The door to the back opened, and she called up a smile for Ellen Bennett.
“Marci! Another visit from the Herald. What a surprise.”
“For me too. And I’m here today as a patient, not a reporter.”
“I assumed as much.” Ellen eyed the bandage. “What happened?”
Marci opened her mouth to respond, but Ben beat her to it.
“She’s got a one-by-seven-centimeter linear incised wound, mid-right forearm, smooth edges, down to—but not through—deep fascia. A close encounter with some guttering. It needs to be stitched.”
Marci stared at him. His authoritative tone and concise evaluation were all doctor—and offered a glimpse of the commanding presence he must have displayed during his years as an army surgeon.
Ellen scrutinized him. “You’re Ben Garrison, right? Ned’s grandson.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I recognized you from the service for your grandfather. Would you like to come back while I examine the wound?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
At their simultaneous response, Ellen looked from one to the other.
“You don’t need to stay, Ben.” Marci tried to pull her arm free.
He held tight.
“Yes, I do.” He shifted his attention to Ellen. “FYI, she’s a little squeamish around blood.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Why don’t you both come back, at least for the initial evaluation?”
Without giving her a chance to protest, Ben guided her through the door.
Fine.
He could stay for a few minutes—until she got to one of the examining rooms and no longer needed his arm for support.
“Where’s Chuck today?” She tried to sound nonchalant as she followed the woman down the hall . . . but Ben wasn’t likely to miss the tiny quaver in her voice.
“He had a family wedding in Portland this weekend, so we told him we’d cover the front desk yesterday and today. Have a seat there.” Ellen motioned toward an examining table in the first room off the hall.
“Chuck’s the office manager for the center.” Marci scooted onto the table, directing her comment to Ben. “I know him from Grace Christian.”
“He’s been a tremendous asset to our operation. Very responsible and buttoned up.” Ellen began to unwrap Ben’s makeshift bandage.
“I could tell that from . . . ouch!” Marci looked at the wound.
Big mistake.
The room began to ripple, and another wave of nausea swept over her.
A plastic kidney-shaped dish was thrust under her chin—just in time to catch the remaining contents of her stomach.
As soon as she stopped retching, strong arms guided her back and down, until she was lying flat.
Good grief, could this get any more humiliating?
“I see what you mean about being squeamish.” Ellen patted her arm.
“Close your eyes and take some deep breaths.” Ben touched her shoulder.
Sound advice.
As she sucked air in and blew it out, a cool, damp cloth was draped over her eyes and forehead.
Heaven.
“Is there a doctor on staff?” Ben was back in professional mode.
“Yes, but he’s not here today. I’m a one-woman show at the moment.” Ellen removed the rest of the bandage. “You’re right about the stitches.”
“Should we go to Bandon or Coos Bay?” A note of concern threaded through Ben’s words.
Remarkable how you could pick up tiny nuances in inflection when you focused on sound rather than visible cues.
“Not necessary. I’m a physician’s assistant. Believe me, I’ve done more than my share of stitching, a lot of it much worse than this.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
I guess.
Marci heard Ben’s unspoken caveat even if Ellen didn’t—and a wave of warmth percolated through her.
He was concerned about her and wanted to be certain she got first-class care.
Sweet.
“It might help if you stick close to her while we get this done.” Ellen was all business now, brisk and professional.
A few seconds later, her hand was enfolded in a comforting clasp. “I’m here, Marci. This won’t take long.”
She ought to tell him to go.
Ellen had this under control.
But the words stuck in her throat.
“I’m going to numb your arm and clean up the wound before I stitch it, Marci. Hang on. I’ll be back in a minute.” Ellen’s voice faded, as if she’d walked out the door.
“The worst part will be a few pricks of the needle.” Ben squeezed her hand.
Nope.
The worst part was puking twice and almost fainting—and that was over.
It was a downhill coast from here.
“I’m fine. Needles don’t bother me.”
“Lucky you. I’ve seen hardened soldiers carrying assault rifles keel over at the sight of a syringe.”
Really?
Or was he trying to make her feel better by downplaying the spectacle she’d made of herself?
Whatever his motivation for sharing that tidbit, she did feel better.
“In case no one’s ever told you, you have a terrific bedside manner.”
Rather than offering a verbal response, he squeezed her fingers.
“We’re all set, Marci.” Ellen spoke again. “You’ll feel a few pinches while I numb the area. Ready?”
“Yes.” She held on tight to Ben’s hand.
The shots weren’t fun—but at least they didn’t make her nauseous or dizzy.
“The lidocaine will take effect very fast. I’m going to get set up to clean the wound, and I’ll have this stitched in less than ten minutes. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
Ellen and Ben chatted while the woman worked, and Marci was content to zone out, her hand in his—until the gist of the woman’s comments began to register.
“. . . finding someone to take Dr. Logan’s place.”
“What? Is Dr. Logan leaving?” Marci almost tugged her hand free from Ben’s to remove the cool cloth. Caught herself in the nick of time.
Her hand could stay right where it was while she talked. No need to see the players.
“Yes. He accepted an ER position with a hospital in Portland.”
“But what will happen to the urgent care center?”
“We’re not sure. I can’t blame Dr. Logan for moving on to a bigger opportunity now that he’s got some experience under his belt, but it will be difficult to find a replacement. Getting a highly qualified resident fresh out of training to take Doc Walters’s place after he retired was an incredible blessing—but we may not be that
