“If you’re sure.”
God, he’s handsome when he’s skeptical. I mean, he’s always handsome, but there’s something about the way the crease between his brows gets deeper, the way he looks as though he’s this close to scolding me and putting me over his knee for misbehaving and making him worry… Heaven knows why, but that totally does it for me. Stern, caring, would give me a lecture at the drop of a hat for my own good. Yep, would totally be on board for that. If I weren’t so floaty, pretty sure I’d be getting turned on right now, so probably better that I’m feeling exhilarated instead of aroused.
He holds a hand out to me and I tip my head in thanks. Both for the hand, but also for not arguing with me further. Who knows, maybe once we’re back at my apartment, it won’t be so terrible to have him insisting that he wants to look me over. His hands running over my limbs looking for breaks, palms brushing over my ribs to seek out sore spots, his fingers sculpting around my skull to check for head wounds. Clearly I need to get laid if I’m looking forward to this for the sake of some human contact.
Once I have hold of his hand, I take a step, and…
My knees buckle, the world spins, and instead of holding Lowry’s hand, which was sweetly mortifying enough, I’m now clutching at him while I faint. Fuck my life.
* * *
Lowry
I’ve seen Starla unconscious many times. It was part of my job. But that was in a carefully controlled setting, induced by impeccably measured anesthetic, with dozens of medical professionals within shouting distance in case there was ever an emergency, and there never was. This is entirely different and smashes every panic button I have. She went from being insistently saucy to clinging to me as her legs gave out from under her, and now she’s…
She’s breathing, she’s just passed out. Probably as a result of the adrenaline flooding her body draining away. But Jesus, what if she hit her head harder than I thought? It could be a million things.
Once I’ve managed to get us safely on the ground, I tell one of the gawkers to call 911. I know Starla said she didn’t want an ambulance, but it’s not her choice anymore because this is about safety. You don’t fuck around with loss of consciousness, especially not after a fall like that.
Her breathing and her pulse are regular, but I’m still fucking terrified. There are very few times in my life when I have been as alarmed as I am right now. People think doctors are all sorts of stoic, that we’re great under pressure. In fact, I have been. Gave a man on a plane CPR and didn’t think twice. Simply had to be done. All of my calm, professional competence has fled, though, because it’s her. I’d like to say it was different when she was my patient, but it hadn’t been, really. For a while, yes, and then…
I knew I’d lost professional objectivity the night she tried to kill herself.
She’d been a junior in high school, still a minor, which I was at once painfully aware of but could also forget all too easily.
By the time I got to Harbinson after getting the call from Lacey I dreaded most in the world, Starla was sedated—pale with her wrists bandaged in the hospital bed, her father and Lacey talking while they stood in a corner.
When I arrived, her father turned on me, shoved a finger in my face. He’d been a slim man, compact and shorter than I am but rather threatening nonetheless.
“You were supposed to help her. You were supposed to be some fucking wunderkind. Look at what you’ve done.”
He flung an arm to where Starla slept, and my heart squeezed with guilt. I was responsible for her, this had happened on my watch, but at the same time, he was being wildly unfair.
“I’m not the one who put that razor to her wrist. People’s depression changes, it evolves, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. Starla—”
“Get my daughter’s name out of your mouth, you piece of shit. If she dies, I’m suing this entire place for malpractice. You’ll lose everything, you’ll never see another patient again. Your name is going to be mud.”
I hadn’t been afraid, though I’m sure Jameson Patrick could’ve done any and all of those things. He wasn’t shy about using his power. The only thing I’d been afraid of was losing Starla, and that made me bold.
“Your daughter has been doing her very best to fight this thing that I don’t think either you or I can fully appreciate. For her to think this was her best option…”
I’d wanted to vomit. Wanted to yell. Wanted to kick Jameson and Lacey out of the room so I could put my head in my hands and offer Starla choked apologies because I’d allowed this to happen. But to some extent, my hands had been tied. Despite my recommendations, despite his daughter’s pleas, despite Lacey’s support, he’d steadfastly refused ECT, and it made me fucking furious that he wouldn’t put his daughter’s needs over his own fears. I felt a little bad about taking advantage of his vulnerability, but not guilty enough to not press my current advantage, to use his desperation against him to do what I’d been urging for months.
“Perhaps now you’ll consider a course of ECT.”
“You and your fucking—”
And then Lacey was there, resting a restraining hand on Jameson’s forearm. “You need to listen, Jameson. Doctor Campbell has no vested interest in trying ECT. It’s simply that it’s a good option for treatment-resistant depression, which is clearly what we’re dealing with here. I know it seems scary. It does. And I can’t offer any guarantees that it will be effective in Starla’s case. What I can guarantee is that Doctor Campbell and I are on the same team as you. We’re all on Team Starla. We all want what’s best for her. She’s said she’s willing to try it, so perhaps you should be as well.”
The anger seemed to drain from him then, and all I could see was an older man who felt hopeless and defeated. Who was having to face the idea that yes, this time Starla’s attempt at suicide hadn’t been successful, but next time it could be.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. “What if it doesn’t work?”
I’d kept my mouth shut while Lacey nudged him, knowing he liked her far better than he liked me. But I couldn’t keep it shut anymore because my—no, not my patient. I mean, obviously, yes, but more importantly, Starla was suffering, and he wasn’t doing anything and everything in his power to make it stop. That was unacceptable. “But what if it does?”
He stared at me, fire back in his glare and I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he punched me. He hadn’t. He punched the wall instead, stunning Lacey into stepping back and me into moving between them. Jameson had no intention of hurting Lacey or anyone, though. Just couldn’t seem to find another outlet for his devastation and despair than putting a fist through some drywall. I suspect, though, it was mostly the fear of losing the daughter he doted on to the same thing to which he’d lost his beloved wife.
I thought he might break down again, but instead, he puffed up, looked nothing short of furious, and started bellowing.
“Anything,” he said. “Do anything! Even…even…Jesus Christ, yes, do it. Just fucking do it.”
These are the things I think about as I hold her against me, keep her off the ground with my body, and try to wake her. Say her name while I cup her cheek, stroke my thumb across her skin. Please let it be nothing. Let it be overwhelm from the adrenaline drain. Please let her eyes flutter open and have her righteously indignant, slap me in the chest because she said she didn’t want a fucking ambulance and how goddamn dare I.
God, please, let this foolish, reckless, joyful act not take her from me.
I don’t often pray; my relationship with the church is fraught. But I do now, dredging up memories of Catholic school for any saint I can invoke because I’m only human and I need all the help I can get. It’s when I get to John Licci that her brows draw together and she turns toward my chest as though someone’s shining a too-bright light at her, and then she’s searching my face with those big hazel eyes.
I can breathe again.
Chapter 10
Starla
Aft
er a trip to the ER where I took full advantage of having a wing of the place named after my father, and Lowry took advantage of having privileges to get me in and out as soon as humanly possible, we’re back at my apartment.
I’m exhausted and sore and the burn of humiliation hasn’t completely faded. All I want to do is try to find a comfortable position to lie down in, curl up, and cry. Not exactly how I pictured the first time I lured Lowry back to my place.
In truth, I had no plans to lure him here because he’ll think it’s odd. Everyone thinks it’s odd. I am one of the richest women—if not the richest woman—in Boston and I live in a studio. A well-appointed luxury studio with a beautiful view and a prime location, sure, but a studio nonetheless. I didn’t particularly want to have this conversation ever, and I’m not up for it now.
But since he’s here and under less-than-ideal circumstances, I keep up a brave face so he doesn’t realize exactly how taxing all of this has been. I don’t want him to pity me and treat me like a sad, broken thing he needs to fix because he’s got perfection leaking out of his pores that he uses like glue to mend other people’s cracks.
I take off my hat, unwind my scarf, and start to take off my coat. When I suck air through my teeth because my arm fucking hurts, there are hands at my shoulders, helping me with it.
Goddammit. I love his kindness and at the same time it makes me feel shitty. Are there people who can accept small kindnesses without feeling like a failure? How can I be one of those people?
When I’ve stripped down to my jeans and sweater, I shrug. With my good shoulder.
“Well, you can go now.”
Clearly those etiquette classes my father forced me to endure didn’t really take. That was rude. And though I don’t think Lowry gives a goddamn about etiquette, he also doesn’t look like I’ve convinced him to leave.
“I’m not going anywhere, at least not until you’re settled in bed. What if you need help with something? You heard Doctor Kwon. You’re supposed to take it easy. Why don’t you get ready for bed and I’ll make you some tea.”
There is a long list of things I want so very badly, and having Lowry put me to bed has always been rather high on the list. There is a significant subset of that list of things I can never have for various reasons, and Lowry tucking me in is definitely on that list.
“Really, I’m fine. You don’t need to stay. I’m going to have to manage on my own tomorrow, aren’t I?”
Lowry’s face gets that stern set, the one that makes my stomach flip. “The last time you told me you were fine, you passed out ten seconds later. And while I can’t do anything about you being alone tomorrow, I can do something about you being alone tonight. Your stubbornness has served you well, but it’s not doing you any favors right now. So, for the love of God, Starla, let me look after you for a bit.”
Look after me? My eyelids sink closed, and I hope he mistakes it for trying to summon patience instead of what it really is, which is me trying not to die of happiness and break down in tears because my feelings are rioting and I can’t manage them all at once.
“Fine.”
I turn on my heel and head over to my armoire, pulling out some pajamas, and then walk into the bathroom. Peeling off my jeans to use the toilet is an exercise in how many swear words I know, and I feel sick at how much it hurts when my knuckles graze over where I landed on my hip. Taking my sweater and bra off isn’t much better. And while I manage to pull on my softest pajama pants with a minimum of wanting to die, the top is far more complicated.
Everything hurts and I can’t bend my elbow correctly, and it’s so frustrating that I want to throw shit. If I were here by myself, I’d shove one arm into my bathrobe—both if I could swing it—and collapse. I’m not alone, however, which is both a boon and a curse. A curse because I can’t half put on my bathrobe and then have a tantrum in my bed. A boon because…perhaps I could actually ask for help and not be stuck in an uncomfortable bathrobe all night. Imagine that.
Swallowing every ounce of pride I possess, I crack the door.
“Lowry?”
“Yeah?”
His footsteps sound on the wood and the rug, carrying him closer until I’m guessing he’s right outside the door.
“I…I need help.”
“Of course. What do you need? Can I grab you something?”
If only. My cheeks heat and I want to shrivel up, but on top of being wrung out and in pain, I’m cold now too.
“No. I…I can’t put my shirt on. The sleeves, and the… Putting it over my head, I can’t…”
Rage and embarrassment thicken my throat, and Jesus Christ. Is there not someone else who could use a lesson in humility more than me?
It might be my imagination, but I’m pretty sure there’s a swallow on the other side of the door.
“Sure. I’ve got your tea ready when you’re dressed.”
Perfect.
I stand there, hand on the doorknob, eyes shut, head leaning against the door, and it would be great if I could stay here forever. That would also be a perfectly good solution. Use a bath towel as a cloak so my goose bumps would go away. I’m so tired I could probably fall asleep like this, and everything would be perfectly fine.
“Starla?”
Shit.
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to come out? Or would you like me to come in?”
Right. No matter how much I’d like to, I can’t actually stand here until Lowry leaves. I may be stubborn as hell, but I have proof he can be just as bullheaded. There was more than one session during which we sat in silence the whole time. Because he’s an asshole. An asshole who I’m keeping from his own bed and a good night’s sleep by being ridiculous.
So I grab a bath towel, wrap it around myself as well as I can, and push open the door with my shirt in my hand.
He takes it wordlessly and has an entirely blank expression. Do they teach that in med school? How not to be fazed by anything? Whether they do or not, he’s got it down pat, and he looks completely neutral as he shakes out my shirt and finds the neck.
“Ready?”
As if I need to give him permission to dress me for bed when it is a thing I want more than almost anything else in this world. But I nod because he’s trying to be kind and I did, after all, ask for this.
He stretches out the neck of my shirt and eases it over my head, careful to not graze the part of my skull where a lump is forming and it’s tender to the touch. I offer up my good arm, but he shakes his head.
“Probably easier to do the other one first. More wiggle room, aye?”
I swallow and nod again, because he is close. So very close. And he’s being so very careful with me, it makes me ache. He always has been, but not in a way that made me feel weak, like some people.
This is an actual, physical hurt, one that it should be much easier to accept help for. Would I not get a cast if I had a broken leg? Would I not get glasses if my vision weren’t perfect?
Wordlessly, I switch my grip on the towel, and together we maneuver my arm into my shirt with only one sharp pain that makes me suck air through my teeth. I’d like to tell him I can take it from here, but the truth is, it’d be a bit of a challenge to get even my good arm into its sleeve since I can’t much use my other arm to help.
I switch my grip again, and finally my damn shirt is on. Quite the production.
Before I can, Lowry scoops up the towel from the floor and goes into the bathroom, and I wander over to my kitchen area and there’s a mug, still steaming, on the counter. Picking it up with my good hand, I feel its heat. It hurts my cold hand like when you’re chilled and trying to run yourself a hot bath and put your fingers under the stream to check the water.
I take a sip, and holy shit, that is not just tea.
“What the hell did you put in this?”
Lowry comes back, a sheepish, one-sided smile making his dimple appear. “Ah, yeah, should’ve mentioned. It’s more like a hot toddy than tea. So, whisky. And lemon and
honey. But—”
“Mostly whisky.”
“Aye, well, my gran said it would fix just about anything. Figured it couldn’t hurt.”
It doesn’t. Hot enough to singe my tongue and my throat, but I’m not entirely sure that’s all the steaming tea. Could also be the more lingering burn of the liquor. I think I’d like Lowry’s gran, though I doubt she’s alive anymore. If she were, I’d send her a case of the world’s finest whisky.
* * *
Lowry
Starla’s standing there, taking slow, deep sips from the mug in her hand. She looks like hell, which is understandable, given what she’s been through, and knowing how she feels about going to the hospital for anything other than her ECT. That’s a necessary evil, and everything else feels like pile-on.
“Why don’t you sit, love?”
When I moved here, I had to practice beating “love” out of my casual conversations since Americans don’t use it in the same way as everyone back home. But with Starla, it comes out. While I did my utmost to never utter it when she was my patient, my tongue has loosened and I have more important things to spend my efforts on than not calling her love. Like forcing the stubborn hen to take a rest, for the love of God.
She wrinkles her nose and scrunches her mouth. “I can’t actually figure out how I’m going to do it comfortably.”
That’d do it.
“Well, come on then, let’s figure it out. You’re not going to be able to stand forever, especially since you look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”
She’s clearly exhausted because she doesn’t even snap back at me, or insist that she’s a tank. Which she is, just…a tired one. One who’s already been through a lifetime of combat, not to mention a particularly nasty battle today.
Shuffling over to the couch, she looks like she might collapse. I don’t think I could handle that again. The first time it was as though my heart had gone through a shredder. Then she stands there, looking at the couch like it’s a damn Rubik’s Cube. Finally, she sets her tea down and lowers herself onto the plush cushions, wincing and sucking air through her teeth when she lands.
For Her Own Good Page 11