10. The Eyes Of Obelus #2
By the time his pupils bloom wide and glassy, my pulse still hasn’t found normal. Arrhythmia isn’t out of the question, what do I diagnose myself with? A case of momentary cardiac disorder due to Obelus?
“Chin in the rest. Forehead forward. Right there,” I say, tapping the bar. My voice sounds calm. My palms sweat inside the gloves.
He leans in obediently, face framed by the support. Mechanical, typical. Except it’s him, the face I’ve memorized in shadows and smoke, fan cams and stage lights. Now tethered in my machine, under my hands.
“Look straight ahead,” I murmur.
He does. Eyes fixed on me through the beam, dilated wide, almost alien. Every fleck of amber and green glowing, his eye a galaxy I can map. I angle the beam, watching the cut of light across him.
“Pain?” I ask, clipped, professional.
“No.” His voice is low, raspy. Then softer: “None I notice right now.”
I ignore the edge in it, the implication, or maybe I'm just imagining it. Our faces are inches apart, my gloved fingers brushing his temple, his cheek as I steady his lids. He’s perfectly still, but tension vibrates between us.
He watches me more than the light, so much so I have to remind him where to keep his focus.
My tone is a bit harsh, half-Mama scolding, half-Conrad on a bad day.
“Retina looks good so far. No hemorrhages.” I keep my voice iron-flat, the way I was drilled.
I jot the notes, though my hands know it’s useless. I can’t unsee what I’ve seen: his pulse jumping in his throat, lashes quivering under the light, the heat of his skin. Finally, I push the lamp back. “You can sit back, you did great.”
He exhales, almost a laugh. “You sure? Didn’t sound like it a second ago.”
I peel off my gloves, toss them before I do something reckless, and snap the chart shut.
“Nerves are expected... not everyone can focus easily. But it appears your retina’s intact, that’s what matters.”
My voice holds steady, but my body is fire.
“Because of the nature of your injury, I’d like to attempt something called a scleral depression,” I explain, forcing my voice clinical. “It lets me see the far periphery, check for any small holes or tears. If it hurts, say so. I can stop.”
He nods, brave, like they all do. I numb him first, then press the instrument gently against his eye through the lid, moving in careful arcs. At first he’s fine. His jaw tightens, but he stays steady. Then I feel the shift, the subtle catch in his breath, the tension humming through his body.
I stop immediately, one hand lifting to his shoulder, steadying him the way I’ve done for a hundred anxious patients.
“You’re not being difficult if you want to stop,” I say, gently.
“It goes against nature to have your eye pushed and rotated.
You're lucky it's me and not Dr. Conrad. He prefers to use a paperclip for this, he says it reaches the edges easier.”
For a second he blinks at me and then bursts out laughing, shocked and helpless. “A—what?! You’re not exactly selling me on this, doc.”
I arch a brow, lips twitching. “It’s not my job to sell it to you. It’s my job to find out if anything’s broken. It’s your job to decide if we continue or not.”
That does it. His grin shifts, something between surrender and challenge. He exhales, shoulders loosening under my hand. “Alright. I’m ready, I can take it.”
I press again, firmer this time, watching carefully as the edge of his retina rolls into view. Every second of it is intimate, his trust in me, his body taut under my hands, the silent endurance that makes him seem more human than any stage could ever show.
When I’m done, I tell him he can sit up. He scrambles upright at last, blinking hard, eyes red-rimmed and dilated. But when he looks at me, he’s smiling, almost sheepish. “Guess you didn’t break me after all.”
I can’t say the same. I strip off the last pair of gloves, drop them in the bin, and force my voice steady.
“All clear today. But blunt trauma can cause delayed tears or detachments. I’ll need to see you again in…
” I check the calendar on the computer, calculate.
“...two weeks from Monday. Sooner if you notice flashes, new floaters, curtains. Don’t ignore it. ”
Before he can answer, the woman who’s been lurking in the corner, the tour manager, judging by her headset and permanent attachment to her phone, speaks up.
“We can arrange care locally. Wherever the band is. There are probably specialists in every city on the route.”
But Obelus, Rafe, shakes his head before the words finish. His voice is calm but final.
“I’ll make the trips back until the good doctor gives me the all clear.” He looks at me, but I look away. Now that the exam is done it’s harder to escape, harder to hide behind tasks with those eyes on me.
The room stills. The manager frowns, about to argue, but the tone in his voice leaves no space for negotiation.
I clear my throat, trying for practical. “There are excellent specialists I could refer you to. Closer to wherever you’ll be, I can give you names.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and unwavering. “No. I’m not doing all that paperwork all over again with someone else. We’ll make it work, won’t we?” He glances at the displeased manager, who gives a terse nod.
He sits back in the chair, dilated eyes still glowing under the lights, and repeats with a weight that silences any arguments: “Two weeks, right? I'll see you then.”
In that moment I know he means it. I nod, a little dazzled by the commanding force that appears now the worry is over.
I tuck the chart under my arm and reach into my coat pocket. “There’s a card with the partners’ voicemail numbers, and a 24-hour line if you notice anything new—flashes, floaters, curtains. Call that, don’t wait.” I hand it over, crisp and clinical.
He glances at it, rotates it, looks back up at me. “Is your number on here?” He holds it steady between two fingers like a magician about to finish a sleight of hand.
I blink, shake my head. “No. I’m not a partner yet.”
“Well.” His voice is low, steady, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I didn’t see them, I saw you. So write your number down. Please, Dr. Sawadzka.”
Inside, I’m screaming. This feels like a hallucination I’ve manufactured, and yet in all the fantasy scenarios I’ve dreamed up nothing this probable or mundane ever cropped up. Despite how I feel internally, the professional edge in me digs in, scrambling for rules.
“The emergency line is 24 hours.”
He just looks at me. That level stare, the one that’s silenced arenas, now pinning me in a chair I’ve sat in a thousand times, and immediately all my arguments dissolve.
“Only for emergencies” I insist, firmly. Boundaries, professionalism, the rules I’ve lived by for years. He nods, but the grin on his face looks like he thinks he's won some sort of tug-of-war.
I take the card from his hand, noting how he holds it with a little resistance so I have to pull it and I can't help but feel he did that on purpose. My hand moves before I can stop it, scribbling digits into the margin of the card. When I hold it out for him to take again, our fingers brush.
It’s nothing, just skin, just contact, but it jolts through me, shocked and unprepared.
He closes his hand around the card like it’s something fragile, and I realize too late that in the space of a single exam, every line I thought I could hold has already blurred.
I walk him out, chart tucked under my arm, coat still buttoned tight like it can keep me sane, and hand him over to the tech to get his next appointment booked.
My hands move on their own, slipping the buttons loose.
I shrug the coat off my shoulders slow, like a trance, hang it up, grab my bag, and try desperately to escape before he leaves.
But somehow we end up reaching the door at the same time.
He pauses, holds it open. “Ladies first.” I nod, duck out.
The tour bus looms outside, black and gleaming with its painted sigils. All the band members must be in there. The realization hits and my stomach flips. I feel suddenly nervous, observed. I keep my head down, walking so fast to my car that my breath actually snags.
I slide behind the wheel and force my face blank, watching him step into the bus before I drive away in a haze, a total mess.
I feel completely shattered now that I’m alone.
Every nerve in me sparks, replaying every second, his eyes on mine, his skin under my gloves, the way he said he’d see me in two weeks.
I keep my hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, holding myself together by sheer will.
But the second I’m through my own front door, it breaks.
I touched him. I had my hands on his face, his eyes, his arms, everywhere.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I collapse onto the couch, laughter and tears tangling, every cell vibrating.
A string of Polish spills from me, panic, disbelief, adrenaline coursing through my body, the mother tongue taking over now that words in English feel impossible.
Obelus… No, Rafe Ashton was in my chair and I can't tell a soul.