“Yeah. I was as surprised as you sound.”
“Gentian?” I go back to calling him by his last name. “You sound jaded. You’re too young and green to be jaded.”
“Jade is green, sir.”
If only he could see my eye roll. I grab clean underwear and head to my bathroom, my shoulder groaning in protest, my broken finger taped and throbbing. I stay on the phone as I strip down and turn on the shower.
“It’s four a.m., sir. No need to shower and come to the hospital this early.”
“Can’t sleep. I was planning to get ready and do some work.”
Hitting someone produces paperwork.
Killing people produces mountains of it.
“Need help?”
“No. Thanks, but...stay on duty. Watch her. Make sure she’s safe. I know we’re pretty sure we got everyone involved. Corning’s in custody, we have access to John, Blaine and Stellan’s electronic records, and Anya and Jane are being investigated. Still...”
“I know. It’s always the adversary you didn’t think about who gets you in the end.”
I chuckle at hearing my own words parroted back to me.
We end the call and I step into the steamy shower, avoiding the mirror and careful with my broken finger. All I’ll see is a bruised torso, cuts everywhere, and a fading black eye. The medical staff at the hospital considered me “lucky” after I described my sequence of injuries. I’ve been through worse.
This is like running a 5K vs. a full marathon on the spectrum of injuries.
Hot needles of shower spray wake me up, washing the dream off me. What did it mean? Was it a premonition, given Gentian’s call? I don’t believe in metaphysical bullshit. Give me facts.
Evidence.
Conclusive proof.
But the dream, the call, this feeling I can’t shake all add up to something.
I have no idea what.
In a few hours, I’ll find out.
I hate conference tables.
I hate conference tables in hospitals even more.
After my parents died in a car accident while I was in Afghanistan, my sister took care of all of the basics. I flew home for the funeral, but we spent one horrible afternoon in a hospital – not this one, thank God – discussing body transport to the crematorium, final billing issues for the medical care my parents did receive, and a host of bureaucratic details that turned the shock into something halfway comforting, a strange morphing that only rigid systems can achieve.
Processes and routines matter when your world has been blown to smithereens.
And while Lindsay hasn’t died, I have a similar feeling right now as Harry and Monica file into this tiny room, followed by Dr. Higgs and the short female physician I now know is Dr. Belzan. Lindsay’s been in the hospital now for eight days.
And every one of those days, I’ve come here and tried. Silas told me the nightmares started for her a few nights ago. He told me the smile on my face was creepy. I tried to explain it away. I gave up.
She still won’t talk to me. Won’t talk to anyone.
That’s okay.
She will.
“We’ve invited Drew to sit in for this briefing,” Harry explains. Silas is outside, on duty still. He refuses to leave until this meeting is over, then he’s coming back to my place to hang out. His directive, not mine. I shift in my seat, my ribs aching. The internal damage that was done to my spleen looks like it’s healing. I won’t need surgery.
“We’re at a crossroads,” Dr. Higgs explains, a folder in front of him. “Lindsay’s medical progress is solid. The gunshot wound tore through the typical tissue and tendons, but she was lucky. It didn’t hit bone, just soft tissue. She should be ready to be discharged in a couple of days.”
“We can take her home?” Monica asks, smiling. It’s a fake smile.
“Yes. But her psychological state...” Dr. Higgs looks at Dr. Belzan, who takes over.
“We know she experienced severe trauma. We’ve sent therapists to work with her. We’re prepared for a psychiatric evaluation next. She refuses to speak.”
“Are you sure she can?” Harry asks.
“Yes. She’s told us so.”
“That sounds circular. How could she tell you if she refuses to speak?”
“I asked her if she could, and she nodded yes,” Dr. Belzan explains.
“Then why is she refusing to talk?”
“We don’t know. Her interactivity is low. She’s choosing to reduce her contact with humans as much as possible.”
Dr. Belzan puts her hand on Dr. Higgs’s elbow and whispers something. He nods.
“Actually, she did speak last night. One word. One of our nurse’s aides was in the room after she woke up from a nightmare,” Dr. Higgs says.
Monica’s eyes goes wide and she asks with excitement, “What did she say?”
“The aide thinks she said the name ‘Drew.’” Dr. Belzan looks at me.
My heart starts doing a dance in my chest, a flood of relief and warmth flowing through me.
Attagirl.
She’s coming back to me.
“That’s it?” Harry asks, his face carefully neutral. “Is the aide sure?”
Dr. Higgs shakes his head. “No. He’s fifty-fifty on it. She was a mess when she woke up, but she opened her mouth and she tried to say something.”
“Silas Gentian heard it,” I interrupt.
Harry just nods.
“Has she spoken since?” Monica asks.
“No.” Dr. Belzan clearly doesn’t want to say that word, but she has no choice.
“Is this something we need to worry about? She was only home for a week or so after spending four years at a...at the Island,” Monica whispers, eyes wide. She and Harry exchange a look that makes it clear they’ve already talked about the issue.
I harden inside.
I know what comes next.
“Are you thinking about sending her back?” Dr. Belzan asks.
Perceptive.
“We want what’s best for Lindsay,” Harry announces.