Seven Appointments
Chapter sixteen
Annette
I kick off my shoes the moment I step inside my apartment.
Silence greets me. Not uncomfortable silence. Just...empty. I never noticed how quiet this place was until the last few weeks.
Maybe it’s because somewhere along the way I'd grown used to someone filling my afternoons with questions, quiet smiles, and terrible jokes about coffee scoops.
I close my eyes.
This is becoming ridiculous. He's my patient.
An unusually kind, stubborn, frustrating patient...but still my patient.
I hang my coat by the door, trade my scrubs for an oversized Frostholm University sweatshirt, pull my hair into a messy knot, and heat a bowl of leftover soup.
Dinner has become embarrassingly predictable lately.
Soup.
Tea.
An episode of whatever show I'm halfway through.
Bed.
Repeat.
The microwave beeps and I carry my bowl to the sofa, curl beneath my favorite blanket, and reach for the remote.
Before I can press a button, my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Keisha.
A smile appears before I can stop it. I let it ring once. Twice. Three times. By the fourth ring I'm laughing at myself. I answer with a tap.
The screen immediately fills with Keisha's face.
"Well..." she says without preamble. "Either you've won the lottery..." I grin. "...or you're about to overthink something."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Liar."
"You figured that out awfully fast." "I've known you for a lot of years." She settles deeper into the chair in her apartment back in Riverton, a mug of tea balanced in one hand. "You still make that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're pretending everything's fine."
"I do not have a face."
"Oh, sweetheart." She laughs. "You absolutely have a face."
I shake my head. " You called the wrong person."
"No, I called exactly the right person and you answered."
"Technicality."
"It counts."
I laugh despite myself. God, I've missed this. Working in different cities means most of our conversations happen exactly like this—FaceTime calls squeezed into evenings after work, usually while one of us is eating dinner far too late.
"I was just thinking about you," I say.
"Liar."
I laugh again. "You really aren't going to let me get away with anything tonight, are you?"
"Not a chance."
She takes a sip of tea. "So..." she asks casually, "When are you coming home for a weekend?"
"Soon."
"You've been saying 'soon' for a month."
"I know."
"You've been busy."
"...Yeah."
She studies me over the rim of her mug. "Busy?" A tiny smile appears. "...or distracted?"
I roll my eyes. "You're impossible."
"I'm observant. There's a difference."
I smile into my soup. Another thing I miss. Nobody understands my expressions quite like Keisha. She watched me survive twelve-hour shifts, double shifts, the occasional twenty-two-hour marathon when staffing fell apart and neither of us had the energy to remember whose turn it was to go home.
She knows exactly what I sound like when I'm exhausted, when I'm frustrated, and when I'm pretending to be fine.
Tonight... she apparently knows something else too. "You look happy."
The words catch me off guard. I blink. "I'm tired."
"No." She smiles. "Happy."
I laugh. "You've officially lost it."
"Have I?"
She tilts her head. You've smiled six times since you answered."
"I always smile."
"No."
She points toward the screen. "You smile like that."
I feel my cheeks warming. "It's been a good week."
"Mmm."
The sound tells me she doesn't believe that's the whole story. Not even close. She lets the silence stretch for a few comfortable seconds before asking the question I should have seen coming.
"So..." she says. "How's Captain Handsome?"
The answer comes automatically. "He's doing really well."
She nods, waiting. "His shoulder is stronger."
Another nod. "His confidence is back."
Still waiting. "He's laughing again."
I smile without realizing it. "He actually made one of the teenage patients laugh so hard today that the poor kid nearly forgot he was supposed to be balancing on one foot."
Keisha's smile grows wider.
"And..." I continue, "...he finally admitted stretching isn't completely useless."
She doesn't interrupt.
"He remembers everyone's names."
I keep talking.
"He checks on the volunteers every morning. He somehow convinced Mr. Jenkins to actually do his home exercises."
"And..."
I stop, realizing that I've been talking for nearly two minutes.
Keisha folds her arms. "I asked how he was."
I blink.
"I didn't ask how his shoulder was or what he was doing in the gym."
For a heartbeat I simply stare at her, then I drop my forehead into one hand. "Oh no."
She laughs. "Oh yes."
"I did that, didn't I?"
"You absolutely did."
I groan. "I sound ridiculous."
"You sound..." She smiles gently. "...interested."
I open my mouth to protest. Nothing comes out. Because for the first time...
I'm not entirely sure she's wrong.
The smile on Keisha's face softens. "There she is."
"Who?"
"The woman I've been waiting to hear."
I frown. "I've been talking this whole time."
"No." She shakes her head. "You've been giving me progress reports."
I laugh. "I work in rehab. Occupational hazard."
"I'm not talking about his exercises."
She studies me over the top of her mug. "I'm talking about the way your face changes when you say his name."
My stomach does an uncomfortable little flip. "You're imagining things."
"Annette." She smiles. “I've watched you through years of impossible patients, twelve-hour shifts, and one spectacularly awful coffee machine."
I laugh. "The Riverton coffee machine really is terrible."
"It’s criminal."
"It tried to poison us."
"Daily."
We both grin. The memory fades as she looks back at me. "I also remember you insisting you were perfectly fine after working twenty-two hours straight."
"I was."
"You fell asleep sitting up."
"I was resting my eyes."
"You were snoring."
"I absolutely was not."
"You absolutely were."
I point accusingly at the screen. "You said we'd never speak of that again."
"I lied."
I can't help laughing. Man, I've missed this. Keisha waits until my laughter settles before speaking again. "I know your tells, Annette."
"My tells?"
She nods. "When something matters to you...you start saying 'we.'"
I blink. "What?"
"'We had a really good session today.'"
She counts on her fingers.
"'We're making progress.'"
"'We're almost there.'"
She tilts her head. "You've never talked about patients like that before."
"I..."
The protest dies before it reaches my lips. Had I? I replay the last few weeks in my head.
We're making progress.
We're almost there.
We had a breakthrough.
Oh.
"Oh."
Keisha smiles gently. "Exactly."
I sink farther into the sofa. "I didn't even notice."
"I know."
For a moment neither of us says anything, then she smiles again. "You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"You used to call me because your patients frustrated you."
I laugh. "I did, didn't I?"
"'This guy won't do his home exercises.'"
"'That woman insists she's ready to drive.'"
"'Someone tried to lift a couch two days after surgery.'"
I cover my face with one hand. "When you say it like that..."
She grins. "But lately?" Her smile turns almost teasing. "You call me because Jamie said something that made you laugh."
I open my mouth. Close it again. Because she's right.
The coffee scoop. His ongoing campaign against stretching. The way he'd convinced Mr. Jenkins that therapy wasn't nearly as terrible as everyone claimed. The little stories had become part of my evenings without me ever realizing it.
Keisha watches recognition slowly spread across my face. "I've never heard you talk about someone this way."
"It isn't..."
I hesitate. "...what you think."
"No?"
"No."
I sit up a little straighter. "I'm invested. I want him to recover. I care about all my patients."
"I know you do."
She says it so gently that I immediately know there's a "but" coming.
"But..." she continues, "...you don't know all your patients' favorite soup."
I stare at her. "You don't bake homemade muffins because one of your patients had a rough week."
"I brought muffins for the department."
"Mmm."
"And you definitely don't smile every single time someone's name comes up."
I feel heat creeping into my cheeks. "I'm smiling because he's funny."
"He's also really hunky."
I nearly choke on my soup. "Keisha!"
"What? "I'm making an observation.”
“I am absolutely not discussing whether my patient is handsome."
"You just called him your patient."
"Because he is."
She waits. I sigh. "Mostly."
Her eyebrows lift. "Oh?"
I bury my face in the blanket. "I cannot believe I just said that."
She laughs so hard she has to set her mug down. "I've missed these conversations."
I peek over the edge of the blanket. "You enjoy watching me suffer."
"I enjoy watching you be human." The teasing fades from her expression. "You've spent years taking care of everyone else."
She smiles softly. "It's kind of nice seeing someone sneak past all those walls you've built."
I don't answer, because for the first time I'm beginning to wonder if maybe she isn't talking about Jamie anymore.
Maybe...she's talking about me.
***
Keisha is the first to break the silence. "I’m going to ask you something and I want you to answer honestly."
"I'll try."
She studies me for a long moment. "Do you look forward to seeing him?"
The question seems almost too simple. "Yes." The answer slips out before I can think.
Keisha nods. "I thought so."
She doesn't say anything else. She doesn't have to.
Instead, she asks another question. "If therapy ended tomorrow..."
she says gently, "...would you miss him?"
My smile disappears. A long silence stretches between us.
Finally..."Yes." The word barely rises above a whisper.
She waits, not pushing, just giving me room to hear myself.
One more question. "Do you think about him when he isn't there?"
I let out a slow breath.
More than I should.
The thought comes immediately. The words take longer.
"...Yes."
I look down at my bowl of soup. "It's ridiculous."
"No."
"It is." I laugh without much humor. “I catch myself wondering whether he's remembered to stretch.
I hear a hockey score and wonder if he's watching.
I walked past a sporting goods store yesterday and almost bought him one of those ridiculous reusable ice packs because the one he uses is practically falling apart. "
I close my eyes. "I didn't buy it."
Keisha smiles.
"I know."
"I stood there for five minutes."
"I figured."
"I actually argued with myself."
"I can imagine."
"'He's your patient, Annette.'"
"'You don't buy your patient an ice pack.'"
She laughs. "So, I didn't."
"What did you buy?"
"A candle." She raises an eyebrow.
"For me."
"Good."
"It smells like cedar."
"Clever."
"I figured if I couldn't fix my feelings..." I smile to myself. "...at least my apartment could smell nice."
Keisha laughs until she has to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes. "Oh, sweetheart."
"I know."
"No." She shakes her head. "You really don't."
Her smile fades into something gentler. "What's scaring you?"
The question lands differently than the others, not because I don't know the answer.
Because I do.
"When this rotation ends..."My fingers tighten around the warm mug. "...he won't have any reason to keep me in his life."
***
The words sit between us. Painfully honest. I stare out the window. Snow continues drifting past the streetlights.
One day...he'll walk into therapy for the last time.
We'll joke about stretching.
I'll congratulate him.
We'll shake hands.
I'll wish him luck.
He'll thank me.
Then he'll walk out the door.
And that'll be the end of the story.
The thought hurts far more than it should. Keisha lets the silence settle before asking quietly, "Is that what you want?"
I don't answer, because I can't.
She knows me too well to rescue me.
Instead, she asks another question. "When is his discharge?"
"Three weeks."
The answer comes instantly. Her head tilts.
"How many appointments left?"
I don't even have to think. "Seven."
The word leaves my mouth. Then...I stop.
Keisha doesn't smile. She doesn't need to. "You knew that awfully fast."
I stare at the screen. I hadn't realized I'd been counting. Not consciously. Not deliberately.
But somewhere along the way...I'd started measuring time differently.
Not in weeks. Not in days. In appointments.
Only seven.
The realization steals my breath.
Keisha speaks so softly I almost miss it. "Remember when he first came in?"
I nod. "He looked lonely."
"Yes."
She smiles. "I bet he doesn't anymore."
I think about Jamie laughing with volunteers, checking on teenagers during therapy, remembering birthdays, making everyone around him feel important.
"No." I smile. "He doesn't."
Keisha's eyes stay on mine. "I don't think either of you do."
My throat tightens. For the first time all evening neither of us has anything to laugh about.
Finally, Keisha reaches for her mug.
"Annette..." Her voice is gentle. "Sometimes we spend so much time helping other people heal..." She pauses. "...that we forget we're allowed to hope for our own happiness too."
I blink hard. "I'm not even sure what that looks like."
"You don't have to know." She smiles. "You just have to stop pretending you don't want it."
Neither of us speaks for several moments. Finally, I smile. "I'm really glad you called."
"I know."
She grins. "I was starting to miss your overthinking."
"I do not overthink."
She gives me a look.
I laugh. "Okay..." I admit. "...maybe a little."
"Only every day ending in 'y.'"
We say goodnight a few minutes later. The apartment is quiet again, but somehow it doesn't feel quite as empty.
I carry my bowl to the kitchen before wandering back to the sofa.
Almost without thinking, I reach for my planner lying on the coffee table.
Monday. Jamie - 10:00 a.m.
Wednesday. Jamie - 10:00 a.m.
Friday. Jamie - 10:00 a.m.
I keep turning pages.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Only seven appointments left.
I close the planner and rest my head against the back of the sofa. A slow smile finds me.
Followed almost immediately by a sigh.
"This..."
I whisper into the quiet apartment,
"...is becoming a problem."