Page 4 of Psychotic Obsession
"Shouldn’t we have someone more qualified in charge?"
I smile at the doctor who just interrupted me. "Thank you for showing concern. I've been in this department for a little over two years, and yes, before that, I was a geneticist down in the labs. I take my role very seriously. I've done my own research for my patient, have spoken with her family numerous times about finding equipment at home, ease of travelling, anything tohelp her. There’s only so much available in our country, so we are limited unless we can organize a transfer. That's why I have reached out to others, why we were in Germany six months ago and then attended meetings at the Bambino Gesù in Rome. Ivy Dermot is a mystery, but I believe all mysteries can be solved."
I feel Gabriella smiling beside me.
When they all nod, I relax, resting both palms over Ivy's main file.
"I look forward to working with you all and hopefully finding a diagnosis and quality treatment plan for Ivy. As Dr. Blythe said, if you have questions, I will be happy to answer them."
I feel another lump building in my throat, this one threatening to suffocate me. As a professional, it is highly recommended not to form a bond with patients.
But I struggled to separate myself.
I overstepped two months ago and appeared at Ivy's family's door with flowers and a present for her eighth birthday. She'd smiled the whole time and cried when I left. She always gets excited when we have appointments, the beaming grin alone enough for me to continue fighting for her. Her seizures aren't as intense now that I've gotten her on different medication, and most days, she can stay awake for longer than a few hours. But her body–her muscles–are slowly deteriorating, her undiagnosed sickness whittling her away, and I want to stop it, or at least make life easier for her.
I glance up and see the hands of one of the assistants. He’s still flicking through Ivy’s file, deep in concentration, and as my heart starts to slow from the unwanted adrenaline, I stare at his fingers, the thickness of them, the blunt nails, the bands on his wrist.
When the meeting finishes, it's late, the sun vanishing, replaced by the moon shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the wall. Most of the staff leave without lookingat me; others give me a nod. Gabriella rests a hand on my shoulder and tells me I did well and that she'll see me at the hotel we’re staying at nearby.
It’s about ten minutes away, and as much as I hate walking around by myself, I have too much left to do before I call it a night. Now that I know Ivy will be transferred here, I need to ensure all the staff needed are on board and that her family is aware of what happens next.
I'm the last to exit the conference room by the time I check over all the documents again before I start sending emails. I throw my bag over my shoulder, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ear.
Lifting the dreaded heavy cardboard box full of paperwork, I make my way out of the room. I don't get far as my foot hits an outstretched leg–a man sitting with his back to the wall with papers in his hand.
Tumbling not so gracefully, I land face-first on the marble floor, paperwork and bag scattering everywhere.
"Oh, fuck! I'm so sorry," the man says in panic, quickly scrambling from the floor and holding his hand out for me to grab. In his panicked tone, he adds, "Here, let me help you."
Intense, unexplainable shocks run up my wrist as I take his hand, his palm soft and warm. Not looking up while I get to my knees, attempting to save myself from more embarrassment, I try to stack all the paperwork back into the box and nearly give myself a papercut.
I see him in my peripheral lowering to the floor, also gathering the papers. When I lift my bag, mortification lashes through me as my phone, lip balm, purse, and tampon topple out.
If one more embarrassing or bad thing happens today, I'll cry.
I let out an annoyed huff, wiping my forehead, still on my knees staring at everything for a minute in silence.
The mystery man sets a pile into the box, and I can tell all the documents are mixed up.
My eye twitches.
"Are you?—"
I cut him off. "You should really sit on the seats or in an office; I could have been a patient," I snap.
The air nearly leaves my lungs as I glare at him, his soft smile the first thing I notice. He's clean-shaven, with penetratingly vibrant blue eyes and long lashes to match his dark hair and brows. Now that I'm staring, his smile drops, and his perfect white teeth bite down on the plumper part of his bottom lip.
"Are you okay?" he asks with a hint of humor.
I drag my eyes away. "Sorry. I'm just tired, and today's been a bit much."
Squatting, he leans his elbows on his thighs, sleeves rolled up to reveal he's wearing a watch and charity bands, and he isn't heavily tattooed like my ex. "Sorry I tripped you," he apologizes, handing me my phone and lipstick, probably refusing to lift my tampon. "You're the Scottish doctor, aren't you? Why do you have an American accent?"
"I grew up here then moved."
"Ah," he replies. "A quick escape to the highlands."
I hum a response, rubbing my elbow that's aching from the fall.
