Page 8 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
Chapter Four
Iris
When I come out of the bathroom, there is a fifty-something woman in the room, standing by the bed. I stop, my breath stuck in my throat.
If she’s an intruder, she doesn’t look the part. She’s tall, rail thin, her expression professionally warm. Although there’s a hint of good taste and wealth in the stylish green blouse and brown slacks and the diamond studs sparkling in her ears, the woman has a utilitarian air—minimal makeup, a no-nonsense bob and horn-rimmed glasses.
“Who are you?” I demand in a hoarse voice, wishing I had a stick or something I could use as a weapon. Just in case.
“I’m Dr. Young,” she says, extending a hand. “Hi, Iris.”
Panic pumps through me. A doctor? Here? Why? She regards me with eyes that are far too sharp. Can she tell what’s wrong with me?
“Anthony had me brought here to make sure you’re all right,” she says, her voice low and soothing. “He’s worried about you.” She takes a step closer, the hand still extended.
I study her warily. Intellectually, I understand she doesn’t mean any harm. Tony wouldn’t have asked her to come otherwise. And if she tries anything, all I have to do is scream.
But deep inside, I can’t shake off the fear. The nightmare with the straitjacket is still lingering in my mind. I hug myself. “Where’s Tony?”
She finally drops the hand. “Talking to a guest. Would it be all right if I just checked you over? I did that earlier while you were unconscious—”
“Did you find anything…off?” I ask, my voice almost too harsh. But I need to know if there’s anything that could be used against me if anybody found out.
She blinks. “Uh, no. Nothing concerning. But now that you’re awake, I just want to check again to make sure.” I start to decline, but she adds, “It’ll put Anthony’s mind at ease.”
Argh.I don’t want to do it, but Tony… His anguished expression from earlier flashes comes unbidden. He’s blaming himself for what happened, and I don’t want to worry him after what he’s gone through today. I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Can we just make it quick?”
“Of course.” She opens a black bag I didn’t notice earlier and pulls out her instruments. I focus on something beyond the wall, my mind going over Chopin’s “Torrent” étude, my fingers moving to match the notes in my head. She checks my pulse and temperature, flashes a light in my eyes, listens to my lungs and a few other things. Unlike the doctors I dealt with after waking up from my coma, her touch is professional without being clinical. She talks to me the entire time, her voice calm and quiet, explaining what she’s doing and why it’s important. It’s surprising and nice, like I’m being respected, and it’s important to her that I understand the process.
None of the doctors Sam got for me ever did that. They went about their business, only bothering to explain if I asked what a procedure was for. Mainly they seemed to be in hurry and looked at me like I was interrupting some critically important routine with my questions. I’m grateful Tony brought me home and had Dr. Young check me out. I don’t think I’d be able to bear it if I were in a room that smelled of disinfectant and had some harried intern rushing through everything
“All done,” she says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You’re fine. Everything looks normal, although I advise you to take it easy for a few days. Anthony told me you were crying after you woke up. Sometimes the trauma of almost drowning is worse than a physical injury. I’m a terrible swimmer myself.” She smiles ruefully.
The revelation seems genuine, increasing my sense of connection to her. I almost always feel like I’m the only adult who can’t swim, especially when everyone else seems so good at it.
As she puts her things back in her bag, I realize I haven’t paid her.
“What kind of insurance do you take?” I blurt out. Oh, God. What if she doesn’t take the plan I’m on at the foundation?
“I don’t.”
Crap.“But…um… How much do you charge, then?”
She smiles. “Don’t worry. It’s taken care of.”
“But—”
“Anthony pays me a retainer to see to his needs. It really isn’t a big deal.”
“A retainer? You can do that?”
She smiles softly. “Yes, you can do that. And I enjoy it, since it allows me to spend time with my patients and give them the kind of care I want to provide. You take care, Iris, and let me know if you don’t feel well or have any questions.” She hands me a business card and leaves.
The card has only her name and a number. Suddenly, I realize I didn’t even shake her hand and squeeze my eyes shut with embarrassment. Talk about rude, although she didn’t seem upset. I owe her an apology in person.
I place the card on my bedside table and stay seated on the bed. I stare at nothing in particular, waiting for Tony to come in. After a few moments, I realize he isn’t.
So I get up, go downstairs…and freeze at the sight of Tony with Elizabeth. She’s seated on a couch near the piano, while he’s standing over her, his back to me. She’s staring at him like he just told her somebody kicked her puppy, her wide eyes full of shock and anger.
