Chapter 3
Samantha
“All right, Mac. You know what time it is.” I raise his bed so he’s in a sitting position, readjust his pillows and hand him the incentive spirometer.
He takes the plastic device from me with a grumble. I’ve learned quickly that despite being the head of the Chicago Irish Syndicate, he’s like every other man I’ve treated when they’re in pain… needy and grumpy.
I watch him take a deep breath in and blow it out with a few colorful curses. “Go on. We can watch an episode of Love Is Blind when you’re done.”
His chest rises with a chuckle, then he winces. Yeah, those two broken ribs are still healing. Wrapping his lips around the mouthpiece, he sucks in a slow breath.
I cross my arms and watch as he struggles to keep the ball in the target zone.
With an encouraging tone, I say, “Hold for three. That’s it. Now let it out slowly.”
He’s a bit out of breath but recovers quicker than last week. “Good. Let’s go again.”
His blue eyes sparkle as they narrow on me. “You missed you calling, love. Would’ve made a hell of an enforcer.”
I puff out a laugh. I’ve gotten used to their dark humor. I’m not sure what that says about me or my state of mind. I make him go through the exercise twice more before I readjust his bed. Then have him lie back so I can check his chest tube site.
He unzips his grey silk tracksuit for me and exposes his chest. Besides the two-centimeter wound from the chest tube and the still-healing bullet wound, he’s got a dozen other scars marring his pale skin. At least one of them is from another bullet.
As a surgeon, I’ve seen my fair share of injuries.
But scars interest me more. They are echoes of stories.
Stories of violence, yes, but also of survival.
Of how much a human can endure and still want to keep breathing.
From personal experience, I know it’s a hell of a lot.
That resilience is what I place my faith in, with my patients… and myself.
“Looks good, Mac. Healing well, no sign of infection.” I lower myself into the recliner next to the bed and turn on the flat screen TV. “And your reward to is to find out if Virginia says yes at the altar.”
He zips up his jacket and adjusts the bed. “If she does, you owe me a shot of whiskey.”
I snort because there’s no way she says yes. “You’re on.”