The Sky We Seek (Love and Other Dreams #2)

Chapter 11

Elina

"We’ve already discussed this, Maria." It still feels unnatural for me to address the seventy-year-old woman sitting in the examination chair by her first name. Even though I’ve been treating patients on my own for almost a week now. "Sweets are poison for you."

The gray-haired lady with the low ponytail shrugs. "You only live once."

I rest my hand on her calloused fingers. "But there can be serious consequences if you don’t watch your blood sugar levels." It’s important that she understands and starts taking care of herself.

"I do watch it," she retorts, looking at me indignantly through her thick glasses. "My readings are fine."

"Yes, because the day before your last blood test, you exclusively ate sauerkraut," I state, confident in my assessment of the situation.

The poorly healed wounds on her forearms speak volumes.

She lowers her gaze guiltily and fiddles with her knitted vest.

"So once again." I repeat the potential consequences of her eating habits in a serious tone. "Kidney failure and circulatory disorders that worst case could even lead to amputation." I conclude my monologue with a pleading look.

Suddenly, her eyes well up. "I don’t want that."

"Then take your medication, monitor your blood sugar regularly, and avoid sweets." I nod at her and rise from my chair.

Maria has been in the treatment room for nearly half an hour. That’s clearly too long. More patients are waiting outside, and her diabetes—although unpleasant—is far from challenging. Just like the two children with measles, the innkeeper's vision problems, or the mayor’s hemorrhoids that I’ve treated in the past few days. In the Vienna clinic, I had routine cases too. But at least once a day, I'd get an unusual case requiring me to exert my brain.

That was great. I felt so alive and valued. Because I was able to help when even my colleagues sometimes didn't know what to do.

But here, everything is different.

Maria clears her throat. "Thank you, Elina."

Snapped out of my thoughts, I look up at her and see her pulling out a small round bottle from her pocket.

Another schnapps?

I do my best to act grateful when I accept the high-proof beverage, which would burn the throat of any normal person. At least if she gives it to me, she can’t drink it herself. "See you next week. You can do it," I say afterward.

Dejected, she leaves the treatment room. I walk to the desk, open the lower cabinet, and place the bottle of schnapps inside. It’s in good company there. Although I don’t understand this tradition of showing gratitude with alcohol, it still makes me smile. The villagers are glad I’m here. They’re grateful for my presence even though I haven’t done anything special.

Before I can call in the next patient, my phone vibrates in the pocket of my doctor’s coat.

It’s my mom. Finally! I swallow my disappointment that she hasn’t reached out even once during the past two weeks. Surely, she must have had good reasons, so I answer the call with a cheerful greeting.

"Elina, we need your help." She sounds tense.

Immediately, my smile fades. Of course, she’s not calling to check in with me. She has other worries that consume her. How silly to hope it would be about me this time? "What do you need me to do for Aaron?"

"We’ve pleaded with him for days, put pressure on and painted scenarios of terror about his future." She exhales heavily. "It's done. He’s ready to undergo another round of therapy."

His fifth. And hopefully his last. "I’ll look for the best facility, no problem," I say, knowing that’s what she expects from me. In my mind, I immediately start thinking about where we could place him. "Will the health insurance cover the costs?"

Silence lingers between us. Then I hear her sob.

So the answer is no.

I want nothing more than for her to stop crying. "I don’t have many expenses here in Tyrol. I’m sure I can contribute a little," I say promptly even though I know it will get me into trouble. I have a student loan, and the installments from the past few months are overdue due to my unemployment. But if it allows me to receive a little bit of love from my parents, I’m willing to make the sacrifice .

"That would be amazing," she replies, her voice hoarse. "Let me know if you find out anything."

I nod even though she can’t see it. But I can’t speak right now because my mother’s despair has transferred to me—as it always does. I suffer along with her, and at the same time, I feel ashamed of my selfish longing for her love. Aaron is the one who needs help right now, not me.

Suddenly, the door to the treatment room swings open with a bang, and Clara rushes in. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are wide open. "Quick, we need you," she blurts out breathlessly.

This distraction is just what I need. I hate the same dark place I find myself in whenever I’m confronted with my family’s problems.

"I’ll take care of it," I quickly tell my mother and end the call. Then I turn to Clara. "What happened?"

She looks panicked.

I can feel adrenaline starting to course through my body. I rush to my feet. Swiftly, I reach for the doctor’s bag and join Clara. She grabs my forearm and pulls me down the hallway. I only vaguely notice the curious gazes of the patients in the waiting room.

"A laceration," the medical assistant informs me, and my excitement subsides.

A laceration?

If the patient made it this far—and obviously he did—it can’t be that bad.

Nevertheless, I follow Clara to the reception. The patient sits on the office chair behind the half-height counter. Next to him stands a worried-looking middle-aged woman with messy curls. I circle the chair to approach him .

It’s Noah. I see pain in his expression. But also surprise. He stares at me with wide eyes, and it’s quite possible I’m doing the same.

He’s damn pale. His lips tremble.

My gaze moves downward. In his lap, he holds a blood-soaked piece of fabric.

I lift my hand completely by instinct but manage to stop myself just before it rests on his shoulder. "We’ll handle this, don’t worry."

He nods, struggling to keep his eyes open. "It’s just a minor thing," he mutters nervously.

He should let me be the judge of that. "Clara, please bring the wheelchair," I say, my voice firm and matter-of-fact, as befits a professional.

Despite Noah’s protests, we lift him into the transport aid together. Clara’s hands tremble uncontrollably.

"Can you inform Helene, please?" I ask her even though I’m confident I can handle this on my own.

She nods. "I already did. She had to leave urgently and wanted you to take the case."

Strange. Last week, she lectured me about not treating emergencies alone, and now she’s giving me complete freedom without even seeing the patient once?

Could it be that I’ve made such a good impression on her in the past few days that I've earned her trust?

Yes, that must be it.

With a warm feeling in my chest, I nod to Clara. "Let’s go, then."

I start pushing the wheelchair. Noah remains silent, emitting only occasional low groans. Upon reaching the treatment room, I ask him to take a seat in the examination chair, spread a sterile cloth on the table, and turn on the lamp of the magnifying glass.

"Please place your hand here," I say, trying to sound as professional as possible.

Instead of following my instructions, he shoots me a warning look. "It looks bad."

What?

Does he think I’m afraid of a little blood?

"I’ve operated on accident victims impaled on wooden fences," I reply with a smirk although that’s not entirely true. I’ve only assisted, but he doesn’t need to know that. The important thing is that he allows me to treat him. "Come on."

He reluctantly lifts his arm and positions his right hand on the table, which is still wrapped up in the dripping-wet dark-red towel. Glad that I can now focus solely on my work, I push the fabric aside.

Gaping wound edges and contamination from wood splinters. He must have been working in the forest with heavy equipment. That would suit his rough demeanor. I won’t be able to fully assess the depth and severity of the wound until I clean it.

For a moment, I look up and find myself staring where I shouldn’t. Directly into his dark eyes. "How did this happen?"

"Saw." That’s his brief answer.

Very enlightening.

Just as I’m about to inquire further, he leans back in his chair and rests his head against the headrest. He'd better not pass out. Judging by the condition of his towel, he has lost a fair amount of blood, but a man of his size should be able to handle it.

Mentally, I postpone my questions about the accident and continue with my work. "When was your last tetanus vaccination?"

"Two years ago." He audibly exhales. I pretend not to notice his grumpiness. Neither his nor my mood is relevant right now. "Can you move your thumb?" I continue.

He nods. Very good. That means the damage shouldn't be too severe. Probably just a few injured blood vessels that I will suture later. In a few days, he will be back to normal.

I touch his fingertip. "Can you feel this?" I ask, and at that moment, I become the one who feels something. A tingling sensation as delicate as snowflakes melting on my skin.

Oh no. Please, not now.

He seems unaffected. "Yes," he says, nodding in confirmation.

"Good," I clear my throat to regain my composure. "Looks like you got lucky."

He furrows his brow. "Aren’t you going to clean the wound already?"

Ah, so someone knows about wound care. Still, I’m certain he’s not a doctor. If he were, he would have already told me everything I need to know. "Are you taking any medication?"

"I’m perfectly healthy," he hurriedly replies as I turn away to retrieve a syringe and anesthetics from the cabinet.

"That’s obvious." I lower my gaze to his injury only to raise it again immediately. Surely, he knows what I’m trying to convey, but he doesn’t react. Focused, I draw up the local anesthetic and flick the syringe to get rid of excess air bubbles. "You’ll feel a little prick."

I reach for his hand again. Once more, there’s that tingling sensation. And the longer I keep touching him, the more intense it becomes.

What my body is doing is so incredibly inappropriate. He’s my patient. Even if he weren’t and even if I were to give in to my attraction, it’s more than obvious that Noah has no interest in a conversation. Or in me.

With a pounding heart, I place five perfect stitches around his injury to spare him pain during the treatment. Then I grab the cleansing solution and finally turn to my medical bag. This is the perfect opportunity to use the magnifying glasses with the built-in light that my colleagues at the clinic gave me as a parting gift. Unlike traditional medical equipment, they’re super stylish. The temples are adorned with rhinestones, and the LED lamp is currently the best available on the market. I could never have afforded it myself.

Proudly, I put on the glasses. When I turn to face Noah, I notice a crooked grin on his lips.

Is Mr. Trying-to-look-unassuming-in-a-checkered-shirt laughing at me?

Shaking my head, I focus on his wound to clean it. Considering the sheer quantity and size of the wood splinters, it’s not an easy task. While I work, my gaze occasionally drifts to Noah’s face.

Of course, not to admire his attractive features, but solely to assess his general condition. He’s pale; he was already like that when he arrived. It’s probably due to the blood loss, but my gut feeling tells me that something else is wrong with him too. I can’t pinpoint it, but my instinct as a doctor rarely deceives me .

"Do you feel nauseous? Dizzy?" I ask, trying to sound as inconspicuous as possible.

It seems he doesn’t like to talk. At least not with me.

"This is going to take a while," I cautiously pluck another wood splinter from the wound. "And I won’t stop asking." So you better tell me right away what’s going on , I add silently. Because one thing is clear: as his doctor, I can’t let him go until I’m certain he’s okay.