Chapter 19
Rosalind
Rosalind tossed the phone onto her desk.
She knew Jane was ignoring her on purpose, and she hated herself ever so slightly for allowing their relationship to come to this.
If she had just been honest with Jane, if she had just been honest with herself, Jane would be with her right now.
Jane would have been the one to pronounce her father’s death, as it should have been.
Instead, Rosalind was alone in her office crying over a loss that she’d already mourned and trying desperately to find a way to fix what she had broken.
Jane would likely never trust her again, and Rosalind couldn’t blame her.
Suddenly, Dr. Mars was standing in her doorway, the skin on her face drawn tight. She was pale and frightened. Rosalind had never seen her like that before.
“What is it?” Rosalind asked.
“It’s Jane,” Doctor Mars said. Rosalind couldn’t ever remember her referring to Jane by her first name. “There’s been an accident.”
The room seemed to tilt onto its side. Rosalind gripped the edge of her desk for support. “What kind of accident?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“She was struck by a vehicle on the way here, the ambulance is on the way now,” Doctor Mars said. Her voice seemed to steady as she fell into the role of medical professional.
“I’ll get the OR prepped,” Rosalind said and grabbed her lab coat. She marched toward the door.
“You can’t perform this surgery,” Doctor Mars stated.
“Like hell I won’t,” Rosalind said, and for the first time, Dr. Mars almost looked cowed.
“Doctor Maxwell, you are too close to her,” she said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how close the two of you have become.”
“I’m her best shot,” Rosalind countered. “She’s the only other experienced trauma surgeon, I have to be in there.”
“I understand how you feel, but your emotions won’t allow you to be objective,” she said. “I can’t let you do this.”
“With all due respect, Doctor Mars,” Rosalind said.
Her voice was cold and intense; she was not going to allow room for argument.
“You won’t be able to keep me out of there, and I am the best person to perform this surgery.
You know it. I don’t know how bad the situation is, but the fact that you are in here telling me personally, and that you are scared, tells me that it’s bad.
If you want Jane to have a shot at surviving, I have to be there. ”
Dr. Mars shook her head, all her professional training told her that this was not the right choice, but Rosalind knew that there wasn’t a better option. “She better survive this, Rosalind, you will never be able to live with yourself if she doesn’t.”
“I know,” Rosalind answered. It was the truth. Even if she performed flawlessly, if Jane didn’t pull through this, Rosalind knew she’d never forgive herself. Jane’s survival was the only option. Doctor Mars backed out of the doorway and Rosalind rushed through to the ambulance bay.
It smelled of antiseptic and adrenaline.
Everyone was on edge, rushing to make sure the department was ready for Jane to arrive.
Overhead, the fluorescent lights burned with a sterile white that flattened every shadow, but Rosalind barely registered the brightness.
Her eyes were fixed on the gurney crashing through the double doors, pushed by two paramedics whose faces were tight with urgency.
“Forty-year-old female, Jane Roberts,” the lead paramedic barked, though everyone knew who she was. “Pedestrian struck by a vehicle at high speed. Hypotensive, tachycardic. Multiple fractures. GCS nine. We intubated en route. She’s lost a lot of blood.” Rosalind’s breath snagged in her chest. Jane.
For one dizzying second, the room fell silent in her mind, the clamor of monitors and shouted vitals fading to a dull roar.
Her heart seemed to stop, then slam painfully against her ribs.
Suddenly it was all very real. The woman on the stretcher—pale, bloodied, unconscious—was Jane.
Her Jane. The woman she was so desperate to talk to, to explain everything, to confess everything.
Now Jane lay dying beneath the harsh lights of Trauma One.
“Doctor?” The sharp call of a nurse’s voice snapped Rosalind back to motion. She stepped forward, forcing her mind to lock down into the cold precision of medicine. There was no time for fear. No time for love. Only skill.
“Let’s move!” she ordered, her voice steadier than she felt. “Get her to OR three. Massive transfusion protocol—her blood type is A positive. What’s the pressure?”
“Seventy over forty,” a resident answered, pale with anxiety.
“She’s crashing,” Rosalind said. “Move, now!”
The team surged into action. Gurney wheels rattled across the floor. Monitors beeped in frantic staccato. Rosalind ran alongside, gloved hands already snapping on a gown as they barreled into the operating room. Keep breathing, Jane. Don’t you dare leave me.
Inside the OR, time became elastic, stretching and snapping in strange, disjointed rhythms. Rosalind stood at the head of the sterile field, her world reduced to blood, tissue, and the fragile rhythm of a heart she could not afford to lose.
“Central line is in,” the anesthesiologist announced. “BP is still dropping.”
“We need to open the abdomen,” Rosalind said, her voice crisp. “We need to find the source of the bleed.”
The scalpel slid through flesh with clinical efficiency, but to Rosalind every motion felt unbearably intimate. Her hands—steady as stone—moved with an urgency that belied the storm inside her. Jane’s blood slicked the gloves, warm and slick against the latex, the proof of life ebbing away.
“Massive hemoperitoneum,” the resident reported, voice trembling. “She’s bleeding out.”
“I see it,” Rosalind said. “Suction. Retract here. Clamp the aorta. We need proximal control.”
The instruments clinked like brittle bones.
The suction hissed, pulling away the crimson flood.
Rosalind leaned in, eyes narrowing as she searched for the arterial source.
A tear in the splenic hilum, a shattered liver edge—damage everywhere.
Too much. No, she thought fiercely. Not her. Anyone else, but not Jane.
“Two more units of blood,” she commanded.
“Call interventional for backup, but we’re not waiting.
” Her hands moved faster. Clamp. Tie. Cauterize.
Each motion carried the weight of desperate love, though no one could see it.
She couldn’t falter. She didn’t care if the personnel around her noticed. She wouldn’t lose Jane.
“Pressure is sixty over thirty,” the anesthesiologist said sharply. “She’s circling the drain.”
Rosalind’s head snapped up. “Not going to happen,” she said. “Get me a vascular clamp. Now.” She dove back into the wound, sweat prickling under her cap. Her eyes burned from the strain of holding back tears. She felt the fragile pulse of Jane’s life under her fingertips, and it terrified her.
“Clamp,” she said. “Good. Suction. More lap pads.”
The room was a symphony of urgency: the soft swish of ventilator bellows, the quick exchanges of instruments, the steady beep of a monitor that seemed to echo her own heartbeat. Stay with me, Jane. Please.
Minutes bled into hours. Rosalind repaired a torn mesentery, packed a bleeding liver, resected a ruptured spleen.
Each step was a war against time. Her back ached, her shoulders screamed, but she refused to relent.
The team followed her lead, sensing the sheer force of will radiating from their attending surgeon.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the bleeding slowed.
The monitors steadied. Blood pressure climbed to a tenuous but acceptable level.
“Vitals are improving,” the anesthesiologist said, relief softening her voice.
Rosalind exhaled for the first time in hours.
Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself upright.
“Good. Let’s close for now. We’ll leave the abdomen open and plan for a second look in forty-eight hours.
She needs to stabilize before we attempt definitive repair.
” She stripped off her gloves, hands trembling faintly now that the crisis had passed. Jane was alive. Fragile, but alive.
Rosalind pulled off her gown and headed to the scrub area, tears flowing as she scrubbed her hands.
There was nothing left for her to do at this point; it was up to Jane to pull through.
She went to her office to shower and change, everything felt like it was underwater.
She glanced at the on-call room, but instead went down to the ICU.
It was quiet when Rosalind finally entered, scrubbed and changed but still carrying the metallic scent of blood in her hair. Jane lay in the bed, pale and still beneath a tangle of monitors and IV lines. The ventilator hissed with a steady rhythm, each breath an anchor to life.
Rosalind stood at the bedside, fingers curling around the rail.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Rosalind whispered, voice breaking in the sterile silence.
“You can’t just… walk out of my life like that.
I’m not ready.” Her hand hovered over Jane’s, hesitant.
Finally, she let her fingers rest lightly against Jane’s cool skin, a fragile bridge of warmth.
The contact sent a shiver through her chest. “I love you,” Rosalind said, the words barely more than a breath.
“And I need you to fight, because I can’t imagine this world without you in it.
” For a long time, she simply stood there, listening to the steady rhythm of the machine, willing it to continue.
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of vigilant care.
Jane survived the second surgery, her vitals stabilizing, but she remained unconscious.
Rosalind visited between every case, unable to stay away.
Nurses pretended not to notice the way the surgeon lingered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jane’s forehead, murmuring encouragements meant only for her.
During all of this, Rosalind was also making arrangements for her father.
His body was sent to the crematorium, and his memorial service scheduled for the weekend.
Her mother was like a rock, surprising Rosalind with her vitality.
She was almost happy to celebrate her husband’s life with all their friends and acquaintances.
It was strange for Rosalind to watch, but her mind was never far from Jane.
Dr. Mars had allowed a cot to be placed in Jane’s room and Rosalind stayed by her side as often as possible.
As Jane’s family came by to pay their respects, she put on the doctor hat and explained in detail what was happening and how things would need to go.
She explained that Jane should make a full recovery, as long as she made it through these next few days.
Things were optimistic, but they weren’t out of the woods, yet.
Recovery would be long and slow, but at least it was possible.
On the fourth day, finally, Rosalind looked up from Jane’s chart to see her patient stirring, lashes fluttering. “Jane?” Rosalind stepped forward, heart leaping. “Hey. Can you hear me?”
Jane’s eyes opened, dazed but aware. Her lips parted, a faint rasp escaping the breathing tube.
Rosalind squeezed her hand. “Don’t try to talk.
You’re safe. You’re going to be okay.” Happiness threatened to burst from Rosalind’s chest. Jane blinked, and in that small, fragile gesture Rosalind felt the weight of everything she had nearly lost. Tears burned at the corners of Rosalind’s eyes, but she didn’t look away.
Jane was alive. And that was everything.
For the first time in a long time, Rosalind allowed herself to believe in a future—a future where love was no longer silent, where every heartbeat was a promise kept.