Nash came to when Oliver screeched to a lurching halt in front of the familiar doors of the ER. Harley, stretched back between the two front seats, applied piercingly painful pressure above the wound, his breath coming in loud gasps between wheezing repetitions. “Don’t you fucking die on me you thick-headed bastard. Don’t you fucking die.”
Flying out of the driver’s seat, Oliver ran to the doors, opened one and yelled something unintelligible, which nonetheless had the desired effect of having a couple nurses run out to meet them. An ER trolley bed soon joined them. Someone unbuckled Nash and hoisted him out of the back seat and onto the transport.
Nash slurred an apology about the mess in the back seat as they rushed him through the open doors.
“I don’t give a flying fuck about the damned car!” Oliver shouted, the last thing he heard from his friend as the doors closed him off from the outside world. Which had to be a big fat lie, because any time they took Oliver’s vehicle when they all went out, they’d get a lecture on no eating or dropping trash or whatever in his car.
They moved fast, with someone putting pressure on his arm as they ran alongside. Nash shivered and shook. Shock…he had the presence of mind to recognize that he was in shock. Someone asked how he’d been injured.
“We were on the highway,” Harley gasped, panting as he jogged to keep up. “I think Nash had his arms up. A big-assed bird swooped down and nailed him. I don’t know…a gull maybe?”
The next thing Nash knew he was in a room, and they cut off his clothes before inserting an IV. He couldn’t focus on the instructions. No doubt an antibiotic was involved, considering the open fracture, and probably a blood transfusion.
His phone, keys, and wallet were inserted into a plastic bag and handed to Harley, and one of the nurses likely stuffed his ruined clothes into a bio-hazard receptacle. A familiar ringtone cut through the noise, and he recognized it as the one he’d just assigned to Emmitt’s number. It cut off abruptly, and consciousness started to fade again. Maybe there was something in the IV helping him check out. He didn’t fight it. He was tired of the pain and the cold. Sleep. He just wanted to sleep.
* * * *
The regular chirping of a heart rate monitor intruded on Nash’s slumber. A heart rate monitor? Why was he asleep on the job? He was going to get fired for sure, but at least the patient’s heart rate sounded normal.
He was too damned tired to care enough to open his eyes, even so. His head was killing him. So was his left arm, and his throat hurt, too. Come to think of it, he was wearing an oxygen mask. That could only mean that he was the patient.
Sore throat…surgery? Patients had sore throats after surgery due to the endotracheal tube that was inserted during general anesthesia. What happened? He had to have been in an accident. A car accident?
Sam! Where was his fiancé? Fucking hell, no. Please, please let Sam be alive. His eyes snapped open. Clancy, one of the OR nurses, stood beside him, checking the IV. He looked down and smiled. One of those cheery nurse smiles meant to lift the patients’ spirits or some such thing. “How are you feeling?”
“My fiancé,” Nash croaked. “Was he hurt? Is he okay?”
Clancy glanced at someone on the other side of the bed. “Oh, no. Don’t worry, Nash, you were the only one hurt. Dr. Burlingham wasn’t even in the car, and Harley and Oliver are both fine.” He paused. “What do you remember?”
Oliver? Harley’s new boyfriend? He didn’t remember ever being in a car with the two of them. And why would Clancy mention Dr. Burlingham? His arm hurt like hell…that was it. He must have broken his arm, and Dr. B had done the surgery.
“No,” he rasped. “I don’t remember the accident.”
Dr. Burlingham came into view from the other side of the bed. “You have a mild concussion in addition to your arm injury. Don’t worry. It’s not unusual for people to not be able to remember the accident.”
“Okay.” It was only one word, but Nash managed to slur it.
Sam was probably out in the surgical waiting room. This was post-op. They’d let Sam come back once they’d checked him over, and he was a little more lucid.
Dr. Burlingham picked up Nash’s right hand and held it between his palms. “I’ll go speak to Dr. Beltran. He performed your surgery, so he’ll come in and assess you. I can’t…obviously…but between the concussion and the infection risk from the compound fracture, you’ll probably be spending a night here in the hospital.”
Then he raised Nash’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, patted it ever so tenderly, and gently laid it back on the bed.
What…the…fuck? Nash stared dumbly, then gave Dr. Burlingham a feeble smile, because the expression in the man’s questioning, searching eyes seemed to be seeking some sort of affirmation, and Nash didn’t have it in him to refuse altogether.
After Dr. Burlingham left, Nash scrutinized the room from the bed, searching in vain for a calendar. The world had turned upside down. Clancy had implied that Dr. Burlingham was his fiancé. He hadn’t misunderstood after all…Dr. Burlingham’s odd behavior confirmed it.
Of course, the behavior was only odd if Nash was still engaged to Sam. No, it was odd anyway. Dr. B was married…and to a woman. Maybe. Angela had mentioned a rumor that his marriage was breaking up.
Clancy’s hair was all wrong, too. Not in a way that could be explained by a haircut. It was longer, not shorter. Long and tied back into a very short ponytail. It had to have taken months to do that.
What could’ve possibly happened between him and Sam? They’d been mere weeks from getting married. Had they gotten married? Nash shivered. Was he a widower? Had they broken up? No, that was impossible. They loved each other. Sam was the love of his life. There was no way they wouldn’t be together if Sam was still alive, so he must be…oh, please no…don’t let him be dead.
Tears filled his eyes at the thought. It had to be true. He must have been so devastated when it happened. He was wrecked right now…it was as if it had just happened. He’d probably have his missing memory back by the morning, but that was one he could live without regaining.
Tears rolled down his face and a sob broke loose. It would be nice to have his memories of Dr. Burlingham back, though. He’d lost two loves in one fell swoop. The one he remembered loving, and the one he didn’t.
How had that come about, anyway? The man was strikingly handsome, so he supposed it was easy to see why he’d initially accepted a date.
And the way Dr. B had looked at Nash? Yeah, it was easy to see he was in love.
Why couldn’t Nash remember? Dr. B…Myles—that was his first name, wasn’t it?—had said it was only a mild concussion. He’d never had a concussion before, but damn, if this was mild he’d hate to endure a severe one.
Dr. B had also said it was a compound fracture. Had he lost a lot of blood? A temporary shortage of oxygen could be a contributing factor to the memory loss.
Goddammit, his arm hurt like it was on fire. The throbbing pain made it difficult to concentrate. He turned to the IV pole to see if he had a PCA pump. Yes! He traced the cord leading from it with his right hand and pushed the button for a hit of morphine. The machine cycled with a satisfying whirr.
Could there be a psychological element to the missing memories? Losing Sam would have been dreadful. An image of Sam’s smiling face came to mind, and Nash had to stifle another sob or he’d start full-on blubbing. Maybe it would be better, after all, to have that memory back rather than go through the grieving process a second time.
The sound of footsteps alerted Nash to the return of Dr. Burlingham with one of his partners, Dr. Beltran. Dr. Beltran approached and glanced at the Patient Controlled Anesthesia pump. “How’s your pain level, Nash, on the comparative pain scale from one to ten?”
He almost blurted out “ten” without thinking, but he supposed since he wasn’t actually writhing and whimpering in pain that wouldn’t be completely accurate. “Eight. At least. It’s pretty bad.”
Dr. Beltran nodded. “Use your PCA as needed. I’ll repeat all this tomorrow, after your anesthesia has completely worn off, but to ease your mind for now I’ll tell you that your prognosis is good. For an open fracture, this one was minor. The debridement and irrigation went smoothly, and internal fixation was successful. You’re all closed up.
“Antibiotics were started promptly in the ER, and we’ll continue an antibiotic regimen until you’re released, possibly tomorrow. You did require a transfusion in the ER…three units. This cast will come off in about three weeks so we can remove the stitches, then you’ll get a fresh cast for the remainder.”
He pulled out his mini light to check Nash’s eye dilation, then used an ophthalmoscope to look inside the fundi. He proceeded to check eye movement for a more thorough concussion check than could have been accomplished when Nash was unconscious.
“I’d still call this concussion on the mild end of the scale. Myles said you don’t remember the accident, is that right?”
“Right. And Clancy said no one else was hurt?”
“Correct. It wasn’t a car accident, although you were in the backseat of a Jeep when it happened. Apparently you had your arms in the air enjoying the feel of the rushing air, and a large bird swooped down and slammed into your arm.”
“Huh.” When had Harley gotten a Jeep? Or maybe that was what Oliver drove. “Well, leave it to me to find such a crazy way to end up in the ER.”
There was a bandage on his forehead. He reached up to touch it.
“You’ve got some bruising and a few sutures there. Nothing major. Tell me about the last thing you do remember,” Dr. Beltran asked. “Do you remember what you did this morning?”
“Uh, had breakfast and went for a ride with Harley and Oliver.” He managed to avoid the questioning tone he felt.
Dr. Burlingham narrowed his eyes. “Where were you going?”
Shit. “I…uh…don’t remember that part.”
“What did you do yesterday?” Dr. Burlingham persisted.
“It’s…a little fuzzy. I’m sure it’ll come back to me soon. That’s not a big deal, is it?”
“I think it might be,” Dr. Burlingham—Myles—said. He needed to remember to think of him as Myles, now.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Dr. Beltran asked.
“Coming home from work. Hanging out before dinner.” That was the truth, and a fresh tear coursed down his face at the memory. They didn’t need to know he was envisioning himself at Sam’s house, while Sam was baking chicken and vegetables. It would all come back to him. It had to. He hadn’t hit his head hard enough for it to be anything major.
“One more question,” Dr. Burlingham said. Worry was evident in his eyes, even if the rest of his face was a mask of professional calm. He knew. He’d figured it out. “When you woke up here a few minutes ago, you asked Clancy if your fiancé was okay. To whom were you referring?”
* * * *