20. Healing Hands
CHAPTER 20
Healing Hands
M y two weeks of leave was done. Time to face reality again. But first, my usual morning run with Sofia.
Central Park buzzed with its normal morning crowd – joggers, dog walkers, early commuters cutting through to save time. Sofia waited at our usual spot, two coffee cups in hand and concern clear in her eyes.
Three times I tried to tell her about last night. About how natural it had felt to follow Alex home, to let him love me in ways that felt both new and achingly familiar. About how the guilt I'd expected hadn't come – just a sense that Michael would have wanted this for me, would have understood about making room for new love alongside old.
“I need to tell you something,” I finally managed, “but I don't want you to think I'm having some kind of breakdown.”
Sofia's steps slowed, her expression shifting to something carefully neutral in a way that suddenly seemed practiced. “You're remembering things,” she said simply. “Lives you couldn't have lived.”
“How?” I asked, leaning forward. “How do you remember? When did this start?”
Sofia's fingers traced the rim of her own coffee cup, a gesture both familiar and suddenly strange. “It's been... gradual. Fragments at first. A feeling of déjà vu that went beyond simple coincidence. Dreams that felt more like memories. Flashes of places I've never been, conversations I've never had.”
“And now?” I pressed.
“Now?” She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Now it's like pieces of a puzzle are suddenly clicking into place. I'll be in the middle of a surgery, and suddenly I'm remembering a healing ritual from somewhere – somewhen – completely different. Or I'll look at an instrument and know its history before I could possibly have learned it.”
“When did you first realize?”
“About a year ago,” Sofia said, her gaze distant. “A patient – an elderly woman. She looked at me and said something in a language I shouldn't know. And I understood. Not just the words, but the context, the history behind them.” She met my eyes again, that ancient wisdom swirling beneath her professional exterior. “I thought I was losing my mind at first. But then more memories came. Clearer. More certain.”
“And you're sure about this?” The skeptical surgeon in me couldn't help but ask.
Sofia's laugh was sharp, knowing. “About as sure as I am that I've spent decades saving lives in this hospital. Some things you just know.”
“You knew.” My voice came out sharper than intended, coffee nearly spilling as I turned to face her. “All this time, you knew?”
Sofia met my eyes steadily, the way she had through countless traumas and emergencies. But this time, I saw something ancient in her gaze, something that reminded me of temple steps and sacred wisdom I shouldn't remember.
“I can't tell you everything,” she said carefully. “We were... there are rules. Limitations. You need to ask Alex about the specifics.”
My hands clenched around my coffee cup, the warmth doing nothing to chase away the sudden chill. “We? Who's we? How long have you been keeping this from me?”
“Since the beginning.” Her honesty did nothing to soften the blow. “Some of us remember, some don't. But only you were affected by the...” she hesitated, choosing words carefully, “the memento to forget.”
I laughed, but the sound held no humor. “The memento to forget? That's what we're calling it?” Around us, the park continued its morning routine, oblivious to worlds shattering. “I trusted you. Through everything – Michael's death, Vale's accusations, all of it. And you've been what? Watching me stumble through memories like some kind of experiment?”
“It wasn't like that.” Sofia reached for me, but I stepped back. “We were trying to protect you. The memories... they can be overwhelming if they come too fast.”
“Protect me?” The betrayal felt like a physical thing, pressing against my ribs. “By lying? By watching me think I was going crazy?”
“You weren't ready.” Her voice held centuries of patience I didn't want to hear. “After Michael, after everything... you needed time.”
“Time for what? To be manipulated? To have everyone around me playing some cosmic game I didn't know the rules to?”
A jogger swerved around us, probably wondering why two adults were having an argument in the middle of the path at 7 AM. The normalcy of it – running shoes on gravel, dogs barking in the distance, the smell of morning coffee – felt obscene against the weight of what I was learning.
“Did Vale know?” I demanded suddenly. “Is that what all this has been about? Everyone playing their assigned roles while I fumbled around in the dark?”
“Eli, please?—”
“No.” My hands shook as I backed away from her. “No more explanations. No more protection. No more lies.”
“Where are you going? ”
“To work.” I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. “Since that's apparently the only real thing in my life right now.”
“Eli, wait?—”
But I was already walking away, my surgeon's hands shaking with betrayal rather than memory. Behind me, I heard Sofia call out once more, but I didn't turn. Couldn't turn.
Last night's joy felt tainted now. Had that been orchestrated too? Part of some grand plan I wasn't allowed to know about?
Who could I trust when everyone in my life had been keeping secrets? When even Sofia, who'd held me through the worst moments after Michael's death, had been playing some role I didn't understand?
The hospital loomed ahead – solid, real, understandable. At least there, in the emergency department, things made sense. Medicine followed rules I could trust, patterns I could verify.
But even as I thought it, I remembered other healing – herbs ground with sacred purpose, battlefield medicine under ancient skies, hands that had saved lives across centuries.
Two weeks of leave was done. Time to be Dr. Monroe again, to focus on the present rather than impossible pasts or betrayed trust.
Even if nothing felt real anymore.
Even if every memory now had to be questioned.
Even if the people I'd trusted most had been lying all along.
The emergency department's automatic doors opened, welcoming me back to the one place that still made sense. Or at least, I hoped it did.
Right now, that hope was all I had left.
The emergency department welcomed me back with its usual controlled chaos. I threw myself into work, grateful for the distraction of straightforward medical problems. Broken bones. Allergic reactions. Things that made sense, that followed logical patterns.
“Welcome back, Dr. Monroe,” the charge nurse said warmly. “We've saved all the exciting cases for you.”
Three hours into my shift, I'd treated two sprained ankles, one moderate concussion, and a nasty case of food poisoning. My hands stayed steady through it all, finding comfort in familiar routines. No one here asked about past lives or ancient memories. No one watched me with careful calculation, waiting to see what I'd remember next.
“Your sutures are neater than ever,” Vale observed, appearing beside me as I finished with a laceration patient. His tone held none of its usual edge. “The break seems to have done you good.”
I tensed, waiting for more probing questions or veiled implications. But Vale just studied the patient's chart with professional interest.
“The board will be pleased,” he continued. “Though between us, I never doubted your competence.”
“Really?” I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice. “Could have fooled me with all those performance reviews.”
Vale's smile held surprising warmth. “Professional rivalry doesn't preclude professional respect, Dr. Monroe.”
Before I could respond, trauma alerts started blaring. Multiple casualties from a highway pileup, arriving in minutes. Vale and I moved in practiced synchronization, politics forgotten in the face of immediate need.
“I'll take trauma two,” he said, already gowning up. “Unless you'd prefer?—”
“No, that works.” The familiar dance of emergency medicine felt steadying. “Sofia usually—” I stopped, the name catching in my throat.
Vale gave me a sharp look but didn't comment. Instead, he just nodded toward incoming paramedics. “Shall we?”
The next hours passed in focused blur. Vale and I worked parallel traumas, consulting each other when needed, our usual antagonism replaced by professional efficiency. It felt... normal. Real. No hidden agendas or ancient patterns, just two doctors doing their jobs.
“Good catch on the subtle pneumothorax,” Vale said later, as we both caught our breath between cases. “Most would have missed it on initial assessment.”
“The patient's breathing pattern was off,” I explained, surprised to find myself having a normal conversation with him. “Something about the way he held his shoulder...”
“Instinct born of experience,” Vale nodded. “It's what makes you an excellent physician, regardless of... other complications.”
I tensed again, waiting for him to bring up my forced leave or Alex or any of the strangeness of recent months. But Vale just handed me a fresh coffee from the doctors' lounge.
“The board meets tomorrow,” he said casually. “I'll be recommending your full reinstatement, no restrictions.”
“Why?” I had to ask. “After everything...”
“Because you're a good doctor, Dr. Monroe. Whatever else is happening in your life, that hasn't changed.” He paused, something almost kind crossing his features. “And sometimes work is the best place to figure things out. Away from... external pressures.”
I studied him over my coffee cup, seeing him clearly for perhaps the first time. Not just the calculating administrator or professional rival, but a doctor who understood something about needing space to process complex truths.
“Thank you,” I said finally, meaning more than just the coffee.
Vale nodded once, then straightened his perfect suit. “Now, I believe you have patients waiting. Try not to let your excellent suture technique slow down department throughput too much.”
Just like that, we were back to normal. But something had shifted – some understanding reached without words or hidden meanings.
The rest of my shift passed in steady rhythm of patient care. My phone stayed silent in my locker, ignored messages piling up from Sofia, from Alex, from people whose secrets I couldn't face yet.
Here, in the emergency department, things made sense. Injuries needed healing. Patients needed care. My hands knew what to do without questioning why they knew it.
For now, that was enough.
It had to be.
Rachel's house glowed warm against the autumn evening, windows lit with the kind of welcome that made my chest ache. I'd been avoiding her calls for three days, knowing my sister would see right through whatever excuses I tried to make. David's firefighter boots were missing from their usual spot by the porch swing – night shift, which meant no buffer between me and Rachel's uncanny ability to read my soul.
The door opened before I could knock. Rachel stood with arms crossed, worry lines creasing her forehead in a way that made her look startlingly like our mother. “Three days, Elijah James Monroe,” she said, using my full name like she had when we were kids. “Three days of avoiding my calls.”
Her kitchen smelled like our mother's chicken soup – the recipe she only made when one of us was sick or heartbroken. The familiar scent hit me like a physical thing, memories of childhood comfort wrapping around me as I sank into my usual chair at her table.
“You're stress-cooking Mom's soup,” I observed, watching her move around the kitchen with practiced grace. Her pregnant belly made the movements less fluid than usual, but no less determined.
“And you're avoiding my calls.” She set a bowl in front of me with more force than necessary. “After disappearing from Alex's party, after not answering Sofia's messages, after?—”
“I slept with Alex.”
The words burst out of me like something breaking. Rachel's spoon clattered against her bowl, the sound echoing in sudden silence. For a moment, all I could hear was the tick of the kitchen clock – the same one that had marked time in our parents' house, that had counted minutes in the hospital waiting room the night Michael died.
“Oh, Eli,” she said softly, and something in her gentle tone shattered what was left of my composure.
“I kept it on,” I whispered, touching the ring that hadn't left my finger in six years. “Even when we... I couldn't take it off. And Alex understood. But I still feel like I'm betraying him, Rach. Like I'm trying to replace him.”
Rachel was around the table before I could blink, pulling me into the fierce hug that only little sisters can give. “It's been six years,” she said against my hair, her own voice thick with tears. “Six years since Michael was taken from us. From all of us.”
She pulled back, holding my face between her hands like she had the night of the accident. Her touch felt exactly the same – anchoring, grounding, full of the love that had helped put me back together when everything fell apart.
“I miss him every day,” she continued, thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realized were falling. “You know that. The stupid jokes he made at family dinners. The way he'd spend hours explaining architecture to anyone who'd listen. How he made this house perfect for us because 'family deserves perfect sight lines.'” Her laugh held both grief and love. “But Eli... I think it's time for you to live again. Really live, not just exist.”
“What if I forget him?” The whispered fear felt childish, but Rachel's eyes held no judgment.
“Forget Michael?” She settled into the chair beside me, one hand still gripping mine. “The man who redesigned our entire kitchen because the workflow wasn't 'optimal for familial bonding'? Who spent three hours at my wedding explaining proper brick alignment to Dad's contractor friend?”
Despite everything, I found myself smiling at the memory. “Poor guy just wanted to enjoy the open bar. ”
“But Michael insisted he understand the historical significance of load-bearing techniques.” Rachel squeezed my fingers. “Those memories aren't going anywhere, big brother. Loving someone new doesn't erase what you had with Michael. It just... makes your heart bigger.”
“Alex makes me laugh,” I admitted quietly, remembering warm hands and gentle understanding. “Really laugh, not just the polite kind.”
“I know.” Rachel's smile held knowing warmth.
I stared into my cooling soup, remembering Alex's touch in the dark, careful with my heart even while making it race. “It feels like betrayal,” I whispered. “Being happy with someone else.”
“No.” Rachel's voice held fierce certainty. “You know what would be betrayal? Locking your heart away forever. Michael loved life so much, loved you so much. He'd hate seeing you just... existing instead of living.”
Fresh tears spilled as she pulled me close again, holding me while years of guilt and grief poured out. The kitchen clock kept steady time, marking moments between sobs until I could breathe normally again.
“Tell me about it,” Rachel said finally, returning to her own chair. “About Alex. About that night.”
“Rach—”
“Not the details,” she clarified quickly. “Just... was it good? Did he make you feel safe?”
I thought about Alex's rooftop garden, about gentle hands and patient understanding. About how he'd known exactly when to push and when to wait. “Yeah,” I admitted softly. “It was... right. Even with everything else going on, even with all the complications... being with him felt right.”
Rachel's smile bloomed slow and sure. “Then maybe that's all you need to know right now.”
She reheated our soup, adding extra crackers the way our mother always had. We talked about easier things – her pregnancy, David's latest firefighting stories, the way our father still couldn't work his new phone. But when I stood to leave, she caught my arm.
“Love isn't a finite resource,” she said softly. “Your heart isn't betraying Michael by making room for someone new. It's honoring him by remembering how to live.”
“When did my little sister get so wise?” I asked, trying to lighten the moment.
“Probably around the time my big brother started being an idiot about his feelings.” She threw a dish towel at my head with perfect aim. “Besides, someone has to keep you functioning. It's a full-time job.”
“Says the woman who called me at 3 AM because she couldn't decide what color to paint the nursery.”
“That was a legitimate crisis!” She protested, hand resting on her growing belly. “And you're changing the subject. We were talking about you and Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Sophisticated.”
I groaned. “Please don't call him that.”
“Would you prefer 'Your Dreamy Developer'? 'Architecture Appreciation Society President'?”
“I'm leaving now.”
“Oh no you're not.” She blocked my path to the door with surprising agility for someone seven months pregnant. “Not until you promise to stop overthinking everything. And maybe answer your phone once in a while? Some of us worry when our surgeon brother goes mysteriously silent.”
“Fine,” I conceded, pulling her into a hug. “But only because I'm afraid you'll waddle after me if I don't agree.”
“I do not waddle!” She smacked my arm. “I glide gracefully, thank you very much.”
“Whatever you say, duck.”
“Get out of my house,” she laughed, but pulled me in for one more fierce hug. “And Eli? Be happy. That's all any of us ever wanted for you.”
The front door opened before I could respond, bringing a blast of cool night air and David's familiar heavy footsteps. My brother-in-law looked exhausted but brightened when he saw us in the kitchen.
“Thank god you're here,” he said, dropping his gear bag by the door. “Maybe you can talk sense into your sister about the crib placement. She's been rearranging furniture at midnight again.”
“It's about optimal flow!” Rachel protested. “The feng shui?—”
“The feng shui was fine last week,” David interrupted, kissing her temple as he passed. “And the week before that. And the week before that.”
“Michael said—” She stopped, glancing at me apologetically, but I found myself smiling.
“Michael said the orientation of furniture affects the energy of a space,” I finished for her. “And that a baby's room needs perfect balance between practical function and spiritual harmony.”
“He spent three hours explaining it to me with diagrams,” David recalled, grinning as he pulled leftovers from the fridge. “Complete with historical references and mathematical equations.”
“That's because you kept asking questions to wind him up,” Rachel accused, but her eyes were bright with happy memories.
“He was so passionate about it,” David shrugged, mouth full of cold chicken. “It was like watching one of those nature documentaries where the expert gets really excited about moss or something.”
The laughter bubbled up before I could stop it – real, unguarded, full of love for the man we'd lost and the memories we shared. Rachel beamed at me, and I knew she'd been right. Loving Alex didn't mean forgetting Michael. It meant having more stories to tell, more love to share.
“You staying for a beer?” David asked, already reaching for the fridge.
“I should go,” I said reluctantly. “Early shift tomorrow. ”
“Running away before I can make you move more furniture, you mean,” Rachel teased.
“Absolutely.” I hugged her again, then accepted David's one-armed embrace. “Take care of my sister.”
“Always do.” David's steady gaze held understanding beyond his words. “You take care of yourself too, yeah?”
The drive home felt different somehow, Rachel's words echoing in my mind. My phone showed missed calls from Sofia that I still wasn't ready to deal with, a text from Alex full of careful space and understanding. My hands were steady on the wheel, but my world felt shifted on its axis.