“So the pilot just lost control of the plane?”
“It would appear so.”
She digested this for a moment. “What about my injuries?”
“You should only concern yourself now with recuperating.”
“But I need to know a history of my injuries, their progression and management, to chart my recuperation.”
He grudgingly conceded her logic. “On site, you were unconscious. You had a severely bleeding scalp wound and bruising all over your body. But your severest injury was comminuted fractures of your left ulna and radius.”
She winced as she looked down on her splinted arm. “What was my Glasgow Coma Scale scoring?”
“Eleven. Best eye response was three, with your eyes opening only in response to speech. Best verbal response was four, with your speech ranging from random words to confused responses. Best motor function was four with flexion withdrawal response to pain. By the time I operated on you, your GCS had plunged to five.”
“Ouch. I was heading for decorticate coma. Did I have intracranial hemorrhage?”
He gave a difficult nod. “It must have been a slow leak. Your initial CTs and MRIs revealed nothing but slight brain edema, accounting for your depressed consciousness. But during the other surgery, I was informed of your deteriorating neurological status, and new tests showed a steadily accumulating subdural hematoma.”
“You didn’t shave my hair evacuating it.”
“No need. I operated via a new minimally invasive technique I’ve developed.”
She gaped at him. “You’ve developed a new surgical technique? Excuse me while my mind, tattered as it is, barrels in awe.”
He grunted something dismissive. She eyed him with a wonder that seemed only to rise at his discomfort. Just as he almost growled stop it, she raised one beautifully dense and dark eyebrow at him. “I trust I wasn’t the guinea pig for said technique?”
Cybele gazed up at Rodrigo, a smile hovering on her lips.
His own lips tightened. “You’re fine, aren’t you?” “If you consider having to get my life story from you as fine.”
The spectacular wings of his eyebrows snapped together. That wasn’t annoyance or affront. That was mortification. Pain, even.
Words couldn’t spill fast enough from her battered brain to her lips. “God, that was such a lame joke. Just shows I’m in no condition to know how or when to make one. I owe you my life.”
“You owe me nothing. I was doing my job. And I didn’t even do it well. I’m responsible for your current condition. It’s my failure to manage you first that led to the deepening of the insult to your brai—”
“The pilot’s worst injuries were neurological.” She cut him short. It physically hurt to see the self-blame eating at him.
“Yes, but that had nothing to do with my decision—”
“And I bet you’re the best neurosurgeon on the continent.”
“I don’t know about that, but being the most qualified one on hand didn’t mea—”
“It did mean you had to take care of him yourself. And my initial condition misled you into believing my case wasn’t urgent. You did the right thing. You fought for this man as he deserved to be fought for. And then you fought for me. And you saved me. And then, I’m certain my condition is temporary.”
“We have no way of knowing that. Having total memory loss with the retention of all faculties of language and logic and knowledge and no problem in accumulating new memories is a very atypical form of amnesia. It might never resolve fully.”
“Would that be a bad thing, in your opinion? If the idea of regaining my memories is almost…distressing, maybe my life was so bad, I’m better off not remembering it?”
He seemed at a loss for words. Then he finally found some. “I am not in a position to know the answer to that. But I am in a position to know that memory loss is a neurological deficit, and it’s my calling to fix those. I can’t under any circumstances wish that this wouldn’t resolve. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to tend to my other patients. I’ll be back every three hours to check on you.”
With a curt nod, he turned and left her, exiting the huge, opulent suite in strides loaded with tense grace.
She wanted to run after him, beg him to come back.
What could possibly explain all this turmoil and her severe attraction to him? Had they been lovers, married even, and they’d separated, or maybe divorced… ?
She suddenly lurched as if from the blow of an ax as a memory lodged in her brain. No …a knowledge.
She was married.
And it was certainly not to Rodrigo.
Three
Rodrigo did come back in three hours. And stayed for three minutes. Long enough to check on her and adjust her medical management. Then he repeated that pattern for the next three days. She even felt him come in during her fitful sleep.
She hadn’t had the chance to tell him what she’d remembered.
No. She hadn’t wanted to tell him. Discovering she was married, even if she didn’t know to whom, wasn’t on her list of things to share with him of all people.
And he probably already knew.
She could have told him that she’d also remembered who she was. But then, she hadn’t remembered much beyond the basics he’d told her.
This boded well for her memory deficit, if it was receding so early.
She didn’t want it to recede, wanted to cling to the blankness with all her strength.
But it was no use. A few hours ago, a name had trickled into the parting darkness of her mind. Mel Braddock.
She was certain that was her husband’s name. But she couldn’t put a face to the name. The only memory she could attach to said name was a profession. General surgeon.
Beyond that, she remembered nothing of the marriage. She knew only that something dark pressed down on her every time the knowledge of it whispered in her mind.
She couldn’t possibly feel this way if they’d been on good terms. And if he wasn’t here, days after his wife had been involved in a serious accident, were they separated, getting divorced even? She was certain she was still married. Technically, at least. But the marriage was over. That would explain her overriding emotions for Rodrigo, that she innately knew it was okay to feel them.
On the strike of three hours, Rodrigo returned. And she’d progressed from not wanting to bring up any of it to wanting to scream it all at the top of her lungs.
He made no eye contact with her as he strode in flanked by two doctors and a nurse. He never came unescorted anymore. It was as if he didn’t want to be alone with her again.
He checked her chart, informed his companions of his adjustment of her medications as if she wasn’t in the room much less a medical professional who could understand everything they were saying. Frustration frothed inside her. Then it boiled over.
“I remembered a few things.”
Rodrigo went still at her outburst. The other people in the room fidgeted, eyed her uncomfortably before turning uncertain gazes to their boss. Still without looking at her, he hung her chart back at the foot of the bed, murmured something clearly meant for the others’ ears alone. They rushed out in a line.
The door had closed behind the last departing figure for over two minutes before he turned his eyes toward her.