Dr. Alstadt had finished dressing her thumb. Gently, as though cradling a bird's egg, he fit the glove back onto her hand. His voice came out tired and ragged. "Funny how quickly a person can get used to a miracle. Or how quickly a miracle can come to seem commonplace. If that's what this is, a miracle." He stopped, gave himself a derisory sniff, and for the first time since he had entered the room looked her directly in the eye. "See what I mean? 'If that's what this is.' The problem is we're in a hospital. Not exactly an environment conducive to quiet reflection. Well, Carol Ann Page," he said, and he smacked his knees as he stood up. He told her he would be willing to discharge her that afternoon, but that the hospital would be more comfortable if she would consent to stay until Sunday morning so they could watch the area of the injury for any signs of tissue rejection.
Those were his exact words.
The hospital would be more comfortable.
The area of the injury.
When she agreed to remain overnight, he returned her hand to her stomach and said, "That's my girl." He muttered so softly that she wondered if he realized he had spoken. As he left the room she caught the briefest glimpse of the nape of his neck, where a hundred threads of light were twisting like algae in an underwater current.
Excerpted from The Illumination by Kevin Brockmeier. Copyright © 2011 by Kevin Brockmeier. Excerpted by permission of Pantheon Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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