Dianne Drake - Falling For Her Army Doc

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, managing to move himself along, but very slowly.

“That’s the same question I was asking just a little while ago,” she said, walking behind him. “Why are you putting me in this position?”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with my amygdala or even my anterior cingulate cortex. You know—the areas that affect impulse control and decision-making.”

“Your brain is fine. I’ve seen enough CTs of it to know there’s nothing wrong. The blood clot was removed successfully. No other bruising or swelling present. No tumors. No unexplained shadows. So you’ve got no physical excuse for the way you act.”

When they came to the door to his room Mateo maneuvered to turn in, didn’t make it, backed away, and tried again, this time scraping the frame as he entered.

“I wasn’t aware I was putting you in any kind of bad position,” he said, stopping short of the bed and not trying to get out of his chair.

“Seriously? You don’t work, you don’t cooperate with the nurses, you refuse to go to your cognitive therapy sessions most of the time, and when you do go you don’t stay long. You’ve recovered from a traumatic brain injury and you’re battling retrograde amnesia, Mateo, in case you’ve forgotten. Then you get drunk and dance on a table. All that puts me in a very difficult position.”

She had no idea if he was even listening to her. His eyes were staring out of the window and there was no expression on his face to tell her anything.

“Look, I like you. And I know you’re in a tough spot—you look normal, but you’re not normal enough to get back to your old life.”

“My old life?” he said finally, and his voice was starting to fill with anger. “You mean the one where I was a surgeon one minute and then, in the blink of an eye, a surgeon’s patient? Is that what you’re calling ‘a tough spot?’ And don’t tell me how I’m working my way through the five stages of grief and I’m stuck on anger, because I damn well know that. What I don’t know is what happened to me, or why, or what I was doing prior to the accident, or anything I did last year. And I’d say that’s a hell of a lot more than a tough spot .”

He shook his head, but still didn’t turn to face her.

“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble. That wasn’t my intention. Being a bad patient isn’t my intention either. But when you don’t know...” He swallowed hard. “When you don’t know who you are anymore, strange things happen in your mind. Maybe you were this...maybe you were that. Maybe you’re not even close to who you were. I have a lot of memories, Lizzie, and I’m thankful for that. But sometimes, when I’m confronted with something I should know, and it’s not there...”

“It scares you?”

“To death.”

“My dad... I lived for three years with him, watching him go through that same tough spot and never returning from it. His life was taken from him in bits and pieces until there were more gaps than memories—and he knew that. At least until he didn’t know anything anymore. He didn’t have the option of moving on, starting over in a life that, while it wasn’t his, was still a good life. There’s going to come a time when you must move on with whatever you have left and be glad you have that option. Some people don’t.”

She walked over to him, laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and gave him a squeeze.

“You’ve got to cooperate with your doctors, Mateo, instead of working against them. Right now, working against them is all you do, and I’m willing to bet that’s not the way you were before the accident.”

“I’d tell you if I knew,” he said, his voice more sad now than angry. “I’m sorry about your dad, Lizzie. He deserved better. Anyway, my head is spinning and all I want to do is sleep. But I think I’ll need some help out of the chair.”

Immediately alert, Lizzie pulled a penlight from her pocket and bent over him to look into his eyes, in case there was something else going on with him other than the beginnings of a hangover.

“Look up,” she said. “Now, down...to the right...to the left.”

When she saw nothing of note, she tucked away her light, then offered Mateo a hand to help him get up. Which he did—but too fast. He wavered for a moment, then pitched forward into Lizzie’s arms.

“Care to dance now ?” he asked, not even trying to push himself away.

Admittedly, he felt good. And she could smell a faint trace of aftershave, even though he typically sported a three-day-old stubble. Had he splashed on a dash of scent for their walk?

“I think you’ve already done enough of that,” she said, guiding him to the bed.

Once he was sitting, she helped him lift his legs, then removed his flip-flops when he was stretched out on the bed.

“I’ll have one of the nurses come in and help you change into your...”

There was no point in continuing. Mateo was already out. Dead to the world. Sleeping like a baby.

And she—well...time to face Janis.

This wasn’t how this part of her day was supposed to have gone. Taking a patient out for a walk...him getting drunk...

Thank heavens she had two blissful weeks of sitting on the beach, reading, and swimming coming up. She needed the rest. Needed to be away from her responsibilities. Needed to put her own life in order in so many ways.

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