those doors opened, the worse the news.
The stress caused him to shut his eyes and rest his head. In his mind, he kept a constant transmission of thoughts heading toward Margo, begging her to stay alive.
Father Joe nudged him and said, “Are those yours?”
Bryant realized the priest was asking about the rosary beads he was gripping in his closed hand.
“Margo gave them to me,” he said, looking at the gift with a pang of shame. The thought of Margo in there by herself, with no family by her side, slithered like a snake at the pit of his stomach.
“I see,” Father Joe said.
Bryant turned to the priest. “Listen, there’s something you need to know,” he said, looking around at the absence of an audience. “She’s suffering from PTSD. Her strong belief in God is a by-product of her condition. She believes she survived her accident because the Lord wanted her to survive. Her brain has manufactured a rationalization for her survival. It prevents her from feeling the full brunt of the guilt she’d otherwise endure. It’s the only way she can cope with the death of her family.”
“Survivor Syndrome?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s your professional opinion?”
“It’s Frank’s opinion also. He’s the one who counseled her.”
“And that’s where the idea was born?”
“Are you getting at something?”
The door to the Trauma Room opened and a doctor peeked into the room wearing blue scrubs and a paper surgical mask hanging down around his neck. His face more anxious than somber. He spotted Bryant and nodded.
Bryant got up and glanced at Father Joe. “I’ll be right back.”
“Let me come with y—”
“No,” Bryant said, holding out his palm. “I need to do this alone.”
Father Joe moved to the edge of his seat, but stayed there. “Okay.”
Chapter 16
Bryant’s heart pounded as he sat across from the surgeon in the small consult room. The room was so tiny, their knees practically touched as they faced each other in the plastic chairs. Next to them was an end table with a large box of Kleenex tissues.
The surgeon seemed more nervous than Bryant. He rubbed his hands together and swiveled his head back and forth as if searching for something on the carpeted floor between them.
“It’s okay,” Bryant said. “You can tell me.”
The surgeon was older, maybe mid-fifties, but he acted like a first-year resident. He glanced up at the narrow window on the door and Bryant followed his gaze. Two or three of the nurses and doctors from the Trauma Room were lingering outside. They scattered like roaches once Bryant took notice.
“What’s going on, Doctor?” Bryant asked.
The surgeon winced like he was about to remove a large splinter from a child.
“Is she your daughter?” the surgeon said, finally making eye contact.
“No,” Bryant said. “She’s a patient of mine. Her family was killed in a plane accident. She has no one.” Bryant took a breath. “She’s gone?”
The surgeon’s eyes shifted, first to the empty window, then the floor. “No, she’s alive.”
The way his words came out, it made Bryant feel more concerned than if she was declared dead.
“What seems to be the problem?” Bryant said. “I’m a medical doctor. You can tell me.”
The surgeon spotted the rosary beads in Bryant’s hand and said, “Are you a very religious person?”
Bryant looked at the beads. “I used to be.”
The surgeon nodded as if this was a fascinating concept.
“Doctor—”
“I cut her open,” the surgeon said quickly, as if to get rid of the words. “I had to, she was bleeding out.”
“Of course, you had no choice. I rode with her in the ambulance.”
“Yes, well, then you must have suspected that the bullet went through her heart.”
Bryant bit his lower lip. “Yes, that’s what I thought from the location of the wound.”
“And you’d be correct. The bullet went clear through her right ventricle and out her back.”
A kill shot, thought Bryant. Not
The stress caused him to shut his eyes and rest his head. In his mind, he kept a constant transmission of thoughts heading toward Margo, begging her to stay alive.
Father Joe nudged him and said, “Are those yours?”
Bryant realized the priest was asking about the rosary beads he was gripping in his closed hand.
“Margo gave them to me,” he said, looking at the gift with a pang of shame. The thought of Margo in there by herself, with no family by her side, slithered like a snake at the pit of his stomach.
“I see,” Father Joe said.
Bryant turned to the priest. “Listen, there’s something you need to know,” he said, looking around at the absence of an audience. “She’s suffering from PTSD. Her strong belief in God is a by-product of her condition. She believes she survived her accident because the Lord wanted her to survive. Her brain has manufactured a rationalization for her survival. It prevents her from feeling the full brunt of the guilt she’d otherwise endure. It’s the only way she can cope with the death of her family.”
“Survivor Syndrome?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s your professional opinion?”
“It’s Frank’s opinion also. He’s the one who counseled her.”
“And that’s where the idea was born?”
“Are you getting at something?”
The door to the Trauma Room opened and a doctor peeked into the room wearing blue scrubs and a paper surgical mask hanging down around his neck. His face more anxious than somber. He spotted Bryant and nodded.
Bryant got up and glanced at Father Joe. “I’ll be right back.”
“Let me come with y—”
“No,” Bryant said, holding out his palm. “I need to do this alone.”
Father Joe moved to the edge of his seat, but stayed there. “Okay.”
Chapter 16
Bryant’s heart pounded as he sat across from the surgeon in the small consult room. The room was so tiny, their knees practically touched as they faced each other in the plastic chairs. Next to them was an end table with a large box of Kleenex tissues.
The surgeon seemed more nervous than Bryant. He rubbed his hands together and swiveled his head back and forth as if searching for something on the carpeted floor between them.
“It’s okay,” Bryant said. “You can tell me.”
The surgeon was older, maybe mid-fifties, but he acted like a first-year resident. He glanced up at the narrow window on the door and Bryant followed his gaze. Two or three of the nurses and doctors from the Trauma Room were lingering outside. They scattered like roaches once Bryant took notice.
“What’s going on, Doctor?” Bryant asked.
The surgeon winced like he was about to remove a large splinter from a child.
“Is she your daughter?” the surgeon said, finally making eye contact.
“No,” Bryant said. “She’s a patient of mine. Her family was killed in a plane accident. She has no one.” Bryant took a breath. “She’s gone?”
The surgeon’s eyes shifted, first to the empty window, then the floor. “No, she’s alive.”
The way his words came out, it made Bryant feel more concerned than if she was declared dead.
“What seems to be the problem?” Bryant said. “I’m a medical doctor. You can tell me.”
The surgeon spotted the rosary beads in Bryant’s hand and said, “Are you a very religious person?”
Bryant looked at the beads. “I used to be.”
The surgeon nodded as if this was a fascinating concept.
“Doctor—”
“I cut her open,” the surgeon said quickly, as if to get rid of the words. “I had to, she was bleeding out.”
“Of course, you had no choice. I rode with her in the ambulance.”
“Yes, well, then you must have suspected that the bullet went through her heart.”
Bryant bit his lower lip. “Yes, that’s what I thought from the location of the wound.”
“And you’d be correct. The bullet went clear through her right ventricle and out her back.”
A kill shot, thought Bryant. Not
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