Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [182]
He frowned; obviously it wasn’t the reaction he’d wanted. “You’ve got over forty stitches in your back.”
My eyes went wide before I could stop them. “Gee, that’s a record even for me.”
“This isn’t a joke, Ms. Blake.”
“It might as well be funny, doctor.”
“If you start moving around, you’re going to rip the stitches open. Right now, if you’re careful, the scars won’t be bad, but if you start moving around, you’ll scar.”
I sighed. “It’ll have plenty of company, doctor.”
He stood there, shaking his head slowly, face set in harsh lines. “Nothing I can say is going to make any difference, is it?”
“No,” I said.
“You’re a fool,” he said.
“If I stay in here until I’m healed, what am I going to say to myself when I’m staring down at the next round of bodies?”
“Saving the world is not your job, Ms. Blake.”
“I’m not that ambitious,” I said. “I’m just trying to save a few lives.”
“And you truly believe that only you can solve this case?”
“No, but I know that I am the only one that . . . this man will talk to.” I’d almost said Nicky Baco, but I didn’t want Doctor Cunningham calling the police and telling them where we were going. Not that he would do that, but better safe than sorry.
“I told you that I’d check you out if you looked at your injuries. I keep my word.”
“I appreciate that in a person, Doctor Cunningham. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, Ms. Blake. Don’t thank me.” He moved towards the door, giving both the makeshift altar and Edward a medium-wide berth, as if both made him uncomfortable. At the door he turned. “I’ll send a nurse in to help you dress because you will need the help.” He walked out before I could say thank you again. Probably just as well.
Edward stayed until the nurse arrived. It was a different nurse, tall, light brunette, if that wasn’t an oxymoron. Her gaze stayed on my bruised face longer than was politic, and when she helped me slip out of the gown, she gave a low hiss at my back. It was unprofessional and sort of unnurselike. They were usually blankly cheerful to the point of nausea when you were hurt, or blunt. Anything to cover that what had happened to you bothered them.
“You’ll never be able to wear a bra over the stitches in your back,” she said.
I sighed. I hated to go without a bra. It always made me feel underdressed no matter what else I was wearing. “Let’s just get the shirt on.”
She held it and helped me slip it over my head. Putting my arms up to go through the sleeves made the pain in my back sharp and immediate, as if the skin would pull apart if I moved too quickly. I wondered if that would have been the analogy that I’d have chosen if Doctor Cunningham hadn’t warned me about the stitches pulling apart. I’d have shrugged if I hadn’t been sure it would hurt.
“I normally work in the nursery,” the nurse said as she helped me straighten the shirt, buttoning the first two buttons.
I looked up at her, not sure what to say. But I didn’t need to worry. She knew exactly what to say. “They called me in after you destroyed the monster. For the. . . cleanup.” She helped me sit on the edge of the bed. I sat there for a few seconds with my legs dangling off the edge, letting my body adjust to the fact that we were getting dressed, we were going to stand . . . in just a second.
“I’m sorry you had to see it,” I said, because I had to say something. I wasn’t even comfortable with her saying I’d “destroyed” the monster. It made it sound entirely too heroic, and what it had felt like was desperate. Desperation is the true mother of invention, at least for me.
She started to help me into the black panties, but I took them from her hands. If I couldn’t even put on my own underwear, I was in serious trouble. And if I was truly that hurt, I needed to know it. It would cut down on my urge to be heroic.
I started to simply bend at the waist, but it just wasn’t that easy. I lowered myself downward a little bit at a time, and I was still nowhere near low enough.
“Let me start them up your legs, so