the final years of her residency to be a
neurologist and had spent hours regaling the family with
information and stories filled with medical jargon, interesting
case studies and detailed (and boring) explanations of testing and
procedures.
Sibyl told him the year, the
month, the day, the president’s name, the prime minister’s name,
her name, her address and what she ate for breakfast (granola and
fat-free, organic, vanilla yogurt).
“Did you lose consciousness?”
he asked with an admiring (albeit slightly flirtatious) smile at
her recitation.
Sibyl chanced a look at the man
Mrs. Byrne called Mr. Morgan. He was looking now at the paramedic
with narrowed eyes and a jaw clenched so hard Sibyl could see a
muscle jump.
“Five minutes, at least,” Mrs.
Byrne replied helpfully. She’d moved away to let the medic get to
Sibyl and now she stood wringing the bloodied cloth in her hands
and looking…
Sibyl peered closely at
her…
Guilty.
“It’s concerning, you’ll have
to be watched.” The paramedic was cleaning the wound. “Put some ice
on this immediately and keep it on for as long as you can bear it.”
He turned toward the maniac owner of Lacybourne. “I don’t see any
reason to admit her to hospital, she seems lucid and hasn’t lost
any memory. You’ll have to observe her, make sure to wake her
several times in the night –”
“ What! ” Sibyl shouted. “No! I’m
going home.”
“This isn’t home?” The
paramedic looked from her to the crazy man and went on bizarrely,
“That picture in the hall –”
“ This is not her
home,” Mr. Morgan’s baritone voice noted drily.
“I’ll take her home,” Mrs.
Byrne waded in courageously. “Or, my dear, I know we don’t know
each other very well but perhaps you should stay with me tonight.
We’ll come collect your car tomorrow. My cats won’t mind a little
company.”
“She really should rest,” the
other medic was saying while the first one put a bandage on the
side of Sibyl’s forehead.
“I’m leaving,” Sibyl
insisted.
“You’re staying,” the lunatic
put in smoothly.
“ She’s what? ” the
cool brunette snapped, finally losing her arctic
composure.
“No I most certainly am not!”
Sibyl shouted, making her head pound.
“I’ll not have you leave this
house and die in the night from a concussion and open myself up to
your American family suing me for every penny I’ve got,” Mr. Morgan
noted in a calm, even voice.
“I’m not going to die,” Sibyl
snapped.
“You’re not going to leave,” he
returned.
“My parents will not sue,” she
felt the need to add.
“You’re still not going to
leave,” he retorted.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Byrne said.
“You’re staying too,” the lord
of the manor stated.
“ I thought that,” Mrs.
Byrne noted resignedly. She grabbed Sibyl’s hand and patted it
kindly. “I’ll look after you.”
Sibyl turned her eyes to the
older woman and she saw the woman staring at her with a bizarre
intensity.
“I want to go home, Mrs.
Byrne,” Sibyl told her, her tone fervent.
“Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll
all have a good rest and we’ll sort it out in the morning.”
“Not likely.” This, of course,
was noted by the tall, impossibly handsome but utterly mad man who
owned this (from what she could tell from the one room she’d
actually seen) beautiful home.
Sibyl turned beseeching eyes to
the kindly paramedic, thinking maybe even Mrs. Byrne had only a
tentative hold on reality.
“I just want to go home,” she
informed who she hoped would be her saviour.
He seemed to hesitate, clearly
reading the mood in the room, when a radio squawked.
“Got another one,” his
colleague said, pulling the radio from his leg.
“Sorry,” the kindly paramedic
muttered. “Call me tomorrow, my name is Steve. Let me know how
you’re getting on.” Then he winked (definitely flirtatiously which,
of course, was nice and all but didn’t do her any good at the
present moment and further
neurologist and had spent hours regaling the family with
information and stories filled with medical jargon, interesting
case studies and detailed (and boring) explanations of testing and
procedures.
Sibyl told him the year, the
month, the day, the president’s name, the prime minister’s name,
her name, her address and what she ate for breakfast (granola and
fat-free, organic, vanilla yogurt).
“Did you lose consciousness?”
he asked with an admiring (albeit slightly flirtatious) smile at
her recitation.
Sibyl chanced a look at the man
Mrs. Byrne called Mr. Morgan. He was looking now at the paramedic
with narrowed eyes and a jaw clenched so hard Sibyl could see a
muscle jump.
“Five minutes, at least,” Mrs.
Byrne replied helpfully. She’d moved away to let the medic get to
Sibyl and now she stood wringing the bloodied cloth in her hands
and looking…
Sibyl peered closely at
her…
Guilty.
“It’s concerning, you’ll have
to be watched.” The paramedic was cleaning the wound. “Put some ice
on this immediately and keep it on for as long as you can bear it.”
He turned toward the maniac owner of Lacybourne. “I don’t see any
reason to admit her to hospital, she seems lucid and hasn’t lost
any memory. You’ll have to observe her, make sure to wake her
several times in the night –”
“ What! ” Sibyl shouted. “No! I’m
going home.”
“This isn’t home?” The
paramedic looked from her to the crazy man and went on bizarrely,
“That picture in the hall –”
“ This is not her
home,” Mr. Morgan’s baritone voice noted drily.
“I’ll take her home,” Mrs.
Byrne waded in courageously. “Or, my dear, I know we don’t know
each other very well but perhaps you should stay with me tonight.
We’ll come collect your car tomorrow. My cats won’t mind a little
company.”
“She really should rest,” the
other medic was saying while the first one put a bandage on the
side of Sibyl’s forehead.
“I’m leaving,” Sibyl
insisted.
“You’re staying,” the lunatic
put in smoothly.
“ She’s what? ” the
cool brunette snapped, finally losing her arctic
composure.
“No I most certainly am not!”
Sibyl shouted, making her head pound.
“I’ll not have you leave this
house and die in the night from a concussion and open myself up to
your American family suing me for every penny I’ve got,” Mr. Morgan
noted in a calm, even voice.
“I’m not going to die,” Sibyl
snapped.
“You’re not going to leave,” he
returned.
“My parents will not sue,” she
felt the need to add.
“You’re still not going to
leave,” he retorted.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Byrne said.
“You’re staying too,” the lord
of the manor stated.
“ I thought that,” Mrs.
Byrne noted resignedly. She grabbed Sibyl’s hand and patted it
kindly. “I’ll look after you.”
Sibyl turned her eyes to the
older woman and she saw the woman staring at her with a bizarre
intensity.
“I want to go home, Mrs.
Byrne,” Sibyl told her, her tone fervent.
“Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll
all have a good rest and we’ll sort it out in the morning.”
“Not likely.” This, of course,
was noted by the tall, impossibly handsome but utterly mad man who
owned this (from what she could tell from the one room she’d
actually seen) beautiful home.
Sibyl turned beseeching eyes to
the kindly paramedic, thinking maybe even Mrs. Byrne had only a
tentative hold on reality.
“I just want to go home,” she
informed who she hoped would be her saviour.
He seemed to hesitate, clearly
reading the mood in the room, when a radio squawked.
“Got another one,” his
colleague said, pulling the radio from his leg.
“Sorry,” the kindly paramedic
muttered. “Call me tomorrow, my name is Steve. Let me know how
you’re getting on.” Then he winked (definitely flirtatiously which,
of course, was nice and all but didn’t do her any good at the
present moment and further
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