Deb checked my monitors and then nodded to me once.
“Yes,” I said to her, waving her away. “You’ve been here for hours. Go find Quinn.” As soon as I spoke the words, I bit my lip.
Both doctors looked over at my monitors and traded glances.
“I mean,” I said, trying not to cry, “take a break.”
“Who is Quinn?” Dr. Brock asked.
I shook my head, unable to answer.
Deb returned to my side, holding my hand. “Quinn was Josh Avery’s partner before the accident. She remembers Quinn and me having a relationship.”
“Have you?” Dr. Livingston asked.
Deb shook her head and spoke quietly. “No. Never.”
Something about being in a hospital made anything personal impersonal. Bad breath, sexual partners, foot fungus, vaginal odor, gastrointestinal noises, even past relationships and bad habits were no longer private, they were health history. In a hospital, doctors were priests, and anything less than cleansing your soul was an act of aggression against your wellbeing. Or, in this case, Deb must have felt she would be acting against mine.
Dr. Livingston gestured to her nurse. He left for a moment and then returned with two chairs. The doctors took a seat at the end of my bed.
“It would be interesting to ask her questions during a MEG,” Dr. Livingston said.
Dr. Brock nodded, still staring at me with that deceivingly warm smile. “And your memories of Josh span back nearly two years?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling more like an experiment than a patient.
Dr. Brock was trying hard to seem interested in helping me, but I could see them planning their articles in The New England Journal of Medicine. I had been guilty of the same excitement and curiosity the doctors had in their eyes. We were healthcare professionals, and day in and day out, we saw many of the same ailments. Seeing something atypical was exhilarating. That interest didn’t mean I couldn’t empathize, but it was a struggle to balance one against the other—a struggle the doctors were losing.
Dr. Brock crossed her legs and settled into her chair, readying her pen and notebook. “How did it make you feel when you saw Josh?”
I pointed to her paper. “I haven’t agreed to a session. I’m not comfortable with notes.”
“I understand,” Dr. Brock said. “I can easily dispose of any notes at the end if you decide you don’t wish to continue.”
Deb glanced at me.
“But,” Dr. Brock said, “this has clearly been traumatic for you. It would be overwhelming to try to process this loss of time and mourn Josh and the life you led while unconscious and still navigate today, or tomorrow, or the next day. Have you thought about what you’ll do when you leave the hospital?”
“She has a week of physical therapy,” Deb said. “They’re moving her to rehab tomorrow.”
“And after that?” Dr. Livingston prompted.
“I … I don’t know. Josh was living with me in my apartment. I’m not even sure I still have my apartment.”
“You do,” Deb said, squeezing my hand.
“Tell me more about your memories,” Dr. Livingston said, “and the physiology that accompanies them.”
I frowned.
Dr. Brock stiffened. “Dr. Livingston, if you don’t mind, I think we should concentrate on Avery’s emotional state for the first session.”
“Or not mix two completely separate health fields,” Deb grumbled. “What was Dr. Weaver thinking?”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Livingston snapped.
“This is a train wreck,” Deb said. She looked at me. “You both approached Dr. Weaver, didn’t you?”
Dr. Brock breathed out a small laugh. “Hamata, Avery’s recovery will happen in many different facets. We just want to help her readjust to reality.”
“I’m very interested in—” Dr. Livingston began, looking to Dr. Brock instead of me.
Deb held up one hand. “We know you’re very interested. We think you should both leave, and come back when you can stop talking like Avery isn’t in the room.”
The male nurse smiled.