all the possible side effects of the surgery: coronary thrombosis, hemorrhaging, seizures, paralysis, loss of life.
But not a word about becoming a vegetable. Or about having her organs harvested.
There, you see, C.B.?
she thought, signing the forms.
It’s perfectly safe.
“Now let’s get you on the gurney,” the nurse said. She helped Briddey onto it, covered her with a white blanket, clipped an oximeter onto her finger, inserted an IV line in the back of her other hand, and hooked up a bag of saline.
“Do you know if Trent’s here yet?” Briddey asked her.
“I’ll go check,” she said, and went out, only to return a moment later with a distinguished-looking man. “This is Dr. Verrick, who’ll be doing your surgery,” she told Briddey, and to him: “This is Ms. Flannigan.”
Thank goodness C.B. isn’t here. Or Maeve,
Briddey thought. Because his expensive suit and gold Rolex watch fit C.B.’s picture of Celebrity Plastic Surgeon perfectly, and his hair, with a touch of gray at the temples, was even more neatly combed than Trent’s.
But his manner was warm and reassuring, and he seemed genuinely pleased she and Trent were having the EED done. “I can guarantee it will add a whole new dimension to your relationship,” he told her. He took her through the procedure, telling her just what was going to happen and explaining how the EED worked. “I’m going to do yours first, and then Mr. Worth’s. Do you have any questions, Ms. Flannigan?”
“Yes. How long will it take?”
“The procedure takes approximately an hour, but most of that time is spent in imaging. The surgery itself—”
“No, I meant how long after the surgery before Trent and I will be able to sense each other’s feelings? Before we’ll know whether it worked?”
“There’s no need to worry about
that,
” he said. “You and Mr. Worth scored exceptionally high on the compatibility and empathetic-intelligence tests. I’ll see you in the operating room.” He smiled down at her, pleased. “Excellent,” he said, patted the gurney, and left before she could ask him again.
She asked the nurse instead.
“It generally takes twenty-four hours after the surgery for patients to establish contact,” the nurse said.
Which meant she’d have to go on lying for two more days. “Does it ever happen sooner than that?” she asked hopefully.
“No, the edema—the swelling—has to go down and the anesthetic has to leave your system first. But Dr. Verrick considers you an excellent candidate for the EED, so don’t worry.”
But that was easier said than done, especially when the nurse produced an electric razor. “You’re not going to shave my head, are you?” Briddey asked, remembering what C.B. had said about her hair growing back white.
“Those beautiful red curls? Oh, my, no. Just a tiny patch at the back of your neck.”
To make it easier for the guillotine,
Briddey thought, and must have said it out loud because the nurse said, “The anesthesiologist’s going to give you a mild sedative to relax you.”
But it didn’t relax her in the least. All she could think about was those links C.B. had sent her about people dying during surgery, especially when the anesthesiologist asked her, “Have you ever had an allergic reaction to an anesthetic?”
She intended to tell him no, but the sedative must have kicked in by then because she asked him instead if they were going to put her in a coma and harvest her organs.
“Definitely not,” he said, laughing.
“When can I see Trent?” she asked, but she didn’t hear the answer because she’d fallen asleep right there on the gurney. And she clearly wasn’t supposed to yet because they immediately tried to wake her up, patting the hand that didn’t have the IV on it and saying, “Bridget? Bridget?”
“I’m sorry,” she said blurrily. “I must have dozed off—”
“You’re coming out of the anesthesia,” the voice said, and it was a different nurse. “How
But not a word about becoming a vegetable. Or about having her organs harvested.
There, you see, C.B.?
she thought, signing the forms.
It’s perfectly safe.
“Now let’s get you on the gurney,” the nurse said. She helped Briddey onto it, covered her with a white blanket, clipped an oximeter onto her finger, inserted an IV line in the back of her other hand, and hooked up a bag of saline.
“Do you know if Trent’s here yet?” Briddey asked her.
“I’ll go check,” she said, and went out, only to return a moment later with a distinguished-looking man. “This is Dr. Verrick, who’ll be doing your surgery,” she told Briddey, and to him: “This is Ms. Flannigan.”
Thank goodness C.B. isn’t here. Or Maeve,
Briddey thought. Because his expensive suit and gold Rolex watch fit C.B.’s picture of Celebrity Plastic Surgeon perfectly, and his hair, with a touch of gray at the temples, was even more neatly combed than Trent’s.
But his manner was warm and reassuring, and he seemed genuinely pleased she and Trent were having the EED done. “I can guarantee it will add a whole new dimension to your relationship,” he told her. He took her through the procedure, telling her just what was going to happen and explaining how the EED worked. “I’m going to do yours first, and then Mr. Worth’s. Do you have any questions, Ms. Flannigan?”
“Yes. How long will it take?”
“The procedure takes approximately an hour, but most of that time is spent in imaging. The surgery itself—”
“No, I meant how long after the surgery before Trent and I will be able to sense each other’s feelings? Before we’ll know whether it worked?”
“There’s no need to worry about
that,
” he said. “You and Mr. Worth scored exceptionally high on the compatibility and empathetic-intelligence tests. I’ll see you in the operating room.” He smiled down at her, pleased. “Excellent,” he said, patted the gurney, and left before she could ask him again.
She asked the nurse instead.
“It generally takes twenty-four hours after the surgery for patients to establish contact,” the nurse said.
Which meant she’d have to go on lying for two more days. “Does it ever happen sooner than that?” she asked hopefully.
“No, the edema—the swelling—has to go down and the anesthetic has to leave your system first. But Dr. Verrick considers you an excellent candidate for the EED, so don’t worry.”
But that was easier said than done, especially when the nurse produced an electric razor. “You’re not going to shave my head, are you?” Briddey asked, remembering what C.B. had said about her hair growing back white.
“Those beautiful red curls? Oh, my, no. Just a tiny patch at the back of your neck.”
To make it easier for the guillotine,
Briddey thought, and must have said it out loud because the nurse said, “The anesthesiologist’s going to give you a mild sedative to relax you.”
But it didn’t relax her in the least. All she could think about was those links C.B. had sent her about people dying during surgery, especially when the anesthesiologist asked her, “Have you ever had an allergic reaction to an anesthetic?”
She intended to tell him no, but the sedative must have kicked in by then because she asked him instead if they were going to put her in a coma and harvest her organs.
“Definitely not,” he said, laughing.
“When can I see Trent?” she asked, but she didn’t hear the answer because she’d fallen asleep right there on the gurney. And she clearly wasn’t supposed to yet because they immediately tried to wake her up, patting the hand that didn’t have the IV on it and saying, “Bridget? Bridget?”
“I’m sorry,” she said blurrily. “I must have dozed off—”
“You’re coming out of the anesthesia,” the voice said, and it was a different nurse. “How
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