Page 94 of Challenge
I think some deep, dark part of my mind thought that when this surgery was all over, there would be hope for Indie and me. That maybe by getting me out of the hospital and away from the stress of her job, we’d have a fighting chance. Her coming to me a couple days ago to convince me to have the surgery filled me with the hope that perhaps she cared more about me than she did about all this hospital bullshit.
Now it’s all for naught.
Now it feels like all of this was truly just so she could get ahead. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Well, maybe she’s just like her family and is incapable of truly hugging someone and accepting all that entails.
She used me like a puppet, and lying here on this table while they literally stick cords to my body means I’m still letting her pull the strings.
It has to stop.
I shove away a hand that’s sticking a pad to my chest.
“Mr. Harris, we’re just getting these in place. Then we’ll have you move to this table.”
“I’m not doing this.” My voice sounds distant and mumbly.
“What’s that?” a mask-covered face asks, moving to stand over me.
“I said I’m not doing this. I don’t want the surgery.” I swallow against the meds coursing through my veins and will myself to think clearly.
“Mr. Harris,” a new nurse states, joining the other person standing above me. Her brows knit together as she adds, “We can give you something stronger for the nerves.”
“You already gave me a bunch of shit and I hate it. I said I’m not having this surgery. I meant it. Get me out of here.” I move to sit up but my head spins.
Several hands reach out and grab my shoulders, attempting to lay me back down. But I’m stronger than all of them, even doped up on painkillers. I swing my legs off the stretcher, wincing at the rubbing sensation in my knee that I feel whenever I twist it a certain way. It’s probably the magical graft that Indie put in—the one that needs to come out. Well, fuck it. It can wait. I begin ripping off the sticky pads on my chest and sides.
“Mr. Harris, please! We can help you with whatever you need.”
“I need to leave,” I growl, but my dramatic scene comes to a screeching halt when familiar toffee eyes find mine.
Indie is standing four feet in front of me, gowned completely in blue from her head to her toes. Red, curly hair peeks out the bottom of her scrub cap as her eyes squint sympathetically through cheetah-print glasses. She’s holding her freshly washed hands up in front of herself, and her mouth is covered by a mask as she asks, “Cam, what’s the matter?”
I laugh incredulously and glance over at Dr. Prichard. He’s currently scrubbing his hands in the sink and watching the scene through the window like the creepy voyeur he is.
“Like you even care,” I answer.
Pulling her brows together, she takes a step forward. “Of course I care. What is it?”
“You could have told me about the medical journal. You could have mentioned it and I would have listened. But this was all an act, wasn’t it? All you care about is this bloody surgery and getting your name on paper.”
Her face turns pink as she looks around the OR. “Can you all please clear out?” she asks firmly.
The staff stare in wonder, unmoving.
“Clear out!” she shouts, and everyone scampers with a jolt out the door, leaving us behind with only the hum of machines and the beeping of monitors to keep us company.
Despite their departure, I can feel their eyes on us through the windows. Indie notices the same thing and sighs heavily at the ridiculous fishbowl we find ourselves in. She turns to face me again, pulling down her mask and revealing those large red lips that are now pursed into a frown. “I wanted to tell you about the feature, but not until you made up your mind about the surgery.”
“Why the hell not?” I bark.
“Because I was afraid that if you knew about it, you’d go through with the surgery just for me and not for yourself.”
This gives me pause. “Thinking pretty highly of yourself again I see.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, I think highly ofyou, Camden. And I think you’re the type to put the well-being of others above your own.” She swallows nervously. “What’s really wrong? It’s more than the article.”
I squint harshly at her, frustrated that she really doesn’t see it. All the possibility. “It’s everything. And it’s nothing.”
I move to stand up, but Indie moves closer to me and reaches out. Her hands are cool and damp on my arms. I pause, watching her chew her lip with worry.
