Leave a Mark (4 page)

But she hadn’t died. She’d survived. Again. Still, Wren knew all too well that surviving wasn’t always everything it was cracked up to be.

She pressed the button labeled
Nurse
and heard a pinging off in the distance. Moments later, a young nurse with awesome Bantu knots charged into her room.

“Good morning!” she sang. “How you feeling today?”

The greeting caused her roommate’s snore cadence to trip and stumble, but it found its rhythm again.

“Hi… um… what day is it?” Wren asked, trying to remember what day it had been when she’d touched up Bear’s BACA tattoo.

Thursday. It’s Thursday.

“It’s Friday morning. Almost Friday afternoon! My name’s Riva. You feel like you could eat something? I can get you some lunch.”

“Friday
afternoon?
” Wren felt her eyebrows climb to her hairline. She should have driven Mamaw Gigi to her hair appointment that morning. Had Rocky gotten in touch with her? Mamaw had probably called her cell half-a-dozen times by now. “Do you know where my stuff is? I really need my phone.”

Riva smiled. “Sure thing, honey. Everything stays under your bed.” Riva bent down and retrieved Wren’s patchwork satchel.

She took it from the nurse and dug out her phone.

Seven missed calls. Four from Gigi. Two from Rocky. One from Cherise.

“You had a visitor earlier, too, but until patients are alert, we don’t allow anyone but next of kin. Gang violence, you know.” Riva waved her hand as if Wren understood everything about gang violence.

“Was it someone named Rocky? Shaved head? Lots of tattoos?” Who else would it be? Did anyone else know she was here?

“Yeah, that’s him… Boyfriend?” Riva gave her a doubtful frown. Wren wrinkled her nose, recoiling at the thought.

“Boss.” Rocky was forty-one. And married. With three little girls under the age of seven, a dog, and a litter of puppies. And Wren loved all of them like family.

Riva nodded with approval. “That’s more like it. He’s a little too old for you, honey.”

Wren tapped his contact on her phone, expecting to leave him a message. Rocky almost never took calls while he was working.

“Wren?!” Rocky picked up on the second ring, worry clear in his voice.

“Hey, Rock. I guess you know I’m not coming in today—”

“Jesus Christ, girl, you scared the shit out of us! How are you? Did you just wake up?”

Riva approached her with a blood-pressure cuff and mimed putting it on.

Wren nodded.

“Rose from the dead is more like it.” She leaned back into the pillow and closed her eyes for a second. She could seriously see going back to sleep again. “Please tell me that you called my Mamaw.”

“I tried, Wren,” Rocky said, sounding defeated. “But that’s hard to do when all I know is Mamaw Gigi. Guess what? She’s not listed under Mamaw Gigi, and there’s not a Gigi Blanchard either.”

Wren rolled her eyes.

“She’s still listed under Papaw Dale. She never changed it after he died.”

Rocky was silent for a moment. “I guess I should know that. I think I need to improve my files a little. Add a folder for employee emergency contacts.”

Rocky? Managing files? Wren laughed at the thought, and then she winced and hissed in a breath.

Riva made a sympathetic face and took her pulse.

No laughing. Not. At. All.

“Wren? You okay?”

“Yeah,” she rasped. “Just sore. Look, Rock, I gotta call my Mamaw. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, Wren. Sorry. Let me know what you need. I can pick you up later whenever you’re released. Just call.”

“Thanks, Rock. You rock.”

He laughed, as usual. Wren hung up.

“Wait. Before you call your grandma, I need to take your temp. Open up.” Riva shoved a sleeve-covered thermometer under her tongue, effectively silencing her. A moment later, she whipped it out.

“Temperature’s normal. Let’s try walking. How about a trip to the bathroom? We took your catheter out hours ago.”

Catheter?
Wren shuddered.

“O-kay…”

“Just boost yourself up and swing your feet around. I’ll help you stand.” Riva lowered one of the bedrails and gripped her by the elbow.

A dull ache bore into Wren’s gut as she shifted.

“This is gonna suck.” Wren found herself holding onto the nurse for support as her feet met the floor. The dull ache sharpened as she tried to straighten up, and an unpleasant tugging burned just under her skin.

“I think I’ll walk like this,” she said, hunching forward and taking painful little shuffle steps.

“That’s it… It’ll get easier in a day or two."

Wren felt the back of her gown gape open.

“Wow, that’s a lot of tattoos,” Riva said, awe marking her voice. Wren rolled her eyes and reached back to close her gown.

Standing and walking were nothing compared to sitting down on the toilet.

“Holy shit!” It almost didn’t mortify her that she held onto Riva with white knuckles.

“Holy shit,” she whimpered again as she peed acid.

“That’ll be from the catheter,” Riva explained, nodding.

By the time she got back in the bed, Wren was exhausted. Her eye lids were closing on themselves when Riva handed over her phone.

“Call your grandma. I’ll bring you some lunch." And then the nurse was gone.

Wren sighed and picked up her phone. It felt like it weighed fifty pounds. She tapped Mamaw Gigi’s contact and waited.

“Thank heavens!” Her grandmother answered the phone in a breathless rush. “I was worried sick!”

“I’m sorry, Mamaw. I—”

“It’s not like you to miss my hair appointment, and when you didn’t answer your phone, I—”

“I’m fine now,” Wren cut in. “But I’m in the hospital—”

“The hospital? Mercy! Were you in an accident?” she gasped. Mamaw Gigi usually wasn’t the type to get rattled — unless there was an actual emergency.

She knew that all bets were off now. “No, I… got sick.” Wren realized that she didn’t quite know what had happened. She’d arrived at the hospital ready to die; they’d performed some kind of surgery, and she was alive to tell the tale. That was pretty much all she knew. She remembered then that the female doctor she’d seen first had said that it wasn’t her appendix.

“Wh-what’s wrong with you?” Wren could hear the fear in her grandmother’s voice, and guilt twisted in her gut. She knew that if something happened to her, Mamaw Gigi wouldn’t survive it. The woman had already lost more than most people could bear in a lifetime.

“Everything’s fine now, Mamaw. I collapsed at work last night. Rocky drove me to the hospital. They did surgery—”

“Surgery?!”

“And now, here I am talking to you.”

“What kind of surgery?”

Wren closed her eyes. This was too hard. She just wanted to sleep again.

“Abdominal?” she ventured.

“Bless its heart,” Mamaw muttered. “Are you at Lourdes or General? I’ll get Nanette to drive me.”

“I’m at UMC. But don’t come yet. I’m so tired.”

“UMC? Don’t you have insurance yet?” Mamaw scolded, seeming to recover from her panic in record speed.

“I… hadn’t exactly… gotten around to it…” At least Rocky had brought her to the charity hospital.

“Wren Marguerite Blanchard.”

“I know… I know.”

It would feel so good to fall asleep.

“You sound exhausted,” Gigi said, her voice softening at last.

“I am, Mamaw. I think it’s the drugs. I need sleep.” Wren could feel herself sinking deeper into the stiff bed as though her body were melting

“Sleep, then. I’ll get there as soon as I can. What room are you in?”

“I have no idea…”

BLUE EYES SMILED
down at her.

They reminded her of a treehouse under the night sky.

“I never had a tree house,” she told the blue eyes. And the smile beneath them laughed.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered, startling awake. She made to sit up and whimpered in pain.

“Easy…” the doctor cautioned, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her back down. “You’ll need to take it slow for a while.”

Wren scanned the room. A food tray on a cart stood between her bed and her neighbor’s. The snorer was now quiet, lying with her back to them. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she didn’t want to watch as a doctor examined another patient.

“What time is it?” she asked, patting the bed in search of her phone.

“It’s a little after two o’clock. I need to check you before you’re released, and we should do that before the day shift leaves.” He gave her a doubtful look. “Otherwise, it’ll take hours.”

“Okay, let’s do that,” Wren said stupidly. Even though she’d spent most of the night and day sound asleep, she didn’t want to be stuck there any longer.

As he raised the head of her bed, Wren stole a glance at the ID badge on the doctor’s coat.
Dr. Leland Hawthorne.
His name sounded like a tool, but he didn’t act like one.

He held up the end of his stethoscope. “I just want to make sure your lungs are clear. Deep breath.”

Dr. Hawthorne placed the heavy drum to her chest. It was cold, even through her gown.

“And another…" He slid the device across her chest and leaned in closer. He smelled like sagebrush and soap, like he worshipped the outdoors but never missed a shower.

“Lean forward just a little and take another deep breath.” Dr. Hawthorne moved the stethoscope to her back.

And when he did, a tiny gap opened between two of the buttons of his dress shirt, and she caught a glimpse of dark curls. It surprised her that someone like him didn’t wear an undershirt.

“Okay, it all sounds good. Now, lean back, and we’ll check your incisions.”

Wren froze. She knew from her trip to the bathroom that she wasn’t wearing underwear.

“Um… I think they’re fine.”

“Well, I hope they are, but I need to make sure.”

She gripped the top of the sheet and leveled him with a glare. “What if I say no?”

Wren expected him to push back, but instead his eyes softened. He seemed to bite the inside of his cheek and think for a moment.

“I tell you what. I’ll stand right here with my hands in my pockets, and you pull up your gown and peel back the bandages. If everything looks ok, I’ll send you home. Deal?”

Wren’s heart started hammering in her chest. Dr. Hawthorne seemed like a nice guy.

And that changed nothing.

“Turn around first.”

Without hesitating, he faced the door. Wren quickly pulled up her hospital gown to her waist and then drew the sheet up around her hips and tucked the edges under her butt. She pushed the top of the sheet down until it cleared the bottom of the bandage, which was pretty much right above her vajayjay. With one hand, she held her gown out of the way, and with the other, she carefully peeled back the white tape.

“Ugh, gross,” she hissed at the sight of her swollen abdomen. Two incisions, one even with her belly button and one straight down in her bikini zone, leered back at her. Some bruising purpled the skin between both.

“Can I turn around yet?” he asked, rocking forward on the balls of his feet.

Wren sighed. She was covered, but it wasn’t pretty. “I guess,” she said, ready for him to recoil in disgust.

He turned. “Wow, that looks great,” he announced, smiling.

Wren frowned. “No, it doesn’t. It looks awful. It’s all lumpy, and I’ve got two more holes now.”

Dr. Hawthorne shook his head, but Wren got the feeling he was trying not to laugh. “No, this looks really good. The swelling is normal. It’ll go away in a few days, and your incisions are minute, if I do say so myself." Wren thought she saw a hint of pride in his eyes. “Once the stitches come out, you can use a scar vanisher, and in six months, they’ll hardly be visible.”

Wren sighed. She’d have to wait a year before she could touch up the tattoo, and even then, scar tissue didn’t take ink as well as unblemished skin. At least the scars were in a darker tat.

“What exactly did you do? I mean… what went wrong and how did you fix it?” she asked.

Wren glanced back and forth between him and the two holes in her front. She didn’t like the sense of powerlessness that came from looking at them.

“You had a ruptured cyst in your right ovary. Either the rupture itself or the hemorrhaging that followed caused your ovary to twist, cutting off circulation. It was pretty serious,” he said, frowning now. “I was glad we were able to save your ovary.”

“Holy crap,” she whispered, her eyes going wide. Knowing the facts, a couple of tiny scars weren’t so bad after all. “Me, too.”

He smiled again. Dr. Hawthorne had a nice smile. He already seemed pretty young, but his smile — and the way his front curl in his dark hair swooped up — made him look even younger.

“You can go ahead and cover up. I’ll have a nurse show you how to clean your incisions and change the dressing before you go home.

She folded over the bandages and pressed the tapes back into place before pulling down her gown. Dr. Hawthorne glanced at her untouched lunch tray with the plates still hidden under plastic covers.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he asked, arching a brow at her.

“Um… no.” As if on cue, her stomach growled wildly. Wren clutched her middle, and Dr. Hawthorne walked around her bed, but, again, she got the distinct impression that he was trying not to laugh at her.