Concussive

By Kelsey Day

Dr. Noble Gaelin didn't suspect anyone of nefarious deeds until his accident in the Parkville Neurologic Center TMS room.

 

Strangely enough, banging his head against the transcranial magnetic stimulation helmet sets him on a path of paranormal activity that no one else is experiencing. With a heightened sense of his patients' needs, the good doctor can treat beyond the typical neurosurgery. And that makes him uneasy.

 

As Noble comes to understand the nuances of his new skill set, he tries to avoid accessing the minds of those closest to him. He has a precocious niece to protect from this gift. But as all superheroes know, with great power comes incredible opportunity for misinterpretation.

 

Kelsey Day welcomes readers to join a thought-provoking foray into a brain surgeon's psychological nightmare in her second novella, Concussive. Kelsey's debut novel, She's Not Broken, won a literary fiction award in 2019. Neither of these works is light reading or meant for young audiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dragon Hoard Press
• Release date: Dec 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737812920

Kelsey Day

Kelsey Day is an established author living in Central Florida, where tropical temperatures and boundaryless neighbors offer endless ideas for stories about the grittier side of the human psyche. 

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

This darkening confusion explained why everyone prevents doctors from moving heavy equipment. Head injuries. The hard thunk struck the back of Noble Gaelin’s head with such force that it startled him into a bad memory.

In the memory, the young Noble Gaelin solidly impacted a car stop. His frontal lobe cracked the concrete when the burger joint, where he and Sally Ann Dearing worked, exploded in Culver City. That accident had been just as surprising as this Monday morning’s trauma, but far more tragic.

Basically, in 1988, the Clinquant monitoring device had gone bad on Dailie Burger’s ice cream machine. It had smoldered while no one noticed.

The vivacious and kissable Sally Ann worked in the kitchen after closing, cleaning a grease trap that the manager had failed to shut off. Noble carried out bags of trash, carrying out a bet that he could take six of the bulging thirteen-gallon bags at once. Typical eighteen-year-old shenanigans.

The explosion rocked the small California town, as well as the lad who planned to propose to Sally Ann before heading to college the following week.

Noble still had the ring.

Thirty-three years later, with stars speckling the black field engulfing him on the way down, Noble shouted to his office staff for help. Occipital lobe, he called, instead of the word help. Toward the closed patient room door, he yelled, Definitely affected the occipital, Carla. Can’t see color now. I’m gonna need my head and feet elevated at least thirty minutes.

This wasn’t the first time Noble had found the boom of the transcranial magnetic stimulator (TMS) out of position this month, but it was the first time he’d also found the patient chair too far to the left of the equipment’s pedestal. That meant this Monday morning he adjusted not only the heavy beam and thick, helmet-like medical device that hung from the arm, but he also scooted the captain’s chair back into place.

That was his downfall.

By moving the chair, which involved bending, reaching, and pulling, he managed to smack the back and top of his head into the hanging edge of the TMS helmet. He nailed it with force that should have cracked his scalp open.

In the hall outside, where rubber-soled shoes squeaked along a pristine tile floor, Carla Welck, R.N., looked up from a tablet she had just wiped down. She heard Noble’s voice, raised, and speaking gibberish, from TMS room two.

Eerie start to a Monday, she thought. She had no reason to think anyone would have moved furniture or medical equipment to affect this morning’s incident.

The Neurologic Center of Parkville, located in quaint and quiet Parkville, Missouri, was owned and operated by the successful Noble Gaelin, M.D. For a reason Carla had yet to guess, her boss had gone into one of their two most popular treatment rooms this fine February morning, prior to the patient’s arrival, and repositioned one of the two transcranial magnetic stimulation arms. When Carla stepped into the room, she saw Noble crumpled in front of the sterile patient chair over which the TMS boom should have been hovering.

Carla paused for a second to take in the hydrogen peroxide-scented scene. Is this it? she asked herself. Recovering quickly, she used the right words to call for help.

She dropped to her knees beside Noble but had the presence of mind to set the medical tablet on the patient chair, not the floor. She’d already brought up the first patient record of the day; it displayed Mia Saxon’s name and the most recent visit history menu tabs on the screen.

Doctor, can you hear me? she asked, checking for a pulse.

He groaned.

She blew out a breath of relief. Holy crap, Doc, what did you do?

Elevate...

Although the word sounded scrambled, she recognized the vowels in the three syllables.

Yeah, yeah, lemme elevate your feet.

What’s happened? a nurse gasped from the doorway.

People were finally responding to Dr. Gaelin’s gibberish yelling. The proper blur of activity ensued. Someone pushed a pillow under Noble’s head and a pillow under his feet. Someone shone a pen light in his eyes to gauge his reaction. His partner in the clinic, Tomias Gustavos, M.D., came in to assess the situation and pronounced him safe to move to the exam room.

I don’t need an exam room, Noble fussed, but the team around him heard nonsense.

Temporal is involved, Dr. Gustavos diagnosed. No-belle, tell me how many years you have.

Fifty-one.

The team heard the right number of syllables and Carla looked to Dr. Gustavos with concern. Is this it? her doe-brown eyes asked him with alarm.

The bearded doctor, twice her age and married twice as many times, offered her a placating smile to dismiss the worry. We get an MRI to check for damage, but I think he still suffers the blow. He has bumped his head. Nothing more. See, he wants to sit up already.

Should we let him? she asked.

Of course, no. But you do not stop this man.

Noble placed his hand on the patient chair, his fingers lighting on the touchscreen of the tablet Carla had forgotten there. Menus opened and Mia Saxon’s patient information appeared in quick succession across the screen as Noble sat up.

I just want the headaches to stop, a woman said. Above the noises of hurry and scurry in the room, a middle-aged woman with a waver in her voice spoke directly to Noble. Her anguish hit him in the gut, crashing a wave of her depression, her despair, and her exhaustion from chronic pain—her fear of acute pain’s random yet frequent visits—over his body.

Tears welled in his eyes.

Doctor? Carla spoke.

Dr. Gustavos responded, but Carla was waving her hand slowly in front of Noble’s face. Can you see my hand? she asked.

Yes, he answered clearly.

Are you in pain? Carla asked.

A bit.

We’re taking you to the MRI. Do you need a sedative?

A seda...what? No, no. I’m fine.

You’re crying, Doc, Carla explained.

Where’s Mia Saxon? Noble asked.

This surprised Carla. She stammered, Your first patient? She’s in the waiting room.

I could swear I heard her say something.

Dr. Gustavos turned to glance at the doorway, a smirk curving the left side of his mouth barely upward behind his gray beard. Seeing no one had errantly brought a patient to the room, he turned back to his colleague with nothing but concern returning to his face. He looked down on Noble from a position of authority. We will get you the MRI. All will be fine.

CHAPTER 2

By Wednesday afternoon , Noble stood in his kitchen, telling his younger sister he regretted having policies in place that prevented him returning to work within a week of a head trauma. His flannel button-down shirt hung untucked from blue jeans in a comfortable rebellion against his work uniform. Paired with comfortable moccasins and the steaming cup of coffee in his hand, the ensemble exuded the persona of one who is content to be off work.

I feel perfectly fine, he groused into the hazelnut-scented mug.

Perfectly fine. Yet you’re drinking coffee at four o’clock in the afternoon, Juniper said. She currently leaned into the kitchen island with a pale blue tracksuit hugging her curves in her own aura of comfort. My healthy big brother would never drink coffee past three-thirty.

Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, he muttered. Rather than wait for her response, he turned to a brushed nickel sink and poured the mug’s contents down the drain. He tapped the top of the faucet to induce the stream and rinsed the mug and drain while she continued her worry for him.

Are you sure Gustave cleared you to be home today?

Please don’t get in the habit of calling him that. He placed the mug in an empty spot in the dishwasher and re-closed its door. Tommy cleared me. I’m totally fine. You wanna feel the bump on my head? He leaned toward the shiny wooden island in the center of the kitchen as if she could have reached across it, to feel the back of his head.

Being a full six inches shorter than he, Juniper would have needed him to sit down on one of the kitchen’s multiple wooden bar stools to perform the inspection.

Not sure I’d tell much through all that hair. You wear it like a teenager addicted to gel.

He grinned at her. Last week, a patient compared me to Simon Baker.

The actor?

Yeah. He was still grinning. This amused him greatly.

Coz that’s what your ego needs, she snarked.

"Hey, can I help