2. Clementine Warren

Clementine Warren

As I walked through the sterile hallways of St. Mercy Hospital, my mind was a tempest of questions, all swirling around my encounter with the patient Leyland Graham. The echo of voices and machines beeping couldn't drown out his voice in my memory—why would he think we were married? And why did he regard me in a way only a man in love would?

The way he watched me with rapt attention, like he’d done it a million times before, had settled somewhere inside of me and taken up residence.

Somewhere it shouldn’t be.

“Dr. Warren?” a nurse called, her voice snapping me back to reality. I gave her my attention and slipped into the role that fit me like a second skin. "Bed three is ready for you.”

Now in the emergency room where I preferred to be, I smiled.

"Thank you, Maria."

I quickly found Mr. Henderson, his anxious eyes searching mine for some shred of hope. He was a middle-aged man with a rare heart condition, and today, we'd discuss his treatment options. As I spoke to him, explaining the procedures with calm clarity, I could feel the weight of his trust in me. I was here, present with him, the dedicated doctor whose every decision could tip the scales of another person's life.

"Any questions?" I asked, my hands folded neatly over the patient's chart.

He shook his head, his gaze steadying. "No, Dr. Warren. I trust you."

I offered him a reassuring smile, one I'd perfected over countless bedside conversations. But even as I moved through my rounds, I couldn’t shake Leyland Graham from my mind.

Trying my best to do it anyway, I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on my job. Each patient required my full attention, my expertise. I was their anchor in this hollow place of beeping monitors and whispered fears. And I would not fail them; I couldn't, not like the doctors had done my sister over ten years ago in this very hospital.

After finishing, I found myself standing in a quiet corner—my head pounding. It was in this little space that I felt a hand gently touch my shoulder.

"Hey," came the deep, familiar voice of James Roker.

Dr. James Roker— my fiancé.

Automatically, I turned, forcing a smile that felt as though it had to travel miles before reaching my lips.

"James," I greeted, nodding at the tall figure beside me.

His piercing dark eyes studied me with concern.

"Did you have lunch yet?" he asked, the clinical nature of our conversation not lost on me.

"Uh, no, not yet," I admitted, glancing at my wristwatch as if surprised by the time.

Lunch was the last thing on my mind.

"Let's grab a bite in the cafeteria. You need to eat."

His tone was gentle but firm, a reminder of the duty we both shared toward self-care, even if it felt obligatory at times.

We walked side by side, the silence between us filled with the unspoken understanding that came with years of companionship. Yet, there was a distance—an emotional gap—that had always been there, bridged by mutual respect and a shared passion for medicine rather than romantic love.

James finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with protectiveness.

"Is everything okay, Clem?"

"Everything's fine," I lied smoothly, the response instinctive.

But my mind rebelled against the word 'fine' because nothing was okay. I had no idea what was wrong but I knew nothing was right.

The cafeteria's dull hum enveloped us as we took our seats, the mundane routine offering no solace from my internal turmoil. Across from me, James discussed the challenging surgery he'd performed, his hands animatedly cutting through the air as he described each precise incision. Normally, I would hang on every word, but today, my thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the web of Leyland's dream life—a life where I was inexplicably central.

His wife?

Me?

He’d been sure it was me and after he pointed out my ring, how it didn’t match my personality, I almost thought we might know one another.

But we didn’t.

I’d never met him before in my life.

"James," I began, hesitating as I searched for the words. "Have you ever felt... connected to a patient?”

He paused, considering my question with a surgeon's precision.

"I care about them all, of course. But it's vital to maintain boundaries. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity," I said quickly, too quickly.

A hint of suspicion flickered in his eyes, and I regretted bringing it up.

"Remember why we're doing this, Clem," he replied after a moment. "Our engagement is not just about us; it's about building something together—our careers, our future."

I nodded, knowing he was right. Our relationship was built on a foundation of shared goals, not the fiery passion that novels often spoke of. Still, Leyland's presence had ignited something within me, a flame that threatened to burn through the carefully constructed layers of my life.

And all it had taken was a simple statement, the one I couldn’t get out of my head.

You can always listen to what belongs to you.

I had to get a grip.

Was I that deprived?

“Can you do me a favor and take on Leyland Graham’s case for me?” he asked, gaining my undivided attention.

“Why?” I questioned without hesitation before I could stop myself.

James and I had traded patients all the time for all kinds of reasons, but why him.

He frowned.

“He’s being discharged soon,” he said slowly, his eyes cutting through me like his favorite scalpel. “Nurse Wilson said he reacted better to you than me. I have another surgery and won’t be able to see him until late but if you could...”

His voice trailed but I understood.

This was about being a good doctor, nothing else. And James was a damn good doctor, not the cocky kind either.

“Okay, yeah, I can handle it.”

He nodded and began to collect his trash.

“Thanks, Clem…” he stopped beside my chair to drop a gentle kiss against my forehead. “I appreciate it and you.”

Never, I love you.

Always, I appreciate you.

“I appreciate you, too,” I murmured, leaning into his kiss until he pulled away and went back to work.

Not wanting to waste more time on unimportant things, I packed up and did the same, somehow saving the last stop of the night for my new patient.

As I approached room three-thirty, my heart rate quickened. I paused outside the door, taking a deep breath to steady myself. This was just another patient, I reminded myself. Nothing more.

I knocked softly before entering. Leyland was sitting up in bed, sketchpad in hand, his gaze intensely fixed on whatever he was drawing.

When he looked up, his eyes flashed with recognition and something else—a warmth that made my chest tighten.

"Dr. Warren," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "I was hoping I'd see you again."

"How are you feeling, Mr. Graham?" I asked, keeping my tone professional as I approached his bedside.

"Better now…” his gaze held mine like nothing I’d ever experienced before. "And please, call me Leyland."

I nodded, focusing on the chart in my hands.

"Leyland," I acknowledged, trying to maintain a professional distance. "I'm here to go over your discharge instructions and follow-up care."

As I spoke, explaining the medications and restrictions he would need to follow, I could feel his eyes on me. There was an intensity to his gaze that made me acutely aware of every movement, every word.

"Is there anything you'd like to ask about your recovery?" I queried, finally meeting his eyes.

Leyland set aside his sketchpad, his expression thoughtful. "Just one thing," he said softly. "In my... dream, or whatever it was, you played the piano. Do you, in real life?"

The question caught me off guard. I felt a chill run down my spine.

“I... yes, I do.”

He smiled, a sad, wistful thing.

The revelation sent a shiver through me. How could he have known about my piano playing? It wasn't something I advertised, just a private passion I pursued in stolen moments.

"I painted you at the piano so many times," Leyland said softly, his eyes distant. "Your fingers were made for it."

I looked down at my hands. The same hands he had apparently dreamed about, painted countless times in a life that never existed.

"Mr. Graham—Leyland," I corrected myself, trying to regain my professional composure. "These vivid imaginings you experienced while in the coma, they're not uncommon. The brain can create incredibly detailed scenarios, pulling from fragments of memories or things we've seen."

But even as I said the words, doubt crept in. How could he have known about the piano? It wasn't exactly common knowledge around the hospital.

Leyland's eyes found mine again, a quiet intensity in them that made my breath catch.

"I understand that, Dr. Warren. But this feels different," he said, his voice low and earnest. "The memories, the feelings - they're so vivid, so real. I can't shake them."

I felt a tug of empathy, mixed with an unsettling sense of curiosity.

"I can only imagine how disorienting that must be," I said softly, unconsciously taking a step closer to his bed.

Leyland's eyes never left mine as he spoke. "In my dream, or vision, or whatever it was - we had a life together. A beautiful life. I knew every freckle on your face, every scar, every laugh line. I knew the sound of your breathing when you slept, the way you'd scrunch your nose when you were concentrating on a difficult piece of music."

His words sent a shiver through me. The level of detail was unsettling, yet strangely captivating. I found myself leaning in, drawn by the intensity of his gaze and the conviction in his voice.

"Leyland," I said softly, "I understand this feels real to you, but—"

"I know," he interrupted, a sad smile playing on his lips. "I know it wasn't real. But it felt real, Clementine. It felt more real than anything I've ever experienced."

The use of my first name startled me. I should have corrected him but something held me back. Instead, I found myself asking, "What else do you remember?"