by JoAnn Ross
“Yes.” Because she hated seeing him look so disturbed, Molly reached out and put her hand on his arm. “It really will all work out, Reece.”
He covered her hand with his own. “I sure as hell hope you’re right, Molly. Because if you’re not—”
“I am,” she said quickly, refusing to believe otherwise.
Choosing Lena and Reece to be her baby’s parents was the right thing to do. Just as leaving them alone to raise their daughter without worrying about her feelings or her possible interference was equally the right—and only—thing to do.
Molly continued to tell herself this as she held baby Grace, clad in a long flowing white lace christening gown that Theo proudly told them had been worn by three generations of Longworth babies, including Reece. Beside her, sitting erect and proud in the wheelchair he vowed to soon discard, Alex Kovaleski, the sleeping infant’s godfather, accepted responsibility for the development and safeguarding of the grace given at the holy sacrament.
Afterward, while Grace continued to sleep blissfully, Molly exchanged polite conversation with Father O’Connor, the parish priest, managed to force down a piece of too-sweet white cake, and toast the occasion with strawberry punch.
Then she slipped away from the festivities, climbed into the medical van the order had equipped for her and drove away, headed for Arizona.
Molly hoped that in the wide-open spaces of the Navajo reservation, she’d be able to throw herself into a new medical mission that would renew her faith and strengthen her wavering commitment to the religious life.
And, although she knew the request to be self-centered, she also desperately prayed that somehow she’d manage to overcome the suffocating guilt that had been eating away at her ever since she’d abandoned her child.
Part Two
Chapter Twelve
1991
The vast Navajo Indian reservation, stretching across parts of three states, was always in need of additional medical facilities. Those Native Americans willing to accept western medical care often had to drive miles for treatment. Which was why, when Father Francis Pius Casey inherited several acres of prime Arizona ranch land and donated the proceeds of the sale of the property to the Church—which were used to build a clinic/hospital in the remote area north of Canyon de Chelly—the event was much celebrated. In reward for his generosity, the bishop promptly upgraded Father Casey’s status to Monsignor.
Molly always enjoyed her stops at the hospital. Dr. Joseph Salvatore, not long out of a ER residency, was working a three-year stint for the National Health Service and Bureau of Indian Affairs to pay off his extensive medical school bills. He was experienced enough to provide excellent care, yet the ink on his degree still wet enough that he hadn’t grown disenchanted with his medical career.
He’d been with the Navajos for the past nine months, and although at first he’d been greeted with the suspicion always accorded outsiders—especially those connected with the government—his unfailing good humor and genuine concern for the people’s well-being had eventually overcome most of the skeptic’s doubts and now, Dr. Joe, as he was called by his patients, had been accepted by the community.
He was a good doctor and a nice man. In many ways, he reminded Molly of Reece. It had also not escaped her attention that his thick-lidded dark eyes, which gave him a sexy, perpetually sleepy look, thick black hair and lean muscular physique earned by running five miles a day had captured the interest of the young women in the area. And older ones looking for a husband for their daughters, as well.
“Welcome back to God’s country,” he greeted her when she arrived at the hospital one snowy autumn day after a recent visit to LosAngeles. “How was Lotusland?”
“Still there.”
“Damn. I keep waiting for it to fall into the sea.” A native New Yorker, he was no fan of Los Angeles.
“It’s a lovely city,” Molly defended her hometown. “And the people are friendly.”
Lena and Reece had been particularly friendly, but had treated her more like a guest than a member of the family. Although the vacation had gone well, and heaven help her, Molly lived for these brief visits with Grace, it seemed as if the adults had all been walking around on eggshells.
“Except when they start gunning each other on the freeways during rush hour,” Joe countered. “Whoever named that place the City of Angels definitely had one screwed-up sense of humor.”
“At least the weather was definitely better.” She looked out at the swirling snow that had escalated to blizzard conditions, and found it difficult to believe that only two days ago she’d been basking in the warmth of the California sunshine.
“Constant sunshine would get boring.”
Molly didn’t hear him. She was still thinking back on her visit to the Longworth home. Although Grace, fortunately, hadn’t picked up on the occasional tension between her mother and her aunt, Alex and Theo had. Separately, they had questioned Molly. To both of them, she’d insisted everything was fine.
Molly hadn’t admitted that lately she’d begun to feel as if she were trapped inside a cage. A cage she couldn’t escape because she’d built the unyielding iron bars herself.
The strident sound of a horn blared from outside the hospital, yanking her from her depressing thoughts. Through the driving snow, Molly viewed the familiar sight of a pickup truck.
The driver, a Navajo sheepherder she remembered trying—and failing—to talk into getting a flu shot, leapt out of the driver’s seat and came rushing into the emergency room.
“Dr. Joe, Sister Molly, you’ve got to come help my boy.”
Joe already had his jacket on and was headed out the door. Molly was close behind him. “What happened?”
“His horse spooked in the storm and fell on him. He’s unconscious. And he looks bad, Doc. Real bad.”
John Chee had refused a flu shot because he was suspicious of white medicine; he preferred the ancient, traditional healing ways of the ha tathli, or medicine man. That he’d bring his only son here for treatment suggested a potentially fatal injury.
David Chee lay in the back of the truck, strapped to a board. The traditional Navajo blanket covering him held a thick coating of snow. Fortunately, the wool, even wet, proved a good insulator.
The last time Molly had seen the eight-year-old boy had been six weeks ago when she’d played a pickup game of baseball with a bunch of reservation kids. David had been the pitcher.
At the time she’d been impressed by the strength of his arm and the sturdy, robust body that came from hard work and miles of daily walking herding his family’s sheep. Right now, unfortunately, David looked anything but robust.
Together the three of them managed to get the boy out of the truck and into the clinic. There were, Molly realized immediately, the expected broken bones. But there were also the unmistakable signs of internal bleeding.
“His blood pressure’s dropping like a rock,” Joe said grimly. “There’s no chance of getting a helicopter from Winslow or Flagstaff in this storm. We’re going to have to cut him open here.”
“Here?”
During her three years on the reservation, Molly had witnessed procedures that, under normal conditions, should have been done in a fully equipped trauma center. Unfortunately, in an area as remotely populated as the vast Navajo reservation, such a hospital was out of the question.
“The kid’s a goner if we don’t,” he said, as if reading her mind. “It’s the only chance we’ve got.”
“What will we do for an anesthesiologist?”
“Actually, we’re in luck. Peter Nelson dropped by on his way from Winslow to Window Rock. He didn’t want to drive in this storm, so he’s staying out at my place. I’ll call him right now.”
Joe placed the call and quickly announced that Dr. Nelson was on his way. “So you see,” he said with a bravado Molly suspected was intended to reassure himself as well as the other two adults in the room, “we don’t have any problem.
“John, as much
as I hate to kick you out of here, I’m going to have to ask you to wait in the reception area. I can’t vouch for the coffee—made it myself, and I tend to like it as thick as mud—but there’s lots of it.”
Although John Chee’s impassive face revealed not a hint of what he was thinking, Molly could see the unmistakable seeds of fear in his eyes.
“You’ll take care of my boy, Dr. Joe?”
“Molly and I will do our best.”
Molly had never respected him more than she did at that moment, when he’d opted for the truth instead of hedging his bets. They would do their best. Of that there was no question. But so many doctors might have been tempted to assure a worried parent of a positive outcome.
The man’s dark eyes went from Joe to Molly, then back to Joe again. Knowing how she’d feel if it were Grace lying unconscious on the stainless-steel examining table, Molly suspected she knew exactly what David’s father was thinking.
“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” she assured the older man. “And, if you have no objection, I’ll pray for him, as well.” Molly knew that just as he preferred traditional medicine, he followed the ways of his ancient religion.
He didn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Sister.” That said, he gave his son one last look, as if memorizing his features, then walked out of the room. Leaving David in the hands of the experts and all the ancient gods, including Sister Molly’s Christian one.
“I wish Naomi was here,” Molly murmured as they scrubbed up. The nurse had called earlier to inform them that the storm was making it impossible for her to get to the hospital. Naomi Begay had once told Molly that becoming a nurse had been a lifelong dream. Unfortunately, her parents, possessing the traditional abhorrence of anything to do with the dead, had refused to allow her to attend nursing school.
Naomi had honored her parents’ feelings. And, after her mother died three years ago, she’d taken on the role of caretaker for her aging father. The morning after his death, having fulfilled her daughterly duty, she left the reservation and headed off to school to realize her dream. She was, without a doubt, the most dedicated nurse Molly had ever met.
“We’ll do fine,” Joe assured her easily as Peter Nelson, the visiting anesthesiologist, arrived at the clinic.
They dried their hands on sterile towels, put on their sterile robes and gloves, adjusted the fingers of the gloves, washed off the powder necessary to put them on in the first place, then went into the operating room. An IV bag of intravenous fluids hung from a stand beside the stainless-steel table. A blood-pressure cuff had been wrapped around David’s other arm.
“Okay, David,” Dr. Nelson announced to the now barely conscious boy, “we’re going to put you to sleep now.”
It didn’t take long for David to go under. His young body stilled.
“Okay.” Joe drew in a deep breath. His eyes, above the green mask, were coolly determined as he studied the boy’s belly, framed in the sterile blue drapes, like a painter studying a bare canvas. The skin had been swabbed with brown antiseptic.
“Let’s get this show on the road.”
He held out his hand. Molly immediately slapped a scalpel into it, watching as, with one quick, decisive motion, he sliced through the tough nut-brown skin into the layer of fat beneath. Under optimum operating conditions, Molly would be in charge of handing the assisting doctor scissors and clamps and threading needles. Since these were far from normal conditions, both worked quickly together to clamp and tie the bleeders.
“Well,” Joe said with some satisfaction, “that went well. Let’s go a little deeper.”
Molly immediately handed him another knife, which he used to cut open the body wall. She was more than a little impressed when he quickly, deftly divided the blood vessels and tied them off with silk thread.
“How’s the pressure doing?” he asked.
“Only eight-five systolic. But holding,” the anesthesiologist answered. “And the pulse is stable at one hundred ten.”
“Let’s run half a unit of blood,” Joe decided. “See if we can bring the pressure up a little bit.” One thing he wanted to avoid at all costs was the kid crashing on them. “So far, so good,” he said, once the blood had been started. “Let’s go for it.”
One more cut and David Chee’s body lay open. After an examination of the intestines, the liver and the pancreas, Joe got down to the spleen.
“Bingo,” he murmured, his words slightly muffled by the mask. “Looks like we found our bleeder.”
He turned and dipped his gloved hands into the basin of sterile water he’d instructed Molly to set up beforehand. It wasn’t really necessary; it was more of a stalling tactic to calm his hands and steady his nerves. As he watched the water turn from clear to pink, Joe debated about what to do next.
The spleen was obviously ruptured; blood was draining out of it like air from a bright red balloon. Spleens were tricky, with a tendency to hemorrhage. He decided he had no choice.
“It has to come out.”
Molly nodded. Her eyes moved from the portable EEG, which showed the patient remained stable, to Joe’s confident eyes, to David Chee’s opened body, then back to Joe again.
“You’re the doctor,” she said, trying for humor even though she was as nervous as she’d ever been in a medical condition.
In contrast, as Joe worked, old habits returned to unwind the knot in his stomach and as he felt himself getting into the groove, he discovered he was enjoying himself.
He removed the spleen quickly, tying off and cauterizing the new bleeders as Molly clamped and sponged.
“Closing,” he announced when he was finished.
Molly immediately handed him the monofilament nylon suture, which while more difficult to tie off, would prevent against infection better than old-fashioned silk.
Once the surgery was completed, Joe pulled off his bloody gloves and dropped them into the plastic-lined wastebasket. Then set the broken bones.
“Well, I’ve done all I can,” he said to Molly as the anesthesiologist began slowly bringing David up. “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?” Molly paused in the act of taking off her own gloves.
“To pray. Like you’ve never prayed before. Because believe me, Molly, for the next few hours this kid’s going to need all the help he can get.”
The four adults sat by David’s bedside, keeping a vigil throughout the day and long into the night. Molly and Joe checked their patient’s vital signs regularly and kept in touch with the Flagstaff hospital by phone, but the clinic did not have the computer network that would allow more professional support.
Around midnight, David developed a fever, and although Joe remained outwardly encouraging when speaking with John Chee, Molly knew that if they couldn’t get his temperature and his white count down, the riding accident could ultimately prove fatal.
“He’s not going to die,” Joe assured Molly quietly during a brief time when the father had gone into an adjoining office to call a combination gas station/trading post near his home to ask someone to pass the news of his son’s condition on to the rest of the family. Peter Nelson had gone off to sleep on a cot in the closet-size room laughingly referred to as a doctors’ lounge. “We’ve worked too hard to lose him now.”
Molly hoped he was right. And continued to pray.
By the time the sun rose on the eastern horizon the following morning, she’d gone through several mental rosaries, had recited the beatitudes more times than she could count, and had asked God in every way she knew how to spare this boy who’d come to mean so much to them.
“Hot damn,” Joe said, just after John Chee had gone outside to sprinkle corn pollen in the crisp clear air to greet the return of Father Sun. “The fever’s broken, Molly. And the storm’s stopped, so we can get the kid out of here and into a proper hospital.”
He wrapped his arms around her and, to her surprise and shock, planted a big kiss right on her mouth. When he appeared totally unrepentant about his enthusiastic behavior
, Molly assured herself that he didn’t mean anything by the kiss. Not really. It had been an extemporaneous act of celebration. Nothing more.
Two hours later, David Chee, in pain, but conscious and encouragingly alert, and been placed aboard a Medevac helicopter. John Chee accompanied his son on the trip to Flagstaff, and as the copter took to the sky, Naomi arrived on the scene, apologizing for missing a day’s work.
“It didn’t matter,” Joe assured the young woman. “The storm kept everyone away. We only had one customer.”
“I should have been here,” she repeated firmly. Her warm dark eyes flicked over their faces. “You two look exhausted.”
Joe grinned. “Never felt better in my life.” He looped a friendly, unthreatening arm around Molly. “Sister Molly and I made a great team, Naomi. Too bad you missed the show.”
Putting aside her earlier ridiculous misgivings, Molly smiled and basked in the satisfaction of a job well-done. And, more importantly, a life saved.
Chapter Thirteen
Lena could not believe it was possible for any one woman to be so happy. When she’d first agreed to adopt Molly’s baby, she’d secretly worried that she wouldn’t know how to be a mother. There had been times, during her sister’s pregnancy, when she’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat after dreaming of her child drowning in the pool, or getting run over by a car. In the worst nightmares she momentarily forgot she even had a child, and leaving the stroller in the mall, wandered off window shopping, only to return to that very same spot and discover that her baby had been kidnapped. The subsequent search through the mall—or in other versions, the beach—was always the same: frantic and fruitless.
She must have told herself a hundred times a day that she wasn’t a good enough person to be a mother. Even after she’d first brought Grace home, and worried continually about whether the baby was getting enough milk, if she was changing her diaper often enough, if her cries meant she was hungry, wet or simply bored, and what to do about that strawberry rash on Grace’s face, some nagging little voice in a far distant corner of her mind would point out that Molly would know exactly what to do.
