Chapter Eight #3
She opened her mouth to argue, but the curtain swept aside and a man in a white coat entered. Doctor Mitchell, according to his name tag. Fifties, graying at the temples, with the kind of face that had seen too many emergencies to be shocked by anything.
“Mrs. Kowalski.” He glanced at the chart in his hands. “Sounds like you had an accident with a porch?”
“My foot got stuck. I pulled it out. End of story.”
“Let’s take a look.” He rolled a stool over to the examination table and sat, reaching for her injured foot with gentle hands. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
His fingers prodded the swollen ankle, pressing in various spots while Greta tried to maintain her “it’s fine” expression. But I caught the winces. The way her jaw tightened when he touched certain areas. The slight hiss of breath between her teeth.
“Range of motion?” Doctor Mitchell supported her heel with one hand. “Try to point your toes toward me.”
Greta’s foot barely moved. Maybe half an inch before she stopped, pain flickering across her face.
“Now flex them back toward your shin.”
Even less movement this time. The swelling had locked everything up, turning her ankle into something stiff and useless.
Doctor Mitchell made notes on the chart. “We’re going to need X-rays. Want to rule out any fractures.”
“It’s not broken,” Greta said, but her voice had lost some of its certainty.
“Let’s make sure.” He stood, tucking the chart under his arm. “I’ll send radiology in. They’ll take you down the hall, get some pictures, and we’ll go from there.”
The X-ray process took another forty minutes. A technician appeared with a wheelchair—Greta protested but accepted when standing became too painful. Diesel and I waited in the room while they wheeled her away, the silence stretching between us.
“Thanks for coming,” I said eventually.
“Told you I would.” His hand found mine again, fingers threading through. “You were worried.”
“Still am.”
“She’s tough. Whatever it is, she’ll handle it.”
“What if it’s bad? What if she needs surgery or—”
“Then she’ll handle that too.” His thumb resumed its pattern on my hand. “And you’ll be there to help her through it. That’s what you do.”
The observation made my throat tight. He’d known me less than two weeks, but somehow, he’d already figured out the core of who I was. The part that couldn’t walk away when someone needed help. The part that would rather worry myself sick than let someone face something alone.
“You’re too good at reading me,” I managed.
“You’re not that complicated.” But his expression was soft, affectionate. “Just a guy who cares too much. Could be worse.”
Before I could respond, the curtain swept open and the technician wheeled Greta back in.
“Well?” I asked.
“They took pictures of my foot from about sixty different angles,” Greta said, settling back onto the examination table with a grunt. “Felt like a photo shoot, except less glamorous and more radioactive.”
The technician parked the wheelchair against the wall and left without a word. Another stretch of waiting began, the three of us sitting in that small room while machines beeped in adjacent spaces and footsteps passed by outside the curtain.
Diesel’s presence next to me was the only thing keeping my leg from bouncing with nervous energy. His hand stayed in mine, grounding me to something solid while my thoughts spiraled through increasingly catastrophic possibilities.
Doctor Mitchell returned fifteen minutes later with a tablet in his hands. The screen glowed with what I assumed were the X-ray images—white bones against black background, the ankle joint clearly visible even from where I sat.
“So.” Doctor Mitchell pulled up the stool again, angling the tablet so Greta could see. “Good news is nothing’s broken.”
Relief flooded through me so fast my vision blurred for a second. Not broken. That was something. That was huge.
“Told you,” Greta said, triumph coloring her voice. “All this fuss over nothing.”
“Not nothing.” Doctor Mitchell zoomed in on one section of the image, pointing to an area near the ankle joint. “You’ve got a severe sprain. Grade two, possibly grade three. The ligaments here are torn, which is why you’re having trouble with range of motion.”
“So ice it and take some pills?”
“Ice, elevation, compression, and rest. RICE protocol.” He set down the tablet and looked at her directly. “You’re going to need to stay off that foot for at least two weeks. Possibly longer, depending on how it heals.”
“Two weeks?” Greta’s voice went up an octave. “I can’t stay off my feet for two weeks.”
“You don’t have a choice.” His tone was firm but not unkind. “If you keep walking on it, you’ll make it worse. Could turn a sprain into something that needs surgery. Is that what you want?”
Silence filled the small room. Greta’s mouth opened then closed. Her orange-nailed fingers gripped the edge of the examination table until her orange polish stood out.
“No,” she said finally. “That’s not what I want.”
I was surprised Greta had conceded so quickly, happy she was cooperating. Now all she had to do was stay off her feet until she healed.
For Greta, easier said than done.