A Surgeon's Dilemma

Collins’s POV

The distant sound of water running in the bathroom blended with the hospital’s murmuring buzz, a soundtrack to the sequence going on inside my head. I stood by the wall, arms crossed, and looked up at the fluorescent lights, their icy beams providing no comfort. I’d lost my white coat, which had been thrown across Amelia’s shoulders like a goddamned shield and all I could see was her, pale, shaking, bearing the brunt of Sophie’s mother’s venom. It rocked something inside me, a protectiveness I hadn’t expected, to see her shrinking under that attack, to have her be apologizing for something that wasn’t her fault. It infuriated me how she hung her head, how her voice cracked, and how it made my chest constrict.

“Amelia,” I muttered, shaking my mind, to rid myself of her. The door of the bathroom creaked, and she peered out, eyes swinging down the hall until they hit me. Her cheeks were glowing, turning an intense pink, and the color extended down the length of her neck, and her eyes were uncertain, almost shy. “Um… Collins?” she began, a murmur, a little unsure.

I raised an eyebrow, waiting, my face still blank though a little flicker of interest hit me at her tone. She didn’t respond, her fingers toying with the hem of my coat and her blush growing so dark that it was almost a joke. “Well?” I replied, my voice remained strong, but her continued silence was beginning to trouble me.

“I… I….” she stuttered, her eyes falling to the ground as though it might open up beneath her and pull her in. She stood there looking flushed, and something tugged at me that I did not want to acknowledge.

“What is it, Amelia?” I pushed a bit more gently this time, moving forward enough to look her in the eyes, hoping to be able to somehow loosen whatever was holding on to her tongue.

Her lips quivered, and then she blurted, “I don’t have a pad.” The words rushed out, her face blazing an even brighter red, and she glanced away, humiliated.

The hallway felt as if it froze, her confession resting in the air between us. I blinked, processing slowly. “You… need a pad?” I said again, my voice quiet, almost in disbelief.

She shook her head, fast and furious; she could barely look at me. My throat tightened, humor and discomfort conflictingly swirling. A pad? She was asking me for a pad? It dawned on me how crazy it sounded, and I couldn’t contain the forced edge in my voice. “Why are you asking me?”

She chewed her lip, embarrassed and desperate. “There’s … no one else” she mumbled, her voice small, desperate. No one else? What about the nurses, the swarms of staff in the hospital? But those eyes of hers, wide and pleading, as though she were seconds from breaking, silenced my objections. She just seemed so goddamn alone, and it twisted something inside me.

"Shit," I gasped, dropping my head and running my hand over my hair, it was done. “Fine. Wait right here,” I said, my voice gruff, already walking off.

“Really?” she said, and I just waved my hand off in a dismissive gesture, because I couldn’t trust myself to respond, and I turned and walked toward the base of the nurse’s station. The place was a beehive — workers scurrying back and forth with files, phones ringing — but I kept my face plain, though my insides felt scattered. “Dr. Collins, do you need something?” a nurse asked, glancing up.

I hesitated, my neck warming. “A pad,” I said flatly, making myself keep looking him in the eye. She looked surprised, her eyes wide. “A… sanitary pad?” she cried, as if I’d uttered another language.

“Yes,” I said, my voice no more relaxed, forcing myself to not recoil. Inside I was screaming, but I maintained her gaze and challenged her to make it a thing. Her lips twitched, suppressing a laugh, which I expected, and prepared for. “Sure?” she pushed, to which I snapped, “I look like I’m joking to you?” Instant regret instantly dinged against my conscience — she didn’t deserve that — but I nodded, rummaging in a drawer and handing one over in a small package.

“Thank you,” I grunted, grabbing it and turning away, weighted down by the stare of watching eyes behind me. The whispers followed — “Heart surgeon?” “New specialty?” —and my teeth were clenching so tightly that fire exploded over my cheeks, and I went stomping back to Amelia. She was still at the door, and when I walked over, her head snapped up, relief and shame flooding her face.

“Here,” I said, handing across the pad. Her hand brushed mine as she accepted it, but for an instant, a jolt raced through me. “Thanks,” she muttered, not quite looking at me, and I nodded, stepping back, muttering, “Hurry up.”

A few minutes later, I returned to find her stepping from the stall, her face still rosy but a small, shy smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks… again,” she said, soft voiced, and I waved that off, unsettled by how fragile she appeared, how her vulnerability tugged at me.

She fingered the lapels of my coat, her touch light. “I’ll wash and give it back at home,” she said, and I shrugged, already heading for the bathroom. “Don’t bother. Let’s go, I am taking you home.”

“What? No!” she cried, and scampered after me. “I can’t leave—Sophie—”

“She doesn’t want you here,” I interrupted, turning toward her, speaking with more edge than I intended. “Doctors have her, and her parents don’t want you around.” Her mouth opened, then snapped shut, wounded hurt flashing in her eyes and I relented, ever so slightly. “She’s not dying, Amelia. Go home.”

I seized her wrist and dragged her, without a word from her, out towards the door, her steps halting but willing. The ride was silent, and the tension hung thick in the air. Amelia stiffened in the passenger seat, her arms folded across her chest, a glare fixed to the side window as if it held all the answers. I snuck a look, her profile ragged against the onrush of lights, and something about it nibbled at me — annoyance, is it, or something further?

“Where’d you go?” I said, my voice steady yet cold, shattering the silence.

She turned, frowning. “What’s that mean?”

“Before the hospital,” I replied, still staring at the road. “What were you doing?”

“Shopping,” she said, her brow still knit. “With Sophie.”

“Shopping?” I repeated, a touch of bitterness coming through. “What, you going to go out with that guy who called this morning?” The words slipped out before I could catch them, and I despised the hint of jealousy in them.

Her eyes widened, then, to my irritation, a shy, almost mischievous smile played at her lips. “Not exactly,” she replied, her voice quiet. “I was picking up something for his birthday party.” Birthday party. The words were like a punch, my hands now clenching the wheel, knuckles whitening. Why did that bother me? Some kid, some party — not my business.

“Is he your boyfriend?” I asked, the question slipping away before I could hold it back, loaded and accusing. Her face erupted in surprise, peering into mine, searching, seeking something I did not care to give.

“Why do you care?” she said, her voice low but sharp, and I opened my mouth, then closed it again, with no response prepared. What could I say? The idea of her with somebody else made my gut clench? Of me being jealous when I had so many reason not to be? I said nothing and she finally turned back to the window, sitting stiffly, the silence around us thick.

We arrived at the driveway and before I could even turn off the engine, Amelia was out of the car, grumbling, “Thanks for the ride,” as she made a beeline for the door. I glanced as she walked away and my teeth clenched, a coldness of hers that irritates me even more. “Fuck!” I muttered, slamming the door to my car, but as I stood there, another thought made its way into my head uninvited. “She’s still a child,” I told myself out loud. “No boyfriends. Yeah, no boyfriends.” The words were hollow, and against the truth I was not ready to face.