KILLIAN: A Mafia Romance (The Callahans Book 2) (89 page)

              “Rose,” he said, taking her hand and angling towards her so that he was very close. “If the nerves are damaged, then they can’t attach new eyes, because there wouldn’t be a signal for your brain to receive.” When she didn’t say anything, but drew in a stuttering breath, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and leaned his forehead against hers. “We have to start somewhere.”

              “Right,” she said, but her voice was barely audible.

              “I made an appointment for tomorrow morning. It could be premature, but I’d like to get the ball rolling.”

              “So what you’re telling me is that tomorrow I’ll either get the best news of my life, or the worst.”

              Rose woke with the morning sun on her face, but its warmth wasn’t what struck her. She could see a burst of light flickering and waning. She could
see
. She bolted upright in response and angled her face towards the window where the sun was streaming into the bedroom.

              Was her mind playing tricks on her? Was this merely a desperate psychological reaction to her fear of receiving a damning diagnosis later this morning? Or were her eyes miraculously coming back to life?

              To test her ability, she hugged both hands around her eyes until darkness fell then drew them away fast and waited for the burst of life. It was slow, but came through. Why would it be slow? Frustrated to discover a surefire cause and effect, she kept covering her eyes then removing her hands, but the light burst was unpredictable. At times, it would come immediately. Other times, she remained in darkness. She didn’t understand the anatomy of the eyes or the brain behind them. Were neurons firing, alluding to sight that wasn’t there? Was her pituitary gland acting up and the light was only chemical? Was this what yogis described during meditation? Or was her sight flickering slowly back to life?

              Taylor groaned, rolling from his back to his side and reaching for her, so she stilled. She didn’t want to wake him or get his take on the phenomenon. If this weren’t good news, she needed to believe it truly was for just a little while longer before he asserted his doctor’s take on it, dashing her hopes. Not that he’d want to dash her hopes, but he cared about her enough not to give her false hope or let her entertain her own delusions.

              Once she sensed him falling back into a deep sleep, as indicated by a gentle snore, she felt for the gauze around her head and began unwrapping it. When she had the length of it balled in her lap, she removed the two cotton pads from her eyes. How long had it been since she’d felt air on her eyelids? Other than Taylor redressing her wounds, which only lasted a few seconds, she couldn’t even remember.

              Just as she was about to angle her head towards the window to her left, she felt her face, the skin around her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. It felt slick and rippling—burnt skin that had healed badly.

              She couldn’t imagine how grotesque she must look, and her heart sank at the thought. She decided not to proceed with the experiment that had given her such hope, if only for a fleeting moment. Whether she could see light or not, nothing made up for how scarred she was, and not just on the outside. Having lost her sight had scarred her inside, as well. It had taken part of her identity away. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore, or how she’d function in the world if her sight never returned.

              Suddenly, she felt very afraid to see the eye specialist. No news was better than bad news, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go with Taylor to the hospital at all. Could she take any more bad news?

              Taylor drew in a deep breath then grumbled awake beside her, and Rose scrambled to wrap her eyes, but there was no use. She didn’t have enough hands. Whenever Taylor had redressed her bandages, she always had to hold the cotton pads in place over her eyes. Discarding them, she did what she could to replace the gauze, but in her haste she kept letting the loose end fall and it wouldn’t wrap with any kind of promising hold.

              “Hey,” he groaned, snuggling up to her as he sat upright. “You took off your bandages?”

              “Ah, sorry, they were itching me.”

              “You could use fresh gauze, anyway. Here,” he said, gently taking the gauze from her, but his kindness only ratcheted up her anxiety.

              “Don’t,” she snapped, covering her eyes with her hands in a defeated hunch.

              “Hey, what’s wrong?”

              “I’m frustrated.”

              “Why?”

              “Why do you think? Look at me!”

              Though she’d demanded him to, she wouldn’t lower her hands.

              Taylor rubbed her back and held the silence with her, as though words wouldn’t come close to soothing her. And she appreciated it when he didn’t push the issue.

              After a long moment, he said, “It’s only been a few days. There’s no sense in putting pressure on yourself.”

              “Then why are you pressuring me?” she asked impatiently. Though she knew it wasn’t right to put this on him, she pressed her point, anyway. “Why make an appointment for me so soon? How is that not putting pressure on me? Do you think I want a death sentence today? I’ve barely gotten used to the idea of taking it easy and healing, and now you want me to face an expert who will likely tell me my sight is gone and there’s nothing he can do?”

              “I only made the appointment because I thought you’d want it. We don’t have to go.”

              “No,” she said. “I should go. I want to. I’m just...” she trailed off, stammering.

              “You’re just frustrated. I get it.”

              “No,” she snapped. “I’m an idiot.”

              “You’re not an idiot.”

              “I actually thought I could see light, that’s how naïve I am.”

              “What do you mean?” he asked, his tone shifting with an edge of intrigue that stirred up the hope in her chest that she knew was borderline insane to have.

              “I mean this morning I saw a light burst. You know, because of the sun. But it can’t be that I’m
seeing
it, because I can’t see. So therefore, I’m a moron.”

              “Hey,” he said firmly, “stop it with the beating yourself up. This is a good sign.”

              “Is it?” Before he could answer, she quickly interjected, “Don’t you dare make me a fearless optimist and wrong. I’ll be crushed.”

              “I’m telling you it’s a good sign, and it’s all the more reason to see the specialist if you’re up for it.”

              Rose sat in deep consideration for a long while. At times, Taylor placed his hand on her knee, her back, soothing her. She found her breathing was labored with emotion, but finally she said, “I am.”

              After she rose from the bed, feeling the cool AC on her bare legs and her arms where the sleeves of her tee shirt failed to fall, she felt him put her jeans in her hand. “Your pants. I’ll get you a shirt.”

              Dressing was a slow effort, and once Taylor was dressed, as well, he led her into the kitchen where he put on a pot of coffee and asked her about eggs for breakfast. She had little appetite and thought coffee would be enough. Shortly after sitting and letting the caffeine hit their veins, they made their way down to the red carpet curb where Taylor’s driver met them to escort them into the limousine.

              The drive to Seattle Mercy was tense. Rose sat with her knees clamped together, her hands between them. Taylor put on some music that played quietly. She recognized the songs and the artists, but barely listened, she was so deep in thought.

              “What’s the doctor’s name?” she asked as they climbed out of the limo after pulling up to the main entrance of the hospital.

              “Shawn Fitzpatrick,” he said, taking hold of her elbow as they walked towards the sliding glass doors.

              Inside, Taylor checked in at the desk and filled out paperwork for Rose, asking her pertinent information when necessary—her date of birth, her Social Security number, and insurance carrier. He reminded the attendant of their appointment, and they only had to wait ten minutes before permitted to the third floor where ophthalmology was located.

              There, Taylor checked in, reminded the receptionist of Rose’s appointment, and they took a seat in the anteroom.

              “When you were working as a doctor,” she asked in a low voice, in part listening to the sounds of the waiting room around her, “did you ever work with the eyes?”

              To her far left, a teenaged girl argued with her mother about where they might eat after her appointment. Rose wondered what the girl looked like and how she might be dressed. She thought of her own mother and father, and felt of twinge of relief that they hadn’t lived to see her in her current condition.

              “No,” said Taylor, speaking softly. “Different surgeons focus on different areas of expertise. I mainly dealt with the vital organs. Ophthalmologists focus solely on the eyes. Ear, nose, and throat doctors deal only in those areas. Then you have cardiologists for the heart, neurologists for the central nervous system, and brain surgeons for brains.”

              She felt relaxed listening to Taylor detail the various areas of medicine, though he wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already known. His deep voice was low and melodic, and seemed to have the same effect on her no matter how she was feeling. Everything about Taylor relaxed her.

              “Rose Cole,” said a nurse from across the waiting area.

              She got to her feet and again Taylor took her arm, guiding her through a door and down a short hall where they rounded into an office.

              “Rose,” said a man who sounded in his late fifties, thanks to his gravelly timber. “I’m Doctor Fitzpatrick. Have a seat.”

              He seemed to direct the invitation to Taylor, who immediately helped Rose towards a chair then sat in the one beside her.

              “I understand you spent some time here in the Bellevue hospital and were released a few days ago.”

              “That’s right,” she said, wondering when and how she might mention she’d seen a few bursts of light this morning.

              “It’s good that you’re here. It’s never too early to assess your healing so that we can monitor where the nerves are at and the possibilities that information implies.”

              “Thanks,” she said awkwardly.

              “I’d like to take this time,” he went on, “to answer any questions you might have, then we’ll get you set up in one of our patient rooms and I’ll take a look at your eyes and run a few tests.”

              “Okay,” she said. She hadn’t thought about what questions she might have for him beyond the glaring one—would she ever see again?

              “You’re on the donor list,” he said, and Rose heard him rustling papers, which told her he was reviewing her medical records.

              “Yes, that’s right.”

              “Eyes are a tricky organ,” he went on. “Mainly because many citizens don’t think to donate them. Size and shape matter, as well, so of the few that pass through to this department, it’s not always a guaranteed match. The good news is that, unlike the vital organs, we don’t have too many patients on the list above you, so it shouldn’t be too long. Furthering the good news is that just because someone above you on the list gets first dibs on new eyes doesn’t mean they’ll be a match, so those could pass down to you, and we would test to see if they will work for you.”

              Rose smiled and let out a breathy sigh at the promising news, but then a wave of worry spread through her.

              “This is all to assume I can even get a new pair of eyes.”

              Dr. Fitzpatrick said nothing, but she sensed him stiffen behind his desk.

              “You’re correct,” he said finally. “This is why we need to run tests.”

              “What if enough time hasn’t gone by? What if I haven’t healed enough and you look at me and think I’m too damaged for new eyes and I miss my chance and months down the road I’m actually ready for eyes but no one knows because I was tested too soon in this process?”

              She drew in a deep breath.

              “Try not to let your fears get the better of you,” he said. “And to ease your worry, that’s not going to happen. What you’re describing would be a gross administrative error, which I can assure you won’t happen. If we test today and it’s much too soon for surgery, then we’ll continue to test periodically. We won’t determine you’re unfit for new eyes unless periodic tests are still proving futile a good eight months from now.”

              “Okay, that’s a relief.”

              “That being said, I’d like to be honest with you about one test that would rule you out for receiving eyes.”

              Again, her entire body tensed.

              “A test that you’ll do today?”

              “Yes.”

              “And this is a test that determines whether or not I get eyes, no matter if I continue to heal over time?”

              “Yes, however it’s a small chance that this specific nerve would’ve been damaged.”

              “Small chance?” asked Taylor, who sounded as concerned as Rose, if not more. “How small a chance?”

              “Given the nature of the accident and the chemical,” he began, “I’d say Rose would have less than a 20% chance that this nerve was damaged beyond repair.”

              “Okay,” she said. “That sounds like the odds are in my favor.”

              “I’d say so,” said the doctor, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Plus, you would’ve shown signs and symptoms had this nerve been damaged, and Taylor didn’t mention anything unusual the last time we talked. When was it, yesterday evening?”