CHAPTER 3
The wee hours of the morning had a different rhythm inside the hospital.
Quieter. Slower. But never was it still in the ICU.
There were twenty stalls fully equipped and prepared to handle most serious traumas, especially if the fifteen Ors weren’t available.
Five trauma teams were readily on staff twenty-four seven.
At that very moment, all were painfully occupied If those patients stabilized after their life-saving surgery, they would be able to graduate to a private/semi-private room when available.
Machines breathed in soft, steady intervals. Monitors cast muted glows across softly-dimmed rooms. Footsteps echoed, voices lowered as if instinctively respecting the fragile line between rest and survival.
In Room 412, Randi Caleb lay suspended in that in-between place, neither fully gone nor fully returned.
Nurse Elena Torres adjusted the IV line with practiced ease, her movements gentle and precise. She’d checked on this patient more than the others. Not intentionally. At least… not at first.
Her gaze drifted again to the woman’s face, pale against the white pillow, strands of golden hair brushed carefully back earlier in the evening. There was something familiar there. Something that had tugged at her memory all night.
Elena stepped closer. Studied her.
Then her breath caught.
“No way…”
She reached for her phone, pulling up a saved image—one she’d taken months ago, standing in a quiet gallery space, proud and a little awed.
A painting. Thick strokes of color. Light layered into texture. Emotion you could almost touch and could definitely feel. She responded to it so deeply, she purchased it to hang on her living room wall. Everyone who visited her, reacted the same.
She looked from the screen… to the woman in the bed.
Back again.
The door opened softly behind her.
She gasped.
“Oh my God…”
Dr. Brewer Clay stepped in, somewhat surprised at the nurses reaction.
Even at this hour, he carried the same composed presence—broad shoulders, quiet authority, long dark hair pulled back, his gaze already assessing before a word was spoken.
“Oh my God, what? Is something wrong?”
Elena turned, still holding her phone.
“No, she’s stable. Vitals have been holding steady for the last two hours.”
Brew nodded once, already moving toward the bed. His eyes went immediately to her hand—carefully wrapped, elevated, protected. He gave her a puzzled look.
“Then, why that reaction?”
He studied the patient’s hand again in silence. Always the hand first. Always the work.
The nurse stuttered slightly.
“Da …doctor…”
There was something in the nurse’s tone that made him glance up.
Elena hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering her voice slightly.
“I think you should know something about your patient.”
He didn’t like the phrasing. Your patient. It seemed too personal.
Still –
“Nurse Torres, what is it?”
She turned her phone toward him.
“This is one of her pieces. I bought it last fall.”
Brew’s gaze dropped to the screen. Color. Texture. Movement. Even through her phone, the painting carried something alive.
His brow tightened slightly.
“She’s an artist,” Elena said quietly. “A really well-known one, actually. Randi Caleb.”
The name settled and shifted something.
Brew looked back at the woman in the bed. At the hand he had fought to save.
And for the first time since the surgery, the weight of it changed.
“That information stays here,” he said, voice low and controlled. “She’s treated like any other patient.”
“Of course,” Elena nodded. “I just thought -”
“I know why you told me. I know how crucial recovery will mean to her. We fight equally hard for every patient we come across. That is what we do.”
He turned back toward the patient’s bed.
But something had shifted. A line drawn. Another beginning to blur.
Behind them, a soft sound broke the quiet.
The patient moaned. Her lids twitched, then slowly she forced her eyes to open.
Elena turned.
“She’s waking.”
Brew stepped forward instinctively.
Randi’s long, tick lashes fluttered, touching her cheek, her brow tightening as awareness began to return. Light. Sound. Pain.
Her breath hitched.
“Easy,” Elena said softly. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe, dear.”
Dear, an endearment a mother or Nana would offer. It set her at ease.
The nurse’s eyes held a tenderness that was also calming - soothing. She felt the woman’s warmth and genuine concern. She was an attractive, full-figured Latino woman with hair as dark as the doctor’s. Randi was certain that their cultures were different, yet similar.
“Where…” Randi’s voice broke. “am I? Wha … what happened to me?”
Brew stepped closer, his tone steady.
“You were in a car accident and flown to the Mayo Clinic Gonda Vascular Center here in Rochester. I’m Doctor Brewer Clay, Head Vascular Surgeon.”
Her breathing quickened as she gazed down at her bandaged hand.
“My… my hand…”
“You had a severe injury,” he said gently. “But we were able to repair the damage.”
She squirmed sharply, causing her to clutch her ribcage and moan painfully.
“I’m afraid you also fractured four ribs. They’ll heal naturally in three to six weeks. We’ll get you started on some deep breathing therapy to prevent pneumonia setting in.”
Her eyes locked onto his. Fear reflected in their depths.
It was then he realized the beauty of her eyes.
Their soft amber hue drew him in like an ambient, precious stone.
They cast a spell on him, and he couldn’t look away.
Her cheeks were no longer pale, but like porcelain and lightly flushed despite the bruising and swelling caused by the trauma she recently endured.
He looked at the nurse to break the spell before continuing.
“Let me explain about your hand and surgery, okay, while I check the incised area and change your dressing. I promise to be gentle,” he smiled warmly.”
He pulled a chair close to her bedside before continuing.
The nurse moved to his side, nodded and smiled as Brew began his task.
Randi felt comforted by the concern the nurse exuded.
“Were you there during my surgery,” she asked her.
Nurse Torres shook her head slowly and replied.
“I’m not a surgical nurse, Ms. Caleb,” she answered, “but a NP … nurse practitioner. My specialty is Critical Care here in the ICU.”
Randi directed her attention back to the doctor.
“She’s one of our best. You’re in good hands,” he assured.
“Will I be able to use my hand?”
He held her gaze. There was no reassurance he could give for one hundred percent as much as he wanted.
He began his explanation slowly, clearly, in a language she would understand, leaning forward attentively as he spoke. He felt compelled to demonstrate … to touch her as he explained. He removed the rest of her bandages as he began, handing them to the nurse to discard.
“Miss Caleb, there was severe damage to two main arteries. “
He placed his point finger on the spot he wanted to address and continued. “The radial artery is located here, along the thumb-side of your forearm and runs from the elbow crease down to your wrist. “
She shivered at the softness of his touch and mindlessly caught her lower lip between her teeth. She immediately noticed the beautiful turquois ring he wore on his left hand.
My God, he’s so handsome, her inner voice yowled.
She couldn’t look away. She knew he had Native blood flowing through his veins from the strength and symmetry of his prominent, high cheekbones, his aquiline nose, his eyes wide-set and piercing black like his hair …
and his hair, hung free and long below his shoulders.
His jawline was well-defined with lips that were seductively full and tempting.
I must paint him, her thought acclaimed.
She remembered reading that turquoise jewelry represented a true sacred connection with the sky, water, and earth and also symbolized protection, health, and spiritual power.
The band was wide and gold. engraved with feathers.
The stone was square, blue-green in color and speckled with a gold luster.
He noticed the intensity with which her eyes devoured and studied him and, and he cleared his throat .
“The ulnar artery is a major vessel that supplies blood to your forearm and hand. It passes into the hand here, then divides, and branches off into the fingers for circulation. It was severed here at this crucial juncture where the branching begins,” he continued.
“Luckily, we were successful at restoring the blood flow by suturing the severed radial artery back together. The ulnar was severely damaged so, we took a healthy vein from your upper right thigh to bridge the gap and grafted it, which made it possible to save your hand and make it viable.”
Closely he examined the area around the incision and nodded with satisfaction.
“Just some slight redness which is expected. Everything is looking good.”
Slowly she pulled her hand away as tears misted her eyes, and her lips began to quiver.
Viable, her mind repeated. That meant what …workable… usable?
“How viable?”
He paused, choosing his words carefully and as honestly as he could, enough so, to still offer some semblance of hope.
Nurse Torres handed him a round of clean gauge.
Slowly and tenderly, he rewrapped her hand.
“Recovery will take time,” he replied. “You were in surgery for nearly twelve hours. It was very evasive. There will be pain. I won’t lie. We’ll do our very best to manage that for you. Daily and extensive therapy will be required, and a lot of patience and participation on your part.”
She gazed at the nurse by his side. The look of uncertainty mirrored on her face made Randi’s breath hitch.
“You still didn’t answer my question.
She tried to move her fingers. The pain was excruciating and she moaned loudly.
Nothing. There wasn’t even an iota of movement.
“No…” she whimpered. “Why can’t I move them?”
“Randi.”
Her name slipped from his lips with familiarity, surprising even him. He felt it immediately. He didn’t correct himself. It was too late for that, so he continued without missing a beat.
“Numbness is expected right now,” he said. “That doesn’t mean movement won’t come back.”
Tears filled her eyes and spilled over.
“I paint…” she whispered. “I need my hand… I can’t…”
Her breath shattered.
And before he could stop himself, Brew moved to lower himself atop the side of her mattress. He reached out his hand closing gently around her uninjured one.
“What matters most is you survived that horrific accident. Your hand suffered a horrendous trauma and needs time to recover and heal. In two weeks, I’ll remove your stitches.
Depending how quickly you heal … generally between six and fourteen weeks, you’ll be able to return to light work and daily activities.
Then, in three months intensive therapy to regain full strength and mobility will begin,” he replied softly.
A chill rippled through her body and she shuttered.
“But what if –“
He shook his head defensively and cut her off.
“Not in my vocabulary. I can’t answer the unknown. It’s up to how your body reacts to repairing itself, or whether an infection sets in, and if treatment combats it successfully. Your body and immune system are vulnerable. One step at a time.”
She no longer could control her tears.
“I’m … so … afraid. I have …no one,” she whimpered uncontrollably.
“You’re not alone. I promise. We’ll get through this together.”
She managed to lift herself off her pillow and cling to him, sobbing fearfully, her body shaking, as her tears streamed heavier down her cheeks, and wetting his sterile, white lab coat.
“I can’t lose it…”
He felt it deeply. It was a promise he wanted to make but couldn’t. Still, it became personal, felt right and familiar with her cradled in his arms. Instinctively his arms embraced her tighter and closer against his chest.
“You’re not going to face this alone.”
Again, the words left him before he could stop them.
Another line blurred.
But neither of them let go.