“I helped you when you arrived last night, but it’s understandable if you don’t remember me. It seems ridiculous to ask you how you’re feeling, so I’ll just ask about your pain. I know you were concerned about taking pain medication at first, but you agreed to Toradol. Is it working well for you?” he asks.
I appreciate the lack of bullshitting, quite frankly. “Yep.”
He waits for more but I don’t provide it, so he moves on. “Let us know if that stops being the case, would you? Between you and me, you’re not getting out of here until I’m confident you can breathe deeply enough to avoid the risk of pneumonia. You’re not going to be able to do that without some sort of pain medication.”
Another stand-off, and his lips quirk when I don’t respond to that either, eyes flicking over to Maddox. “Are you okay with me going over your diagnoses with Mr. Whittaker in the room?”
I nod and he takes over the mouse on the nurse’s computer. After a few seconds, he spins the screen around. An x-ray fills the screen and I think it’s of my ribs, but that’s just about the extent of my medical knowledge. Maddox takes in a quick breath.
The doctor uses the butt of his pen as a pointer to fill in the gaps. “This is the imagery of your ribcage,” he says helpfully, moving the pen along a few of the bones. “The two at the bottom here are fully fractured. The good news is, they’re clean breaks, which means there’s no need for surgery and they’ll heal on their own within about 6-8 weeks. This one,” he moves the pen to the rib just above those, “has a hairline fracture—essentially a crack.”
His eyes return to me and I nod. Nothing he’s saying issurprising me. My earlier inability to breathe without wanting to jump off a cliff had clued me in to the whole broken rib thing.
“What about that one?” Maddox says behind me, gesturing towards the screen again. “Two up. That one’s broken too, isn’t it? It looks… different.”
The doctor’s eyes stay on mine for a beat and I swear I can feel what he’s about to say before he does. “That’s an old injury. A couple of months, at most, but I couldn’t tell you for sure. There’s nothing on file for any visits pertaining to a cracked rib prior to this one. ” he says, finally looking at Maddox, dragging the pen along the knobby-looking rib. “It healed on its own, just not very well, which is why the healing callus is so thick.”
I grit my teeth, wishing I’d taken the hint when the doctor subtly offered to kick Maddox out before going over my diagnoses. With any luck, Maddox would choose now to live up to a himbo stereotype, but based on how quiet the room has gotten, I don’t think that is the case. His hand leaves mine and I don’t look back to see why, but it sounds like he sat back in his chair, the breath he huffs out further away than it would’ve been if he hadn’t.
“Regardless, to prevent this from happening again,” the doctor says, tapping the butt of the pen against the screen, “you’ll need to take it easy for the next two months. Moving on,” he clicks around until a new image fills the screen. “This is your nose, which is also broken, but not displaced, which means I didn’t have to go in and realign it for you. It should heal within four to six weeks. As long as nothing bumps it and you follow the instructions we give you when we discharge you, it likely won’t be cosmetically noticeable. Following me so far?”
“Yes,” I say with a tight jaw. Maddox’s hand finds my thigh over the mounds of blankets they’ve stacked on me, squeezing it gently. I’m not sure if he’s trying to show his support or reprimanding me for my attitude.
Dr. Carson is quick to dole out the remaining diagnoses, but I feel like I’m barely even hearing him. I knew I was in bad shape.The confirmation doesn’t make it any easier to swallow and I don’t plan to listen to much of his advice anyway, something he seems to have already guessed.
“Your shoulder was displaced when you arrived, so you’ll keep it in a sling for the next two weeks if you know what’s best for you, along with the brace on your wrist, which was sprained. You have a concussion that we’re closely monitoring and five stitches through a laceration on your forehead that we’ll remove in about a week for you.”
His face softens a tad and I wonder if he has to practice it, like an actor. I wonder how many people he couldn’t save, if he’s become desensitized yet or if every patient is still a person to him. “The good news, Austin, is that none of your injuries are life-threatening and you’re going to make a full recovery, physically. Do either of you have any questions for me?”
I imagine Maddox has loads, so I ask mine before he can start in. “When can I leave?”
Dr. Carson chuckles. “I had a feeling that would be your biggest concern,” he says, turning the computer back to face him and clicking around for a minute, tilting his head this way and that, like he’s calculating something.
With a sigh, he locks it and walks closer to the bed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ll make a deal with you, Austin. My relief is scheduled to be here at four.IfI’m satisfied with how everything’s looking and feel confident that you’ll actually follow my instructions, I’ll clear you to be discharged before I leave for the night. You’ll be out of here by seven or eight, tops.”
That timeframe felt unfathomable, honestly, but it was better than spending days here. I look over at the wall clock to avoid Dr. Carson’s knowing eyes, counting the hours. Ten. “What will you be looking for to determine that?”
He grins, wide. “Well now, if I told you that, you may be tempted to give us answers that match what I’m wanting to hear, rather than truths.”
Maddox snorts and I flick his hand where it’s still resting onmy thigh for taking the doctor’s side. Dr. Carson laughs again as he leaves the room. “I look forward to checking in with you again later, Austin.”
“I’m sure,” I grumble as the door closes, leaving Maddox and I alone again.
Not a huge fan of that right now, all things considered.
FORTY-SIX
AUSTIN
“Maddox,you’re driving me up the fucking wall.”
It’s been four days since the night my dad beat the shit out of me and three since I got to leave the hospital. Maddox had decided on my behalf that I’d be staying with him—not in the Big House with my best friend, who’d recently come over and sobbed through apologizing for everything she said at the diner that day as if she didn’t have every right to say those things, but with him.
Granted, I don’t think Dr. Carson would’ve let me leave without confirmation I’d be staying with someone, considering the whole having-a-concussion thing, but still. Kenny would’ve been a fine babysitter.
Kenny probably wouldn’t have been nearly as far up my ass as Maddox has been, which is probably why he hadn’t even considered letting me stay there.
“Sorry for giving a shit,” he drones for the millionth time in three days in a voice that isn’t sorry at all. “Here. Take your medicine.”
