Free The Forgotten Room by Karen White

over.”
    â€œOh,” I said, the skillet sliding to the floor with a thud as my hands reached for my hair. My comb had been dislodged while I’d slept and I was almost grateful for the lack of a mirror in my attic room.
    My gaze moved to his chart and the pen in his hand and I suddenly remembered who I was and who he was. Trying to muster as much authority as I could with my hair half-hanging down my back and my eyes still puffy with sleep, I approached the bed. “Excuse me, Captain. But what are you doing? No one is supposed to mark on your chart except for medical personnel . . .”
    I stopped as I reached his side, realizing the source of the scratching noise. The page had been flipped over to the blank side, but instead of an empty sheet of paper, elegant strokes of a pen like the gossamer threads of a web now filled the middle of it. Leaning closer, I recognized a remarkable likeness of my own face.
    â€œYou’re very good,” I said, my admiration superseding my need to reassert myself as a medical professional.
    His hand began to tremble, the exertion of sitting up and sketching too much for his weakened body. I took the chart from him and settled him back against his pillow, already knowing that I would meticulously copy everything onto a clean chart so I could keep the sketch. I told myself it was so Dr. Greeley wouldn’t see it and make conjectures wherenone should be, but there was something intimate and familiar about the way Captain Ravenel had drawn my face, something
raw
. And I remembered again the first time he’d looked at me, and how it seemed as if he knew me.
    â€œYou saved my leg,” he said quietly, moving his foot under the sheet.
    I moved aside the sheet to examine the wound that I had cleaned and rebandaged the night before. The adhesive was loose, telling me that Nurse Hathaway had also already examined the wound, but I needed to see for myself. Pushing aside the bandage, I was amazed by what I saw. Instead of the red inflamed skin around the sutures that I’d grown used to seeing, it was merely pink now, a thin scab already beginning to form. If I’d believed in miracles, I would have said that I had just witnessed one. Or maybe this soldier’s strength of will was more powerful than any medicine.
    I replaced the bandage and the sheet. “I wish I could take credit, but I can’t. It was a group effort by all the nurses and doctors at Stornaway—”
    â€œIt was you,” he said, gently cutting me off.
    I started to protest, but he said, “When I was first brought here, I remember you. It was raining . . .” He closed his eyes and I waited as I remembered, too.
    â€œYou were soaking wet,” he said slowly, his eyes still closed. “And it made your clothing transparent.”
    I sucked in my breath, disturbed and titillated all at the same time. He spoke to me as if we were old acquaintances, as if familiarity was taken for granted. As if a mention of my transparent dress could be said with the same tone of voice as he might use to tell me that I had a crumb on my chin.
    He opened his eyes and I saw there were brown flecks in the marsh green depths, as if even his eye color couldn’t be simple and straightforward. “There was a man, too. A disagreeable man if I’m rememberingcorrectly. You were defying him and saying you would take over my care.”
    I straightened my back, determined to be seen as not a woman, but a professional. “I’m a doctor, and I thought your leg could be saved. And besides, you asked me to.”
    His lopsided smile would have appeared boyish on another face, but there was nothing boyish about Captain Cooper Ravenel. “Do you always do what you’re asked?”
    â€œHardly.” I moved back from the bed, determined to put space between us. “I’ve written to your family in Charleston to let them know of your injury and where you are.