Part 24 (2/2)
And then she started to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.
Never in his thirty years had Hunter had to fight so hard to stay calm. But Emerson needed him, and even though she was in enough pain to scare him f.u.c.king senseless, he was going to stay strong.
What if . . . what if . . .
Hunter's feet moved swiftly over the pavement, the question beating a foreboding pattern in his brain. His father's near miss last week had brought the grim flip side of ”what if” into sharp focus. Yes, his old man was fine now, but one twist of fate, one cruel s.h.i.+ft in another direction, and he wouldn't have been.
What if Emerson hadn't been there for his father?
And what if Hunter hadn't been there today for her?
His mouth went as dry as the asphalt beneath his boots. Multiple sclerosis was far more grave than he'd realized or she was willing to admit, and he was literally her only lifeline. She refused to tell anyone else she had the disease, refused to believe that the side effects of the meds she was on and the pain of her symptoms were anything other than normal. If he hadn't stopped by the PT center when he did, she'd have collapsed on that floor alone.
What if . . .
Hunter reached the sliding gla.s.s doors, his arms p.r.i.c.kling at the whoosh of air conditioning on his sun-warmed skin. He needed to focus, to find a way to fix this. Once Emerson felt a little better, they could come up with a plan. Maybe she could at least tell Doc Sanders and a few other trusted people that she was sick. Lord knew she couldn't keep hiding from it like this.
The pain might end them both.
Shaking off the thought, Hunter scanned the waiting room. Both Emerson and the nurse were gone-not a bad sign, as far as he was concerned-and he turned toward the triage desk to try to finagle his way back to the curtain area to see her.
And found himself face to startled face with Emerson's father.
”Hunter.” Dr. Montgomery's brows creased over a stare caught somewhere between chill and confusion. ”Quite a surprise to see you out this way.”
”Uh,” he stuttered, and s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. Compared with this moment, the spot between a rock and a hard place was a luxury destination. ”Yes . . . sir. That is, I wasn't planning to be here.”
”One usually doesn't. Hence the 'emergency' in the name.”
The corners of his mouth twitched just slightly, smoothing back into seriousness before the gesture fully registered, and in that odd, stop-time second, Hunter realized that the response hadn't been meant disrespectfully.
Had Emerson's father been making an awkward attempt to be sociable?
”At any rate.” Dr. Montgomery smoothed a hand over the front of his white coat, his gaze appearing genuinely concerned. ”Are you unwell? I came down for a consult, but if you need a.s.sistance, perhaps I can point you in the right direction.”
Hunter's mouth opened, a fabricated answer locked and loaded on his tongue. Emerson had made him promise not to say anything-to her parents above all else-but dammit, her illness was bigger than she'd admit, and she needed help. Her parents had been trying to reach out to her all week. Wasn't it possible that despite their overbearing way of showing it, they actually had good intentions? There was no way they didn't love Emerson. She was their only child, for Chrissake! Dr. Montgomery was a physician, not to mention her father, her flesh and blood. Not agreeing with her career choice was a far cry from not helping her through being sick.
Screw the status quo. She was sick, and Hunter would rock all the boats he had to in order to ease her pain.
”Actually, I'm here with Emerson. I think the two of you need to talk.”
Emerson had been around enough doctors in her life to know when things were mission critical. The look on Dr. Ortiz's face right now?
Told her in no uncertain terms she wasn't going to like what he had to say.
”Okay, Ms. Montgomery. You can relax now,” he said, guiding the paper-thin bedsheet back over her two-sizes-too-swollen legs to preserve the tiny shred of her dignity that remained. ”I've got a couple of concerns, and unfortunately they're going to keep you here at least for a little while. The biggest is that you're pretty dehydrated.”
She blew out a breath, hating the news even though it didn't surprise her. ”I figured.” Poor Jackie had needed three tries to get Emerson's IV into place. Considering the digestive rebellion her stomach had declared over the last two days, she'd have been shocked to her toes if she weren't dehydrated. ”I've been trying to at least keep fluids down, but the MS meds have been making that difficult.”
”Let's tackle it this way. I'd like to give you an anti-emetic for the nausea, that way we can work on getting something in your stomach once it settles. In the meantime, we'll get more IV fluids on board so your dehydration doesn't get any more dangerous.”
Her shoulders sank against the mattress, but she gave up a tiny nod. ”Okay.”
”Good.” Dr. Ortiz looped his stethoscope back around his neck, his expression telling her his laundry list of concerns had just begun. ”Your pain is also obviously an issue, as is the edema in your feet and lower legs. We should be able to get both under control with rest and medication, but . . . are your MS relapses normally this severe?”
”No. I mean, I was only diagnosed about three months ago, but . . . yes. This is the worst one by far.” She bit her lip at the admission, but to her surprise, the doctor didn't crank up the aw-poor-weak-you sympathy.
”It's not entirely unusual for the first few episodes after a diagnosis to be all over the place, especially if a patient is trying different treatments to manage them.” He held up her electronic chart, which contained the health history she'd given Jackie as well as the mile-long list of meds her neurologist had prescribed. ”Clearly, your current regimen isn't a good fit if it's going to make you nauseous enough to become dehydrated. But let's not try to drive beyond the headlights, okay? Before we do anything else, we've got to manage this relapse. Then you can work out a new medication plan with your neurologist.”
Emerson dropped her chin to the chest of her hospital gown. The thought of starting fresh with new meds was enough to make her stomach pool with dread, but still, it paled in comparison with an extended hospital stay.
”Okay. Do you think I'll be able to go home today?” she asked, mentally tacking please please please to the end of the question. She knew she needed to rest, but the thought of doing it in a hospital, especially this hospital, gave her the shakes.
Dr. Ortiz pulled his cell phone, which had started buzzing like crazy, out of the pocket of his doctor's coat. ”What I think is that you need to rest and rehydrate, and let us manage your pain. Then we'll see where we are. Ah.” His black brows lifted toward his just-ruffled-enough hairline, and he looked at her in what seemed like surprise. ”Seems there's someone who's rather impatient to see you.”
For the first time in days, a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. ”Yes. It's okay with me if he comes back.”
”Okay. Get some rest, and I'll have Jackie come in with a painkiller and some meds for your nausea and swelling. I'll also send your visitor back.” Dr. Ortiz nodded, tucking her electronic chart under his arm as he slipped from the room. Okay, so the road in front of her was longer and studded with more land mines than she'd thought, but she could do this. She was going to be okay.
Hunter had promised. He'd said he had her back, and she believed him. Even though it went against everything she thought she'd wanted when she'd returned to Millhaven, Emerson trusted him to see all of her, to stay right there with her no matter how bad the disease got.
But when the curtain slid back a minute later, the man on the other side wasn't Hunter.
This couldn't be right.
”Dad?” The heart rate monitor beside her bed went ballistic, the numbers flas.h.i.+ng wildly along with the rhythm in her chest. But no way-no way was her father, the one person she'd been desperate to hide her sickness from the most, standing there in front of her while she was having her worst relapse to date.
”Emerson,” he said, and her stomach dropped with the cold realization that he was in fact very much in front of her, taking in her imperfections by the minute. His brows creased in obvious confusion. ”Would you like to tell me exactly what's going on here?”
”No,” she said, partly because it was true and partly because it was the only word she could get past the terror in her throat. How was this happening? She'd been in triage for all of fifteen seconds, for G.o.d's sake!
Of course, her father took her refusal as an invitation to argue. ”Clearly, you're having a medical issue. I understand you're . . .” He paused, and for the briefest of seconds, an emotion Emerson couldn't identify flickered through his gaze. But then he tucked his shoulder blades around his spine, his shoulders straightening beneath his impeccably pressed doctor's coat, and the emotion disappeared. ”Upset with me regarding our dinner conversation the other night. But you don't honestly mean to not ask for my help right now.”
Emerson arranged her expression to show nothing but intent, despite the pain starting to radiate through her legs with every slam of her pulse. But no way was she telling him anything, even if he had managed to somehow stumble over her in the ED. ”As a matter of fact, that is exactly what I mean to do.”
The step back he took betrayed his surprise. ”Don't be ridiculous. I'm the head of surgery at this hospital.”
Right. As if she'd forget. But the fact that her father had seen her here was bad enough. If he knew the real reason, if he knew the truth- ”Em, your father wants to help you. Talk to him. Please.”
Time extended for a heartbeat, one single thump-thump of time during which Emerson's brain processed. Gathered. Processed again.
And then all the air in the room vanished as Hunter's voice-G.o.d, his presence next to her father, of all people-smashed into her like a wrecking ball.
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