"It's fine," Carter assures them.
"Someone should be there with you. You've gone through so much of this by yourself," Anne says with obvious pain on her face.
"I can go," I offer impulsively, wanting to allay her concern.
"Oh, that's so sweet," Anne says, "but you don't have to."
"She's not busy," my father counters, and I bristle. From someone else I wouldn't have taken that comment as an insult, but I know how he means it.
"I'll be fine by myself," Carter interjects.
"Please? It will make me feel better," Anne says pleadingly. Carter pauses, then nods. "Then it's settled," Anne says with a glowing smile.
Chapter Seven
My old Audi sedan in still sitting in the garage under a tarp. I pull it off and fold it up, placing it on one of the metal shelving units along the walls. The tank still has some gas in it, so I pull out and stop at the front door. Moments later, Carter limps out. I resist the urge to hop out and help him to the car. He was already reluctant last night to have anyone take him to the doctor, so I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate me treating him like he's completely incapacitated.
He opens the back door first and lays his crutches down along the seat. He hops toward the front passenger door and eases himself in. His scent fills the car and I swallow nervously. Maybe this was a bad idea.
"OK," he says shortly, and moves his seat back farther so he can stretch out his leg.
"Um, OK," I say back, and start down the driveway. He's silent as we drive to the hospital, and I drum my thumbs against the steering wheel. I park underground, and we take the elevator up to the third floor after Carter checks the slip of paper where he's written the doctor's suite number. He pauses outside of the elevator, and I look around him to the plaque he's considering on the wall.
"The Ray Stratton Memorial Wing?"
"You'll find his name all over this town," I reply with a wry smile. "I think it's like a rich man's way of pissing on his territory."
"Some might say he's being charitable."
"Some might," I allow, and gesture down the hallway toward the office, indicating I don't really want to discuss my father any further. Carter shrugs and I follow him down. I reach in front of him to open the door, and take the paper work from the receptionist as he sits down in the waiting area.
I watch the TV mounted in the corner as Carter fills out his medical history. We're called immediately after I hand it back, though there are other people in the waiting room who were here before us. I smell the Stratton name's influence.
The nurse takes us back to a room with big windows that let in streaming sunlight. She hands Carter a gown and excuses herself. I sit in a chair and am surprised to see Carter looking at me expectantly.
"You're staying?" he asks with a frown.
"Oh...I just...I assumed. You want me to leave?"
He pauses. "No, I guess it's fine," he finally says, but he keeps looking at me.
"What?"
"I have to change."
I can't help but giggle. "Carter, we—"
"I know."
"Fine," I sigh, and shut my eyes. I hear him moving around, and the sound of paper crinkling.
"Done," he says, and I open my eyes to see him sitting on the bed. The doctor breezes in, a cheerful-looking man in his mid-sixties with thinning red hair.
"You must be Carter Driscoll," he says, shaking Carter's hand. "And...Mrs. Driscoll?" he asks, turning to me.
"No! No. I'm his step-sister, basically. Alexa Stratton."
"Ah, of course. Please tell your father I say hello. And I'm Dr. Lyngstad," he says, turning back to Carter and pulling a rolling chair over to the bed. "I've just been reviewing your chart," he says, lapsing into silence as he runs his eyes down it. "You're quite lucky to have been in the care of Dr. Sauveterre in Paris. I took a fascinating seminar that he gave at a conference in the Netherlands. Not that I intend to switch to neurosurgery, of course, but I wanted the chance to see a living legend."
My eyes flick over to Carter, whose expression hasn't changed. I remember he said something on the plane about not being awake when Anne and Bree visited him in the hospital, but I suppose I hadn't processed yet how serious his injuries must have been. He might have a cast on his leg, but it sounds like he was in a coma and had some kind of neurological work done.
"Well, let's get this cast off, shall we?" he says, slapping Carter's chart shut and standing up. He reaches into the cabinets next to the bed and pulls out what look like a pair of large gardening shears. "Now be prepared for the smell," he adds to me mischievously. "This leg hasn't seen the light of day for a while!