Medical Romance October 2016 Books 1-6. Amy Andrews
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mess.’
She expected him to dismiss her query and leave, and if she wasn’t very much mistaken he looked tempted to do just that. But then he shrugged. ‘Fractured zygoma. Blown globe. Hyphema. Partial retinal detachment.’
Her wince increased. ‘Holy cow! Who was bowling to you? Mitchell Johnson?’
His lips twitched into the grimmest semblance of a smile she’d ever seen. ‘One of my mates used to bowl for the under-nineteen Australian side. He’s still got it.’
Maybe this was what Callum had been referring to this morning when he’d been going on about being a Cal once upon a time. He was just as tense and shuttered. ‘Do you have a sight deficit?’
If anything, the line of his mouth grew grimmer. ‘I only have seventy percent vision in my left eye, hence these.’ He pointed at his glasses.
Seventy percent. This morning she’d been sure something had happened to Callum to change him—something big—and now she was absolutely convinced. Was the ‘life’ and ‘stuff’ he’d talked about the injury to his eye?
Had it turned Cal into a Callum?
Great. A wounded guy. Appealing to her soft underbelly. She was hopeless with them. This was the guy from the train, not the one she’d seen today, and she was finding it hard to reconcile the two.
‘Is the mydriasis permanent?’
He grimaced. ‘It’s a work in progress. It’s constricted quite a bit since the injury but the specialist thinks after all this time it’s about as good as it’ll get, and unfortunately I concur.’
‘How long ago did it happen?’
‘Two and a half years.’
Felicity did a quick calculation in her head. So the accident had happened six months before he’d commenced his GP training. It had probably taken that long for his eye to recover sufficiently to be useful.
Which begged the question, had it always been his plan to train to become a GP? Or had his injury caused him to change career path?
She had a feeling that was very much the case.
‘So I take it being a GP hadn’t been your grand plan?’
His lips twisted and his self-deprecating laugh was harsh, grating in the silence of the room. ‘No.’
Felicity marvelled that such a little word could hold so much misery. This accident had obviously gutted him.
‘What was your specialty before you did your GP training?’
He dropped his gaze to the sheet again. ‘I was a surgeon.’
Ah. Well, now. His concentration on body parts and medical problems rather than the patient as an individual suddenly made sense. Felicity had spent some time in the operating theatres when she’d been training in Adelaide. She’d quickly come to realise she would never make a scrub nurse. Impersonalising patients and the lack of any real contact with them had driven her nutty.
She hadn’t wanted to work in a place where patients were known by their operative site. The leg in Theatre Two, the appendix in Theatre Five or the transplant in Theatre Nine.
Patients had names and she liked to use them.
‘What kind of surgeon?’
‘Vascular.’
Felicity suppressed the urge to whistle. Impressive. She could see him all scrubbed up, making precise, efficient movements, working his way through his list, conscious of his next patient waiting. ‘Did your sight issues interfere with that?’
‘Oh, yes.’ His tone was harsh with a bitter end note. ‘My depth of field and visual acuity in the left eye were shot. A lot of the work I did was microsurgery and...’ he glanced up, his gaze locking with hers ‘...I didn’t trust myself.’
The emotions brimming in his eyes belied the hard set of his face and punched Felicity in the gut. ‘But surely with time—’
His short, sharp laugh cut her off. ‘They’ll only give me a conditional driver’s licence, they’re not going to let me be in charge of a scalpel.’ He shoved a hand through his hair, looked away, looked back again. ‘It has improved, but not enough. Not to be a surgeon. I’m not prepared to take that kind of risk with somebody’s life.’
And there was the compassion. Callum had obviously had the rug pulled right out from under him but he was a doctor first and foremost and doing no harm was the code they lived by.
It was honourable but obviously not easy. This was the man from the train. The one who had been great with Jock and Thelma and the other group of oldies. The one who had laughed and flirted with her. The one who had looked into her eyes in her compartment and connected with her.
She gazed at him, trying to convey her understanding. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been very hard for you.’
And she was sorry. He may have annoyed her today but at least now she understood him a little better. Would maybe even cut him a little slack. He’d given up a lot. Having your hopes and dreams quashed wasn’t easy. She knew that better than anyone.
He shook his head dismissively. ‘It is what it is.’
She took a step towards him, put her hand on top of his. ‘Yeah. Doesn’t make it suck any less, does it?’
His gaze flicked to their hands before returning to her face and she caught a glimpse of a guy who was adrift before he shut it down and slid his hand away, tucking it in his pocket as he moved back a few paces.
‘Anyway,’ he said, his eyes not quite meeting hers, ‘maybe take home some liquid tears to settle any residual irritation.’
Felicity didn’t need him to tell her that but the way he was judging the distance to the door she figured it was just a segue to him leaving. The thought needled but she had no idea why.
‘Yep, great, thanks for your help.’ She turned and headed for the sink, flipping on the water and washing her hands because the other ninety-nine times today hadn’t been enough.
But it gave her something to do and the opportunity for him to slip away, which he took with both hands.
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