Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

“I’ve got her,” I tell the nurse, and then I’m off, wheeling the bed toward the elevator. “Tell Dr. Simmons it’s OR six.”

He nods and jets off in the other direction.

“Mrs. Parks, can you hear me?”

Amanda groans, nodding subtly, and my heart catches in my throat. She’s bruised, bloody, and weakening by the minute.

And it’s not the first time I’ve seen her this way.

“My name is Dr. Weston.”

“Weston…” she groans, her brows pinching together, but she doesn’t say anything more.

“Do you know where you are?”

“The hospital,” she murmurs as we wheel into the elevator. I punch the number for the seventh floor.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

She attempts a swallow. “Car accident.”

“Yes. You’re okay, Mrs. Parks. I’m taking you to the operating room. We’re going to look into that pain you’re feeling, okay?”

She nods, sweat beading on her forehead as another wave of pain takes her under. She groans, curling in on herself.

“I’m going to administer general anesthesia for this procedure. Do you understand?”

A weak nod.

“It’ll put you right to sleep and you won’t feel a thing,” I tell her when we hit the operating floor. I’m met by another team of nurses who take over the bed, and I rush alongside them still talking to Amanda. “Dr. Simmons will take care of you. You’re in good hands.”

Amanda’s eyes creak open when we fly into operating room six, and the team gets to work prepping her for the laparotomy. Through the chaos, her golden eyes lock on mine.

And then, she bolts upright. “Greg?!”

The nurses immediately help her lie back down as she covers what I can only imagine is a pretty nasty headache with her hand.

Her left hand.

Her left hand that’s missing a small gold band it used to wear.

She grimaces as they help her down, and once she’s recovered, her eyes open into mere slits.

“Hi, Mrs. Parks,” I say with a smile, trying not to overanalyze that missing ring. Maybe it’s getting cleaned. Maybe that piece of shit husband of hers is finally upgrading her after all these years.

“What are you doing he—oohhh!”

Amanda writhes on the table, her skin ashen, eyes pinched in pain.

With the calm efficiency only years of training can provide, I prepare the Propofol for IV as one of the nurses preps the oxygen mask.

“It’s okay, everything will be alright. Just try to relax. I’m going to help with the pain,” I tell her. A nurse covers her mouth with the mask as I administer the drug through the IV.

Amanda slowly stops writhing, her eyes popping open wide and finding mine before her eyelids become heavier and heavier.

“Greg…”

Another flash of that night, of my name on her lips just like that…

“I’m here, Mrs. Parks,” I promise through the knot in my throat.

She smiles faintly, her hand reaching up for me but falling limp soon after.

“Glad to see you’re still as hot as you were at eighteen,” she mutters.

A surprised laugh bubbles out of me, and as if she realizes what she’s said, her eyes go wide. But the Propofol takes her under before she can speak, and then it’s just the soft sounds of machines whirring and nurses buzzing around the room.

One of the nurses, Whitney, smirks at me as Dr. Simmons rushes in for surgery.

“You better believe I’m getting that story out of you when this all settles down,” she says, one eyebrow arching up.

I try to smile back, try to make light of the situation, but all emotion is frozen as I take in the sight of Amanda sleeping soundly now. Her lips, as plump and bowed as I remember them, are parted slightly, stained with blood, and her bruised eyes are closed, chest swelling slowly with each new breath.

I swallow, taking her hand in mine even though I know she can’t feel it.

“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper.

And I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself.

CHAPTER ONE

AMANDA

Everything comes in flashes.

A flash of white. A flash of a ghost from my past staring over me.

Greg Weston.

“Mrs. Parks, we’ve just completed surgery. You’re okay. I’m bringing you off the anesthesia slowly, but I’m administering morphine to help with pain while you rest. Do you understand?”

I think I nod. Or maybe groan.

They make me eat ice chips.

And then, I pass out again.

Another flash, the room dimmer now, a machine beeping somewhere in the distance. The television is on. Evening news. They make me eat ice chips again and take small sips of water.

And then I’m sleeping, dreaming, and in the dream, Greg Weston is eighteen again. He’s standing in my kitchen, staring at me the way he always did.

The way that told me he saw me.

Really saw me.

The next flash is blinding, a rush of nurses checking vitals and encouraging me to drink water while a doctor I don’t recognize explains what happened in surgery. I only catch glimpses of what he says.