her. But her father had been a military surgeon, and that had taken up most of his time. While he’d always said he wanted to spend more time with her, it hadn’t happened. So no involvement with him, either, for a good part of her life.
Then there had been her husband. Another doctor, but one who wouldn’t accept that she didn’t want to be a surgeon like him. He was a neurosurgeon and, to him, being a primary care physician meant being...lesser. He did surgeries while she did cuts and bruises, he’d always say. Brad had never failed to show his disappointment in her, so she’d failed there, too. Meaning, what was the point?
None, that Lizzie could think of. But that was OK. She got along, designed her life the way she wanted it to be, and lived happily in the middle of it. Living in the middle was good, she decided. It didn’t take you far, but it didn’t let you down, either.
She wondered about Mateo, though. She knew he watched her in the garden every morning. Knew he’d asked questions about her. But the look on his face...there was no confidence there. Something more like fear. Which was why she’d asked him out for a walk this evening. He needed more than the four walls of his hospital room, the same way her father had needed more.
But her father had been on a downward spiral with Alzheimer’s. Mateo was young, healthy, had a lot of years of life ahead of him—except he was getting into the habit of throwing away the days. It was hard seeing that, after watching the way her father had deteriorated.
But to get involved...? They weren’t friends. Weren’t even doctor-patient. Weren’t anything. But she’d been watching the watcher for weeks now, and since she’d be going on holiday shortly what would it hurt to get involved for once? Or, in this case, to take a simple evening walk?
Watching Mateo walk toward her now, she thought he struck her as a man who would have taken charge. His gait was strong, purposeful. And he was a large man—massive muscles on a well-defined body. He’d taken care of himself. You didn’t get that physique by chance. Yet now he was stalled, and that didn’t fit. To look at him was to think he had his life together—it was in the way he carried himself. But there was nothing together about him, not one little piece. And he was sabotaging himself by not trying.
Many of the staff’s morning meetings lately had opened with: “What should we do about Mateo?”
The majority wanted him out of there. Even his own doctor didn’t care. But Lizzie was his advocate because he deserved this chance. Like her dad had, all those times someone had tried to convince her to put him away. That was exactly what they wanted to do with Mateo, and while neurology wasn’t her specialty, she did know that some types of brain trauma took a long time to sort themselves out.
But beds here were at a premium. The waiting list was long, and military veterans always went to the top of the list. There was no guarantee they’d stay there, though, especially if they acted the way Mateo did.
He was never mean. Never outright rude, even though he was always on the edge of it. In fact, he smiled more than anybody she’d ever seen. But he refused to try, and that was ultimately going to get in the way, since there were other veterans who could have his bed and display more cooperation.
The waiting line for each and every bed was eight deep, Janis always reminded her, when she was so often the only one at the meeting table who defended him. His bed could be filled with the snap of her fingers, and that was what she had to impress upon Mateo or he’d be out.
Truthfully, Lizzie was worried about Mateo’s progress. Or rather his lack of it. His time was indeed running out, and there was serious talk of transferring him elsewhere. He knew that, and it didn’t faze him. Not one little bit. Or if it did, he hid it well. Making her wonder why she tried so hard to advocate for a man who didn’t advocate for himself.
“Well, you look good in real clothes,” she said as he walked up to the reception hub where she’d been waiting.
He spun around the way a model on a runway would, then took a bow as a couple of passing nurses applauded him. “It’s good to feel human again.”
“You’re allowed out in the garden any time, Mateo. All you have to do is ask and someone will walk along with you.”
“But today I scored you.” He leaned in toward her and whispered, “Who happens to be the prettiest doctor in this hospital.”
“Save the flattery for someone else, Mateo. All I’m doing is trying to chart a doctor’s note saying you were cooperative for once. So far there aren’t any of those on record.”
Staff were tired of sugar-coating what they said about him and had started opting for snarky comments instead. In their defense, they were a highly dedicated lot who were bound to their jobs by the need to make improvements in patients’ lives—physically and emotionally. And, while Mateo might make them smile, he also frustrated them by pushing them to the limit.
Lizzie nudged a wheelchair in his direction.
“You know I can walk,” he said.
“Of course, you can, but...hospital policy. If I take a patient outside, they must go by wheelchair or else I’ll be in trouble. In other words, comply, or give back the clothes and go to bed.”
“Comply? Easier said than done,” he said, not budging from where he was standing at the nurses’ hub. “Especially when you’re treating me like an invalid.”
In truth, he’d prefer not to step outside—or in his case, be wheeled. There were too many things reminding him of how much he’d forgotten. Most days he wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. Staying in bed, watching TV, playing video games, sleeping...that was about the extent of his life now.
Except Lizzie. She was the bright spot. And she was asking him out...no way he could turn that down.
“Isn’t that how you’re treating yourself?” she asked. “We’ve designed a beautiful program for you here—took days going over it and tweaking it. It’s a nice balance for what you’ve got going on, yet have you ever, just once, referred to it? Daily walks in the garden, for instance? It’s on there, Mateo. And workouts in the gym. But I’ll bet you tossed the program in the trash as soon as you received it.
“Might have. Don’t remember.”
“Saying you’ve forgotten has become an easy excuse because retrograde amnesia is about forgetting things in the past. Not in the future, or even now. What you’re not retaining right now is left over from your brain surgery, but that will improve in time. With some effort. If you let it. Also, if you don’t care about your past you can walk out of here right now—a new man with a clean slate. You’re healthy, and with some caution you’re basically healed. Your destiny at this point is up to you. You can go, if that’s what you want. But I don’t think it is, because I believe you still want help with your memory loss, as well as trying to recall as much as you can about your life.”
“Oh, you mean I want to remember things like how to repair a hernia?”
“It’s all in there,” she said, tapping her own head. “Like you’ve been told. Unless you missed your session that day, procedural things aren’t normally lost. Life things are. And, as you already know, you do still have a little bit of head-banging going on after the surgery. But that’s not even significant at this point. Your attitude is, though.”
“Head-banging
