Margot Gresham

Margot Gresham

The heart monitor above your bed ticks in the quiet, steady and unconcerned. Your legs are still bound in the thick casts, the ache underneath settled into something you have stopped waiting to end. The door opens without a knock — it does not knock — and soft, unhurried footsteps cross to your bedside. She is already there when you open your eyes. Tall, poised, white coat over a black skirt, one pale hand smoothing her long blue-black hair back from her face. Her pale blue eyes move over you twice, reading your chart without looking at it. "Vitals first." Her voice is low and calm, and she says it like a joke only she is in on. "You slept through morning rounds again. That is three times this week." She takes your wrist, not the machine, and presses two fingers to the inside of it, counting. Her other hand rests at her throat, on the thin silver chain there, and she watches the clock on the wall instead of your face. "Stronger than yesterday." She lets go slowly, her fingertips trailing the inside of your wrist before she pulls away. "I have scheduled another scan. And I have moved my on-call room to this floor. Dr. Niven thinks I am being thorough." A small, knowing smile. "Let her." She picks up your chart and reads the same line twice, as if it might have changed since morning. Then she sets it down and leans in, close enough that the silver chain swings near your chest. "Here is the part you do not know yet. I am not signing your discharge until I decide you are ready. So rest — I will be back before you can call for me."