I nod even though she can’t see it. But I can’t speak right now because my mother’s despair has transferred to me—as it always does. I suffer along with her, and at the same time, I feel ashamed of my selfish longing for her love. Aaron is the one who needs help right now, not me.
Suddenly, the door to the treatment room swings open with a bang, and Clara rushes in. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are wide open. "Quick, we need you," she blurts out breathlessly.
This distraction is just what I need. I hate the same dark place I find myself in whenever I’m confronted with my family’s problems.
"I’ll take care of it," I quickly tell my mother and end the call. Then I turn to Clara. "What happened?"
She looks panicked.
I can feel adrenaline starting to course through my body. I rush to my feet. Swiftly, I reach for the doctor’s bag and join Clara. She grabs my forearm and pulls me down the hallway. I only vaguely notice the curious gazes of the patients in the waiting room.
"A laceration," the medical assistant informs me, and my excitement subsides.
A laceration?
If the patient made it this far—and obviously he did—it can’t be that bad.
Nevertheless, I follow Clara to the reception. The patient sits on the office chair behind the half-height counter. Next to him stands a worried-looking middle-aged woman with messy curls. I circle the chair to approach him.
It’s Noah. I see pain in his expression. But also surprise. He stares at me with wide eyes, and it’s quite possible I’m doing the same.
He’s damn pale. His lips tremble.
My gaze moves downward. In his lap, he holds a blood-soaked piece of fabric.
I lift my hand completely by instinct but manage to stop myself just before it rests on his shoulder. "We’ll handle this, don’t worry."
He nods, struggling to keep his eyes open. "It’s just a minor thing," he mutters nervously.
He should let me be the judge of that. "Clara, please bring the wheelchair," I say, my voice firm and matter-of-fact, as befits a professional.
Despite Noah’s protests, we lift him into the transport aid together. Clara’s hands tremble uncontrollably.
"Can you inform Helene, please?" I ask her even though I’m confident I can handle this on my own.
She nods. "I already did. She had to leave urgently and wanted you to take the case."
Strange. Last week, she lectured me about not treating emergencies alone, and now she’s giving me complete freedom without even seeing the patient once?
Could it be that I’ve made such a good impression on her in the past few days that I've earned her trust?
Yes, that must be it.
With a warm feeling in my chest, I nod to Clara. "Let’s go, then."
I start pushing the wheelchair. Noah remains silent, emitting only occasional low groans. Upon reaching the treatment room, I ask him to take a seat in theexamination chair, spread a sterile cloth on the table, and turn on the lamp of the magnifying glass.
"Please place your hand here," I say, trying to sound as professional as possible.
Instead of following my instructions, he shoots me a warning look. "It looks bad."
What?
Does he think I’m afraid of a little blood?
"I’ve operated on accident victims impaled on wooden fences," I reply with a smirk although that’s not entirely true. I’ve only assisted, but he doesn’t need to know that. The important thing is that he allows me to treat him. "Come on."
He reluctantly lifts his arm and positions his right hand on the table, which is still wrapped up in the dripping-wet dark-red towel. Glad that I can now focus solely on my work, I push the fabric aside.
