Chapter 38

A long road ahead

April 27

Saturday afternoon

Donovan grippedmy hand as tight as I was holding onto his when Dr. Shastri came into the waiting room. The doors made shushing sounds as they opened, then closed behind her. Donovan and I had been in the waiting room at the medical center ever since last night, when we found Kristin.

I glanced up at Donovan. I’d seen him intense, focused, angry, and in a killing rage.

I’d never seen him scared.

My cast was hard against my belly, which seemed to twist as I pressed the cast to it.

We got to our feet as the doctor walked closer. Donovan held onto me as if I was his lifeline.

Dr. Shastri was lovely, with her hair pulled back, accenting her eyes and cheekbones. She sat on one of the mauve and sea-foam green chairs, the cushion barely giving under her slight weight. The medical center didn’t have a hospital’s antiseptic smell—at least not in the waiting room, which smelled more like paint, dust, and mothballs.

As the doctor waited for us to sit back down, Donovan seemed frozen. I tugged a little on his hand and we sat together.

Donovan’s words came out gruff. Hoarse. “How is—” His throat worked. “Is my sister all right?”

“She will be.” The doctor gave a gentle smile. I placed her accent as close to Kashmir, in northern India, where I had once worked an op. “But it will take time. You need to understand that.”

“How—what—” Donovan sucked in his breath and he looked like the Donovan I knew, not the frightened boy I’d seen while we waited for news. “Please explain everything,” he said with a more solid tone to his voice.

“Kristin gave permission to share her medical information,” Dr. Shastri said. “The near strangulation is the worst of her physical injuries.” Dr. Shastri folded her hands in her lap. “The fumes she breathed in from the oven cleaner fortunately did not damage her lungs. However, she does have a few bruises and some mild abrasions from what was probably a whip.”

The killing rage was back on Donovan’s face, his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones. At the same time, fear for his sister never left his eyes.

“She’s been tested for illnesses and diseases, and everything has come back normal so far,” Dr. Shastri said.

Those words brought home the fact that Kristin had been sexually abused, and my stomach lurched. It was possible I would end up with two casts if Donovan squeezed my hand any tighter than he was now.

“What now?” Donovan sounded like he had to force the words.

“From what I understand of your background, Mr. Donovan,” Dr. Shastri said in her light accent, “I am certain you are aware of what will be the more difficult part of Kristin’s healing, the psychological trauma.”

Donovan didn’t move, didn’t respond.

“The extent of this trauma we will not know until she has had a complete mental health assessment,” Dr. Shastri said. “At the very least she will be seen by a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and a social worker. She will be prescribed what she most needs based on that assessment.

“Her recovery will involve therapy,” she continued. “Not only with a social worker, but the psychiatrist may prescribe medications. As I said, it will depend on her assessment.”

Donovan pulled my hand into his lap, and I don’t think he even realized it. “When can she come home?”

Dr. Shastri’s brown eyes moved from Donovan’s to mine, before she looked at Donovan again. “She will most likely need some in-patient time. How long that will be, it is too soon to tell.”

“I don’t want her to wake up alone.” Donovan looked toward the doors the doctor had come through. “I need to be there for her.”

“You may stay with Kristin when you are able to.” The doctor had a focused expression, while maintaining an air of soothing calm with her gentle accent. “So that you know, she will never be alone. She will always have a sitter in the room, and we have been assured a guard will always be stationed outside the door. She will be extremely well cared for.”

Dr. Shastri stood. “She’s resting and may not wake, but you are welcome to spend time with her.”

Donovan held onto me as we followed the doctor. I honestly don’t think he even realized he hadn’t released his grip on me since the doctor came into the waiting room.

For a long time, we stood by Kristin’s bed. Her bruised, swollen throat, her tortured expression, even in sleep, all those tubes and monitors…

“She needs you,” I whispered to Donovan, and he released my hand.

Donovan was wholly focused on Kristin when he took her hand in his, and he held it for hours. His voice was husky as he told her how much he loved her.

Then he started talking about how he was waiting for her to come home; about how that old lady had willed him a snotty calico named Dixie; how it was around Boston; memories of things they’d done when they were younger. Just stuff you would think inane coming from a man like Donovan.

But there was love in every word he spoke, and in the single tear that made its way down his cheek.

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