“Honestly, Lucy. Sometimes those guys just wing it, and often they have zero hen-durance during long surgeries.”
I held up a hand, shaking my head as I fought back laughter. “You win. Your handwriting is perfect. I can read every word you write.”
“I knew you’d come around. It would be absolutely fowl to have a chicken doctor.” Doctor Emerson quirked an eyebrow, waiting for me to catch his final jab.
“I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of laughing at that.” Even as a I said it, I couldn’t help chuckling under my breath.
The vitals machine beeped an error code and Doctor Emerson shrugged. “Okay, silly hats off. Let’s try that again.”
He repositioned the cuff and hit the start button again.
This time, I stayed still, staring out the window while the machine read my blood pressure. When the thermometer with its thin plastic shield came into view, I automatically opened my mouth and let the doctor push it beneath my tongue.
Outside, a yellow Warbler darted past the glass. A flash of brightness, moving so fast and freely. I envied its wings, its ability to simply fly away whenever it wanted. Chickens couldn’t fly like that, but I’d still give anything to be able to lift off the ground for even a short distance and a brief time.
"One-oh-two over sixty," he announced, removing the cuff. "Still running lower than I’d like to see."
“I could run higher, but there’s no third floor and I’m already on the second. How about we test it again on the roof?”
“How about I adjust your medication, and we don’t leave your life-preserving, ‘keeps you away from harmful germs’ sanctuary?” Doctor Emerson winked at me, but his words hit me like rubber bullets. Not enough to kill or truly maim, but enough that they’d bruise.
“I mean, if you want to take the easy way out,” I answered, voice now sullen.
His next words, though I think they were an attempt to cheer me up, shifted from rubber projectiles to shotgun shells. “Heard from your parents lately? I called them last week about a new drug I’d like to try. It’s had some amazing results in initial clinical studies. Just need to work out some insurance logistics.”
“They called about a month ago,” I spoke slowly, watching the way the good doctor’s gray eyes darkened subtly. “I’m sure they’ll visit soon.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said quickly. “In fact, I’ll give them a call today and help figure out a good weekend for them to come. The hotel Brightfield bought last year is nearly done and families will be able to stay free of charge when they visit our patients. That should help a lot of people come to see their loved ones more often.”
Doctor Emerson sounded so enthusiastic, as if the only thing stopping people from visiting their sick relatives was a place to sleep. I knew, from harsh experience, that wasn’t the case. The first and only time my parents had come back to Brightfield to see me, another parent had offered their guest room anytime my mom and dad came to Moab.
19
LUCY
{Over ten years ago}
Young Lucy. Another year later.
My hospital roomat Brightfield House had become a museum of small kindnesses. The shelf above my bed displayed origami cranes folded by night nurse Ella—the flock was growing so large that I’d need to expand their nesting grounds soon. On the small desk sat three books, gifts from Doctor Emerson who believed fiction was as necessary as oxygen. Though, living without my oxygen would be far harder than living without stories. One of the desk drawers held a deck of cards, worn soft at the edges from Nurse Marcus’s countless demonstrations of impossible shuffles during his lunch breaks. These objects mapped the geography of my found family—the people who showed up, day after day, when my blood family failed me.
Doctor Emerson arrived precisely at nine-thirty, his tall frame made bulkier by the protective suit. His eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure when he smiled at me. Unlike some of theother doctors who treated my room like a lab experiment with me as the specimen, Doctor Emerson always made me feel like a person first, patient second. I didn’t like when one of the other doctor’s subbed for him.
"Lucy Graves, defender of books and slayer of boredom," he announced, holding up two plastic-wrapped packages. "I come bearing an adventure to the darkest depths of the ocean. The Nautilus awaits."
I set aside the Civics worksheet I'd been pretending to care about. "Please tell me it's not another Tolstoy. I couldn’t keep up with all the names."
"You wound me," he said, pressing a gloved hand to his chest in mock offense. "Anna Karenina is a balm for the soul.”
"I feel like, just maybe, you’re not exactly in touch with teenage girl reading tastes." I made a silly face, scrunching my nose like I smelled something foul.
He laughed, the sound distorted slightly by his mask but warm, nonetheless. "I’ll keep that in mind for the next book. Verne might surprise you though." He unwrapped the package, revealing a book with a glossy cover showing a giant sea creature twisted around an odd submersible. “This was a favorite of mine when I was a boy.”
He handed it to me, my fingers slicking across the plastic-coated cover. I read the back, and, admittedly, my interest was piqued. Then, I peered at the good doctor. “What’s the other one?”
“Oh, this one?” He held it up, shaking it gently from side to side. “Only a breathtaking photographic tour through Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, El Salvador and more.”
"Real places," I whispered, setting the Vernian tome on my knees and reaching hungrily for the other book he hadn’t unwrapped.
