or the amnesia lasts from thirty minutes to twenty-four hours. You lost consciousness. So you’re a little more than stage one. But you reported your memory loss only lasted a couple minutes. So you’re not quite stage two.”
In typical Eliza fashion, she wasn’t satisfied with only a portion of the information. “You said there are three stages. What’s the third?”
“That’s the mack daddy. Characterized by a loss of consciousness for more than five minutes and a loss of memory for more than twenty-four hours.”
“How awful.” Eliza shuddered. “The couple of minutes I spent not knowing where I was or what had happened to me were terrifying. I couldn’t imagine feeling that way for a whole day.”
“Mmm.” The doctor answered distractedly as he keyed something into his tablet. “Sometimes people are lucky to forget whatever trauma they’ve experienced.”
When Eliza’s eyes filled with tears, Fisher fought the urge to smack the medicine man on the ear. Some people’s heads were hard-boiled, and it didn’t matter how many fancy degrees they had or how many letters followed their names in the signature line of their emails.
Doogie realized the callousness of his remark when he saw the horror on Eliza’s face. The look of contriteness that entered his eyes gave Fisher hope that, with experience, his bedside manner would improve.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Meadows. That was a thoughtless remark.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice sounded as watery as her eyes looked. “You’re right. Therecanbe comfort in oblivion.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes. Well… I’m going to send you home with a concussion protocol.”
Apprehension had Fisher speaking up. “You’re not goin’ to keep her overnight for observation?”
“No need.” Doogie shook his head, causing his stick-straight hair to shift over his forehead. He pushed it back with impatient fingers. “She’ll be better off recovering somewhere she can rest and relax.”
“What’s the concussion protocol?” Eliza prompted.
Right down to business. That was their girl Friday.
“Watch out for a worsening headache, nausea, vomiting, one pupil larger than the other, dizziness, slurred speech, confusion. If you experience any of these things, come back in immediately.” Again, Doogie keyed something into his tablet. After he was finished, he stood and added, “No NSAIDs because they increase your risk of bleeding. If you need pain relief, stick with Tylenol. And rest. Rest is key. Rest is what your brain needs to heal.”
“Am I supposed to stay awake for the first twenty-four hours?”
The doc shook his head. “That’s old-school. New research shows sleep is beneficial. Just have someone check in on you every few hours. They need to make sure you don’t have trouble waking up or answering some simple questions.”
The physician’s eyes noted the ring on her finger—it was hard to miss given the diamond was big enough to be seen from space—and pinged over to Britt. “I’m assuming you’ll be more than happy to look after her?”
A yawning chasm opened up inside Fisher. The doctor automatically assumedBritthad been the one to give her that ring?What am I? Chopper liver?Then he reminded himself it’d been Britt hugging her tight when the sawbones had ducked into the little makeshift room. So Doogie had made a natural assumption.
Funny thing, though, evenwiththat realization, Fisher couldn’t seem to fill the void inside him. And even funnier still—funny strange, not funny ha-ha—was howheavythat emptiness felt.
It was like he’d just been given proofthat the universe and everyone in it naturally assumed he wasn’t fit to kiss Eliza’s feet much less be the one to sweep her off them.
“We’ll make sure she’s looked after,” Britt assured the white coat. “No worries, Doc.”
Satisfied he’d done his duty by his patient, Doogie turned for the break in the curtain. But before he pushed through, he offered one final piece of information. “The nurses will come get you once they’ve processed your discharge forms. Hang tight until then.”
Britt retook his seat on the edge of Eliza’s bed and grabbed her hands. “We’ll have you home in no time and—” He cut himself off, jerked his chin down to their clasped hands, and let his jaw fall open when he spied the ring on her finger. “Holy shit!”
Fisher wasn’t surehowBritt hadn’t noticed the damn thing before. Then again, Britt wasn’t attuned to every little detail of Eliza’s existence the way he was.
“McClean asked you to marry him?” Britt held up her hand so the overhead light blazed into the diamond and refracted a dazzling prism of colors around the curtains.
