His doctor took out an x-ray and held it up to the light. “Everythin’ looks good, I have to say. Bones seem to be healed and settled. Pulse ox in your toes tells me the circulation is fine. You’re tellin’ me there’s no pain. We’re surely gettin’ there, Woodman.” He placed the file on the counter behind him. “Why don’t you lie back and let me take a look.”
Woodman lay back on the crackly tissue paper and held his breath. This was the closest he’d ever come to getting the okay to go back to work.
“Sure would like to be able to help out at the fires,” he said.
“I know that. I know. But I wouldn’t be a very good doctor if I let you take a barely-healed foot into an unsafe situation, now, would I?”
The doctor handled his foot gently, feeling the plates and screws, the grafts and nails that held it all together. He made a face and tsked softly. “Got a little swellin’ here. Not a lot. Just a bit.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Woodman held another breath as Doc Collins poked around and forced himself not to wince from the friction of the nails being rubbed against his flesh.
The doctor sighed. “Well, you’re surely gettin’ there.”
But . . .
“But I don’t think you’re ready for firefightin’ just yet. Let’s give it a bit more time, huh?”
“Doc, if I’m that close, maybe I could just suit up?”
“You can sit up.” The doctor pulled the file from the counter, opened it, and wrote some notes on the top page before looking up at Woodman. “Not yet, son. I’m sorry. But I can’t risk givin’ you the okay and somethin’ bad happenin’ to you or someone else. You understand. Keep usin’ that cane. Keeps the weight off it while the bones continue to heal. Human body’s a funny thing—that injury may have taken one man a year to recover from, the next man a lifetime. You’re doin’ just fine. You’ll be on that fire truck before you know it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Woodman, his disappointment crushing.
Doc Collins took an Rx pad out of his breast pocket. “Swellin’ tells me there’s pain. I want to prescribe somethin’.”
“No, sir,” said Woodman.
The doctor placed the pad on the counter. “Bein’ in pain’s not goin’ to help anythin’, son.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The doctor sighed but shrugged before finishing his notes in Woodman’s file. When he looked up, his smile was professional but compassionate. “Soon, Woodman. I promise.”
Doc Collins offered his hand, Woodman shook it, and he left.
Finally letting out his breath in a long, annoyed huff, Woodman reached for his socks and pulled them on his feet. As he slid down the table, he looked across the small room and noticed the Rx pad that Doc Collins had left behind. He stared at it, then forced himself to look away, picking up his shoes and pulling them on. Once he was ready to go, he stepped over to the sink and looked down at the pad, swallowing uncomfortably. Woodman didn’t break the rules—never did, never had—but this was a special situation, wasn’t it? Certainly he knew his body better than Doc Collins, didn’t he? All he needed to do was take a slip of paper and write “Cleared for all duties” on it. He bit his lower lip.
“You can’t,” he muttered, turning away.
But as his fingers curled around the doorknob, Ginger’s face flitted through his mind. Before he could give it another thought, he tore off the top sheet from the pad, stuffed it in his pocket, and headed out the door.
***
Dance class with Mr. Schultz hadn’t exactly felt terrific on his ankle, and afterward it throbbed like a bitch, but Woodman insisted on taking his fiancée out to dinner. They headed over to the Danvers Grille, waving hello to the many friends who greeted them.
“Dum, dum, dum dum!” sang Sallie Rialto, a waitress Woodman and Ginger had both known since childhood. “How many days till ‘I do’?”
Ginger blushed, grinning up at Miz Rialto. “I’ve still got time, Sallie! Don’t rush me.”
Her words were goodnatured as Sallie handed them menus, and Woodman relaxed, looking over the top of his menu at his future wife’s breathtakingly pretty face. Wedding jitters and adjusting. That’s all it is when she seems different. Once we’re married, it’ll all be perfect.
“Was it me, or was ole Mr. Schultz deafer’n usual tonight?”
She giggled. “Remember when we took that ballroom dancin’ class together when I was eleven?