Chương 13
“Is this where you tell me resistance is part of the process?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I was going to tell you it makes the process slower.”
I looked at him.
“That’s worse.”
“Usually.”
He made no notes for several seconds.
“Tell me about the first time you tried to fly after the injury.”
My body reacted before my mind did.
My shoulders tightened.
My left hand curled.
Vance watched my hand.
I flattened it against my thigh.
“I boarded.”
“And?”
“I left.”
“Why?”
“Physiological panic symptoms.”
“What did you think would happen?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn’t fit.”
“I knew objectively that nothing was wrong.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I almost smiled.
“Everybody learned that sentence this week.”
“Useful sentence.”
I looked past him toward the window.
A maintenance worker outside was trimming a hedge badly.
“What did you think would happen?” Vance asked again.
I could have said crash.
That would have been the obvious answer.
It was not the true one.
“I thought someone would get hurt.”
“Someone on the aircraft?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
My throat tightened.
“I’d have to do it again.”
“Do what?”
“Keep them alive.”
Vance waited.
I hated him for not helping.
“Without enough equipment.”
My fingers pressed harder against my leg.
“Without enough blood.”
I could feel Marcus under my hands again.
“Without enough time.”
My voice had gone quieter.
“And if I couldn’t?”
Vance asked.
I looked at him.
“That’s the part.”
“What part?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He did not argue.
I stood abruptly.
“I need water.”
“There’s a dispenser outside.”
“I know.”
I reached the door before he spoke again.
“You can go get water.”
I stopped.
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
“I know.”
That irritated me enough to keep me from leaving.
I returned to the chair.
Vance nodded once, as though remaining seated had not just cost me anything.
“Marcus lived,” he said.
My jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Does that make the event easier?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it almost didn’t happen.”
“His survival?”
“Yes.”
“What percentage chance did you think he had?”
“I don’t know.”
“During the flight.”
“I didn’t calculate one.”
“You calculate everything.”
“I was busy.”
He waited.
“Low,” I said.
“How low?”
“Low enough that I stopped thinking past the next few minutes.”
“Did you think you would survive?”
I looked down.
“No.”
It was the first time I had said it aloud.
The room stayed exactly the same.
No dramatic relief.
No sudden collapse.
The dead plant remained dead.
Somebody laughed in the hallway.
Vance leaned back.
“What did you do with that belief?”
“Nothing.”
“You kept working.”
“Yes.”
“What were you feeling?”
“Fear.”
“Anything else?”
“Anger.”
“At whom?”
“Everyone.”
He nodded.
“The pilot.”
“Yes.”
“The crew chief.”
“Yes.”
“Marcus?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
“For being injured?”
“For making me care.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
I stared at the floor.
Vance did not move.
“That sounds ugly.”
“It sounds human.”
“No.”
“It can be both.”
I swallowed.
“He kept bleeding.”
“That was not his choice.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.”
I looked up.
“Then why ask?”
“Because knowing something and feeling it are different systems.”
I almost told him that was unbearably therapist-like.
Instead, I said, “I was angry because he was dying and I couldn’t make him stop.”
Vance nodded.
“And afterward?”
“After what?”
“After you learned he survived.”
“Relieved.”
“Only relieved?”
“No.”
The answer surprised me.
“What else?”
I stared toward the window.
The maintenance worker had given up on the hedge and was drinking from a bottle.
“Responsible.”
“For his survival?”
“For what came after.”
Vance’s brow shifted.
“His rehabilitation?”
“Yes.”
“He told you he had difficulty?”
“Not until this week.”
“And before that?”
“I kept checking on him.”
“Why?”
“Because he nearly died.”
“That explains concern.”
He waited.
“Not responsibility.”
I knew where he was going and disliked him for getting there ahead of me.
“If he hated being alive, then what I did wasn’t automatically good.”
Vance remained quiet.
I heard my own sentence as if someone else had spoken it.
“He told me there were days when he wished I hadn’t saved him.”
“And how did that affect you?”
“It made me angry.”
“At him?”
“Yes.”
“At yourself?”
I said nothing.
Vance’s voice stayed level.
“You made a medical decision under catastrophic conditions.”
“I made several.”
“And you cannot control whether a patient later likes the life that follows.”
“I know.”
“There’s that word again.”
My temper flashed.
“Knowing matters.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop treating it like it’s meaningless.”
“I’m not.”
His voice remained calm.
“I’m pointing out that information hasn’t changed the reaction.”
I leaned back.
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth, ideally.”
“I am telling the truth.”
“Then tell me what you think you owe Marcus.”
The question hit somewhere I had not protected.
I looked at him.
“Nothing.”
Vance waited.
I hated the silence.
“I saved his life.”
“Yes.”
“I nearly lost my arm.”
“Yes.”
“I followed him through months of recovery.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly do you think I owe him?”
“I didn’t say you owed him anything.”
“You asked what I think I owe him.”
“Correct.”
“That implies you think I think I owe him something.”
A small smile.
“You really are a physician.”
I glared.
He stopped smiling.
“What do you think you owe him?”
I stared at my left hand.
The scars pulled slightly when I opened my fingers.
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That it was worth it.”
Vance said nothing.
The sentence remained between us.
I wished I could take it back.
Instead, I heard myself continue.
“If I get back to operational duty, then the injury didn’t take that from me.”
I swallowed.
“If Marcus gets back to his team, then saving him gave him something back.”
“And if neither happens?”
The room tightened.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s probably where we work.”
I looked at him.
“Work.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds expensive.”
May you like
“The government is paying.”
“Then I’m suddenly committed to mental health.”
