Between You and Me. Susan Wiggs

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      A nasal sound came from her purse. He started, the first sudden movement she’d seen him make. “Sorry,” she said, fumbling in her handbag. “It’s my phone.” She took it out and checked the screen.

      Her mother, of course.

      “Shit.”

      “How’s that?” he asked.

      Shit. She’d completely lost track of the time. That wasn’t like her at all. “Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said to Caleb. Without waiting for his assent, she left the table and stepped over to the side of the cafeteria near the garbage cans. “Mom, I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. I’m tied up here at the hospital.”

      “Your shift was over forty-five minutes ago,” Joanna Powell pointed out.

      How many other adults had a mother who memorized their work schedule?

      “I know, but there’s a sort of … interesting case I’m involved in.” She cast a glance at Caleb Stoltz, who had managed to put away a dinner that would have satisfied three regular-size men. “I’m so sorry. I was really looking forward to getting together with you and Daddy tonight.”

      “I guess there’s nothing else to be done,” her mother said. “We’ll just have to reschedule. In the meantime, I’ll email you some things about the residency interviews.”

      “Thanks, Mom,” Reese said. “You’re the best.”

      She got off the phone quickly and hurried back to the table. Caleb finished his large cup of Coke.

      “Would you like something else to drink?” she asked. “There’s lemonade, iced tea, or—”

      “I’m okay. Just not used to the taste of a Coca-Cola. Been a long time.”

      Reese wasn’t quite sure why she’d stood up her parents in order to linger at the hospital with this man, a stranger whose nephew had passed through the emergency room. Ordinarily patients came and went like leaves floating down a smooth-flowing river. Often, that river flowed with blood, but it continued on as regularly as the janitorial staff that cleaned each exam room and curtain area after each successive patient.

      Something about this man and his injured little boy took hold of Reese’s heart. She simply wasn’t ready to sign off on him yet. It happened that way with patients sometimes. The residents and attendings she worked with talked about the fact that a certain case or patient or family member caused a peculiar resonance in the doctor, for a variety of reasons.

      Reese sheepishly acknowledged that a few of the reasons might have to do with an unusual man with piercing eyes, and a sweet, broken boy.

      She accompanied Caleb back up to the SICU, stopping at the nurses’ station to see when the doctor would be by to talk to him again. Outside Jonah’s suite, they stood together, looking at the boy through the thick safety glass of the window.

      “He’s still sound asleep,” Reese said.

      “Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

      “You can ask the doctor when he comes on evening rounds.”

      “Aren’t you a doctor?”

      “Almost. I’m a fourth-year med student. I was with the trauma team when they brought Jonah in, but he’s not my patient. I just thought you might want somebody around in case you have any more questions about Jonah.”

      He leaned his hand on the upper frame of the window and kept his eyes on Jonah. His whole body tensed. “It’s good of you to take the time for us, Reese.”

      It felt strange to hear him call her Reese. Patients and families often addressed her as “Doctor,” unaware that she hadn’t graduated yet.

      She pressed her forehead to the glass and gazed at the small, still form amid the tubes and monitors. The huge bandage on the elevated arm stump dominated the scene. There would be nothing simple about this boy’s life now.

      “Did anyone talk to you about what you might say to Jonah when he wakes up?” she asked.

      “No. But I’ve thought about it plenty. How do you tell a little kid that he’s lost his arm? How do you tell him he’ll never throw a baseball with that hand again or hold a sandwich in his fingers, or pick up a tool to work? How do you tell him he’ll never properly shake hands with his bride’s father or pet his dog on the head with that hand?”

      She winced at the pain she heard in his voice. “You just tell him. I wish there was another way, or a different outcome, but there’s not. You’ll simply have to tell him, directly and honestly, that he’s lost a limb and he’ll learn to get on without it. It’s terrible, but the worst part is over and he survived. A different sort of life is waiting for him now.” She felt surprised to hear herself speaking to him with more confidence than she felt. Speaking like the sort of doctor she hoped to become.

      “What sort of life will that be?”

      For the first time, Reese sensed anger in him. “With proper therapy and prosthetics, he’ll manage,” she said. “The technology is so advanced nowadays that a prosthetic arm with a properly fitted artificial hand can function very much like a natural one.” She bit her lip, wishing the words could be more reassuring.

      “So you’re saying he’s going to get an artificial limb?”

      “That’s the recommended protocol. It’s the best way to give him the most functionality,” she said. “The stump will need time and therapy to heal properly to accept a permanent prosthesis. Once he’s fitted with that, he’ll undergo more therapy to learn how to use his new hand.” She turned to him. “I know it’s hard. That boy’s life changed in an instant. But kids are incredible. I’ve worked with many of them in my rotations. They’re amazingly resilient. They can adapt to almost anything.” She resisted the urge to put her hand on his arm. “The ones who do best are those with a supportive family. Judging by how devoted you are, I’d guess Jonah has that.”

      When he didn’t answer, a disturbing thought occurred to her. “Don’t tell me an artificial limb is against your religion,” she said.

      “As far as I know, it’s not.”

      “Good,” she said.

      They stood together for a few quiet moments, then stepped into the room. The nurse at the computer terminal acknowledged them with a nod. Reese tried to picture Jonah playing in a baseball game, helping with farm chores, petting his dog.

      “Do you feel like talking about the accident?” she asked.

      “I already told everything to a woman from some agency. She wrote it all down and made a voice recording, too.”

      She was probably from Child Protective Services, Reese guessed. “It’s standard to get a detailed report of an accident.”

      “I see.” His СКАЧАТЬ