Frankie's Bride

“What’s her name?” he asks of no one in particular. His voice is a low rumble. It washes over my soul like a balm. I feel him inside me and that can’t be right, but nonetheless I do. I feel him. The EMT with the clipboard has the answers for him.

“Pollyanna Dean. Nineteen. Stab wound to the left side of her abdomen. Weapon still intact. Massive hemorrhaging. Possible internal damage.”

“Tina, have the OR send someone down. There’s no time to move her. Have the blood bank on standby. Kylie, glove up and get some of this blood to the lab for urgent testing. I want her blood type immediately.”

The nurses jump to do his bidding.

“Yes, doctor,” they both say in unison. So, he is the doctor. Hmm. He doesn’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen before. He looks like he is my only hope. He also looks like he’s in pain right now. Actual physical pain and I want to help him, but I can’t. I can’t even help myself.

The EMTs leave and the doctor looks down at me. My pale face is even whiter than the sheet under my head.

“Polly,” he whispers, smoothing my blood-stained hair from my face. It’s such a stark contrast from how he spoke to the others, I melt. “I’m going to save you or die trying. This I promise.” Lightning flashes on his vow. Like a sign from above. Even in the fluorescent light, it illuminates his handsome yet imposing face. He leaves the room, coming back mere seconds later scrubbed and gloved up, ready to work.

Hours go by while he works on me. Hours. He never tires. He removed the knife and placed it in the evidence bag the police brought. He checks for internal damage, finding something. He makes another incision in the upper left portion of my abdomen. He reaches behind my ribs and removes a fist-shaped, purple organ. It squelches as it hits the pan. Is that my ruptured spleen just casually thrown on a tray? The other nurse crashes back into the room, her eyes wide.

“Doctor, her blood type is…well it’s complicated.”

“What the hell do you mean, complicated, Kylie?”

“It’s not a known blood type. The lab says it’s called X. The blood bank doesn’t have it and the universal type isn’t so universal after all.” I’m sorry, what? I have alien blood?

“Son of a bitch. Kylie get a field transfusion kit. Ethan get this shirt sleeve off of me. Start a line in both of us.”

“Doctor?” Ethan asks, confused.

“There’s no time to explain why I know this will work. Get to it.”

‘Yes, sir.” Less than two minutes later, I can feel his hot blood coursing through my veins. How is that possible? He declares his task complete. Somehow, he’s strong enough to give me blood and keep working on me. I’m more than a little bit in awe of him.

He then begins the arduous task of stitching me up. My pulse drops rapidly. A machine blares out my death toles as the power goes out. Now, it’s eerily quiet. No one panics, except me. The doctor abandons his stitching. In the dark, he begins CPR. Like a vortex, I can feel myself drawn back into my body. Lightning crashes again, this time lighting up the darkness. The dutiful doctor looks insane right now, but he’s not giving up. For the first time, I’m not left alone. Not abandoned.

“Live. You have to live,” he chants over and over until I can no longer see him. Then, I am not in the hospital. I look around and see that this has to be Heaven. I want to go back to him. I know he needs me just as much as I need him. I’m drawn back to the here and now.

Ethereal beings float around the massive, gorgeous city-like place. A man wearing golden robes, complete with a key belt, and a shock of white hair with a long white beard, sits behind an ornate desk near what has to be the entrance, if the giant pearl and gold gilded gate is any indication.

Saint Peter.

The Gatekeeper. His face is buried in a big book. A book I know to be the Gospel. Suddenly, he looks up at me.

“Pollyanna Dean? No, no, no. It’s not your time. Back you get.” He ushers me away and suddenly I’m back in my body. My eyes pop open to see the look of sheer determination and concentration on the doctor’s handsome face. He’s sweating, but he doesn’t stop. He’s handsome as hell. He is still pumping away on my chest. I glance at the clock and see that he’s been trying to revive me for over an hour. He hasn’t noticed that I’m breathing yet or that my eyes are open. I’m no longer bleeding, so someone must have finished stitching me up.