The Cursed Series, Parts 3 & 4 (Cursed #3-4) - Rebecca Donovan Page 0,80
he relaxes.
“I just got off the phone with Brendan,” I explain.
He nods dramatically, like he completely gets it. “I’d be screaming too.”
I let out a short laugh. “Were you … like, hovering outside the door?”
“Uh, not really. My room is across the hall. And I may have had my door open in case you needed anything. Or something happened. Like Brendan calling.”
“Thanks, Lance. But I’m good.”
“I have more pillows,” he adds, motioning with his thumb over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need them.”
“Will do.” I smile gently.
“Okay then.” He swings his arms, backing up awkwardly. “I’ll be … across the hall.” And then he finally closes the door.
I slink down into the bed and stare at the ceiling, releasing a heavy breath.
“Lana?” A warm, soft hand runs along my cheek. “Lana, Dr. Holly is here.”
I blink my eyes awake to find Olivia bending over me with a comforting smile on her face.
“Sorry to wake you, but we want to make sure your injuries aren’t serious.”
She knows? Of course she knows. I have a feeling theirs is a marriage without many secrets. Maybe that’s why they’re still so close. Secrets have the power to crumble castles into sand.
I ease up, determined to keep a neutral face so she doesn’t know how much I want to howl in pain. But from the crinkle between her brows, I’m not doing a good job faking it.
A petite woman with a dark-haired pixie cut and square glasses shielding dark green eyes stands by the end of the bed. She’s wearing a navy-blue cardigan sweater over a white blouse. I would never guess she’s a doctor. But I suppose doctors could potentially be anyone, even someone with a warm smile and twinkling eyes, who looks like she might be a kindergarten teacher on the side.
“Hi, Lana. We’ll let you get back to sleep in just a moment. I heard you were attacked earlier today.” She sets an old-fashioned black doctor’s bag on the mattress next to my feet. “I’m sorry that happened to you. How are you feeling about it?”
“Angry,” I answer without a filter. “Really fucking angry.”
Olivia blinks. I suppose if she teaches others how to become therapists and counselors, she should understand the power of honest answers. Dr. Holly has a slight grin on her face—that surprises me.
“You have every right to be angry,” she says to me, plugging a stethoscope into her ears. “Now let’s take a listen.”
The exam isn’t long. She listens, presses and pokes. Has me pee in a cup and stand in front of a screen, which must have been set up in my room while I was asleep, to take X-rays. Never knew they had portable X-ray machines until now. Or that doctors actually made house visits.
“I’m tempted to have you go to the hospital for a scan to rule out internal bleeding, but the X-rays indicate nothing’s broken. I believe your kidney’s bruised, and there isn’t much that can be done for that. I’ll give you something for the discomfort. It’ll take a couple weeks to recover—no contact sports or fighting during that time.”
I raise my brows, wondering how she knew. She nods toward the scraped and red knuckles on my right hand.
“Oh. Right.”
Olivia has remained quietly in the room the entire time. I’m afraid to look over at her, not sure if she’ll be able to refrain from judgment, no matter how professional she’s been.
After everything is packed away, Parker and Joey enter to carry the X-ray equipment downstairs.
“It was nice to meet you, Lana,” Dr. Holly says, setting a hand on my shoulder. “It’s time to heal. And I don’t just mean your body. Allow Dr. Harrison to help you. She’s good at what she does.”
She leaves us alone. I shoot Olivia a quick glance out of the corner of my eye, still unwilling to face her.
“We don’t have to talk now. But please, let someone help you, Lana, even if you decide it’s not me. There’s a lot going on in your life, and you have every right to your feelings. But I worry about how you choose to express them.”
I cave and finally lift my eyes to her.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you. Not ever again.” She moves to stand in front of the door, her hand on the knob.
“Is that what you’re doing for my mother? Helping her sort out her feelings?” I ask, a thread of anger in my words.