Dr. Macafee

He had been sitting in the lounge when the night nurse from the neurology floor came off her shift on Monday morning. "She's awake now," she commented as she pulled her purse from a locker. "Guess you'll finally get to meet your patient." The nurse turned and left the lounge, a heavy breeze followed her.

Dr. Macafee had been treating her for six months. Maybe it had been seven - he could not quite remember. When she came in she'd been a crumpled woman pile of blood and shattered bone. The bullets had torn through her doing damage he hadn't seen since he'd been overseas. He shuddered at the memory.

Since, he'd spent each day checking her chart, her vitals, and inspecting his handiwork. It'd taken 32 hours of surgery, but he'd removed every bullet save one, the one lodged behind her ear. It was too dangerous to remove it. He couldn't bear the thought of taking her hearing and likely her eyesight in one eye with him.

She arrived on the day he had decided to quit his job, move to the south, and start over. Rita had left him long ago and the work just didn't motivate him anymore. He had no longer cared about saving anyone. But this woman, this mess aboard a stretcher, had taken hold of him someplace deep - a place he hadn't recognized since his interning days at U of M.

He looked down at his newspaper and the unfinished sandwich. How was he supposed to tell her? What was he supposed to say when he met her? In the past months, he'd formed a subtle bond with the comatose woman, caring for her bandages and making sure she was not disturbed. How do you tell someone they have to learn to walk again? How do you tell someone they'll never have children because some freak who skipped his meds opened fire in a crowded lunch room - a gun the police later learned had been slipped in by the patient's mother.

Marc Macafee rose and looked around the quiet lounge, the dank space he'd spent the last several months eating lunch in - a place he swore he'd leave behind a long time ago.

He had no idea what he was going to say. In fact, he'd spent several evenings sitting by her bedside, reading next to her and wondering what her life was like. She was so young and yet looked wise and tired beyond her years.

It was time. He had to do something.
Clearing his throat, he left the lounge and headed for the third floor.