Bridget looks worse than I remembered. Her skin's got that translucentquality, with purple shadows under her eyes. But when she sees me, she smiles.
“Erin.”
“Hey, Bridget.” I cross to her, take her hand. It feels so small, so fragile. “How are you feeling, love?”
“Like shite,” she says weakly. “But better now that you're here. Christ, what happened to you two?”
“Oh, it's a fucking long story,” Cavin says. “Bridget, meet Dr. Rosenberg.”
The doctor clears his throat and smiles kindly. “Pleased to meet you. I specialize in cases like yours. Your sister's gone to considerable trouble to arrange this consultation, and I'm here to help. If you'll permit me, I'd like to review your case and determine the best course of treatment.”
Bridget's eyes widen. “You’re the doctor from Glasgow?”
“The same.” He pulls up a chair beside her bed, then opens a tablet. “Now then, let's see what we're up against, shall we?”
I watch from the corner as Dr. Rosenberg starts his examination, asking questions in that calm, clinical voice. Bridget answers as best she can, though she's clearly exhausted.
“I’m sorry about all the… drama,” I say to the doctor.
He waves a hand. “Been friends with the McCarthys for years. I know how things go.”
I nod. “If there’s anything I can do?—”
The doctor smiles up at me. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
I wait expectantly as he tips his head at me. “I hear you knit these bulletproof hats…”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Cavin
Erin hasn't lefther sister's side. She's holding Bridget's hand like it's the only thing anchoring her to earth.
“The disease is aggressive,” Dr. Rosenberg says after reviewing her charts.
“Can you help her?” Erin's voice is small. Desperate.
He looks up and smiles. “Oh, yes. I believe I can.”
The relief on Erin's face nearly breaks me.
“It won't be easy,” he continues. “The treatment I'm proposing is experimental. Aggressive. We have a long road ahead of us, and it will make her feel worse before she feels better. But the success rate for cases like hers is encouraging. Approximately seventy percent achieve full remission.”
“Seventy percent…” Bridget breathes.
“Those are good odds, given where we're starting.” Dr. Rosenberg closes his tablet. “I'll need to run additional tests today. Bloodwork and the like. Then we can begin treatment tomorrow, if you're willing.”
“I'm willing,” Bridget says immediately.
“Eager, good.” Dr. Rosenberg stands and winks at her. “That fighting spirit will serve you well. Now, let me coordinate with the hospital staff. I'll need specific equipment brought in.” He pauses at the door. “Oh, and Mr. McCarthy?”
“Aye?”
“After I'm done here, you're getting those ribs wrapped, that cut stitched, and your bloody head looked at again. No arguments.”
“Aye.”
He leaves before I can protest.
