A DOCTOR'S VOW

by Christine Rimmer

  "No, I've got a date around here somewhere. I'd better go find him. They'll be serving up the chow mein before you know it. Through careful observation, I have deduced that the black lacquer platforms on the tables are actually lazy Susans. Looks like Chinese potluck to me. Do you think we'll get fortune cookies?"

  "Only time will tell."

  Ronni left Kelly and began working her way through the crowd to Ryan's side. He put his arm around her when she reached him. Lovely. It felt so lovely. A little slice of heaven, just to stand beside him, as his hand moved down to rest lightly at the small of her back.

  "This is Ronni," he said, as if she were the most important person in the world.

  Tanner Malone smiled at her, an easy smile, one Ronni imagined made him very popular with the ladies. "I've heard about you," Tanner said.

  "All good things?"

  "Absolutely."

  She met Tanner's date, a woman who worked for the architectural firm that had been responsible for the design of the half-finished wing. Then Ryan led them all to their table, which wasn't far from the dais and the big brass gong where Ronni had been standing with Kelly a few minutes before.

  "What'll you bet Murleen Anniston will beat on that thing?" Tanner muttered. "I've got a headache already just thinking about it."

  "Have some tea," his date suggested. There was a big, steaming pot of the stuff waiting on the table.

  There were also several uncorked bottles of wine. "I'll try some of this instead." Tanner poured himself a glass, then offered the bottle around.

  Two other couples shared their table, members of Memorial's board of directors and their wives. Ryan introduced Ronni to them. She smiled and made small talk, thinking that both of the men seemed distracted, their wives slightly nervous.

  But why wouldn't they be nervous? They'd probably already had to field a lot of questions tonight concerning the new wing. And they had to know that Ryan intended to get up in front of them all and address the subject directly.

  Well, Ryan was going to set all their minds at ease. Ronni felt absolutely certain of that. She couldn't have said exactly why she felt so positive. It was probably just blind devotion, something she wouldn't have understood in the least a few days ago. But now blind devotion made absolute sense to her.

  She loved Ryan. She believed in him. He would work a miracle, and that was that.

  A few minutes later, Murleen Anniston hit the big gong. The orchestra stopped playing.

  "What did I tell you?" Tanner grumbled.

  His date said, "Have some more wine."

  He waved the bottle away. "No, thanks. Maybe later."

  "Welcome, welcome." Mrs. Anniston beamed, repeating the same words she must have said hundreds of times already, back at the red gate in front of the ballroom doors. "It brings us a thousand delights to have you all here tonight for Honeygrove Memorial's Nineteenth Annual Heart Ball. We'll have a short program later—a few exciting talks about our hospital, about our plans for the future. And after that, dancing. Oh, and I do hope you'll all make time to drop in and bid on the silent auction in the Oak Room next door. But for now, please, enjoy the feast!" She hit the gong another time, good and hard.

  The orchestra began playing again. Streams of waiters wearing black silk pajamas and little black slippers appeared at all the entrances, holding huge trays high. Each waiter stopped at a table, unfolded his tray base, balanced his tray on it and began shuffling the steaming bowls of Chinese delicacies to the black lacquer lazy Susans.

  "White rice, spring roll, egg roll, Szechwan scallops, paper-wrap chicken, shrimp with lobster sauce, hot pepper pork…" The waiters named off each dish as they set them on the tables.

  Ryan leaned close to her. "Hope you like Chinese." The warmth of his breath against her ear sent a sweet shiver down her spine.

  "I love it." She picked up her black lacquer chopsticks and peeled them apart.

  They spent an hour on the meal, as the orchestra played softly and the rock fountains burbled in the background. Ryan seemed relaxed. He talked easily with the board members and their wives, until soon enough, they, too, got into the spirit of the evening, spinning the lazy Susan, sampling the various dishes, saying yes to second glasses of wine.

  One of the wives even got a bit tipsy. She seemed to consider herself something of an expert on the use of chopsticks. She announced that in China, the way one held the sticks defined social caste. The closer to the base, the lower on the social scale.

  "Chinese aristocrats hold their chopsticks very near the top," she declared as she tried to pick up an egg roll and failed. The thing rolled off her plate and into her lap. She sighed. "Oh, dear…"

  Her husband suggested rather sourly that maybe she ought to just use a fork. She shot him a wounded glance, picked up the wandering egg roll with her fingers and set it on her plate.

  Right away, Ryan asked her about some project that she was apparently chairing for the auxiliary. She brightened instantly and launched into a description of how exciting and challenging she found it to do a job and do it well. "Worth the effort in personal satisfaction alone, that's the way I think of my volunteer work," the woman said.

  The other wife unequivocally agreed and good cheer was once again established—thanks to Ryan.

  At one point, he captured Ronni's hand, under the table where no one could see. He gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back. If only he did half as well with his upcoming speech as he did with his dinner companions, the evening would be an unqualified success.

  Eventually, the black-clad waiters reentered. They took away the dinner plates and served an orange-ice confection sprinkled with red-dyed coconut. A fortune cookie garnished each dessert.

  Everyone began cracking open the cookies, eager to read what the future might bring.

  You will meet an important person who will help you advance professionally.

  Your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded.

  Love is like a flower. It requires the water of attention to make it grow.

  Ryan broke his cookie open last.

  "What does yours say?" asked one of the wives.

  Before he could answer, Murleen Anniston got up and banged the gong again. The lively chatter in the big room faded to an expectant hush.

  The chairwoman mounted the dais and moved behind the podium. The chandeliers dimmed and a spot came up. Light winking off the Mylar streamers on her headdress, she began to tell them all of the good they had done by the large checks they'd written for the privilege of attending this event.

  People who needed expensive treatments and couldn't afford them would have their care paid for. State-of-the-art equipment would be purchased. Home nursing would be provided for many elderly people who didn't require hospitalization but needed medical assistance nonetheless.

  Mrs. Anniston introduced two more speakers. One described the new physical therapy equipment, which receipts from the Heart Ball would provide. The other went into a rather lengthy explanation of the various volunteer programs that the Friends of Memorial's efforts helped to fund.

  When the chairwoman took the podium for the second time, Ryan snared Ronni's hand again under the table. "This is it. Wish me luck."

  "I do. Though you don't need it. You're going to do us all proud."

  Tanner pushed back his chair. "That's my cue," he whispered. "I'm the technical crew." He left them.

  Up behind the podium, Murleen Anniston drew in a deep breath. "And now, we come to a very important part of our program. None of us can help but be aware of the upsetting events that have transpired in the past week concerning our hospital's new wing."

  As she spoke, four women in evening dress mounted the steps to the dais. Two went left and two went right. Slowly and carefully, they pulled back two sets of red velvet curtains and anchored them to the side. Beneath were twin white screens.

  Murleen Anniston continued, "As I mentioned earlier, it has been nineteen years since our first annual Heart Ball. The year
of the first ball, our hospital had just moved to its present site. Before that, as many of you may remember, Honeygrove Memorial was called Honeygrove General and housed in that ancient brick monstrosity over on Willamette Way

  , which has since become a museum. It is our hope that by next year, our twentieth Heart Ball, we will be aiming our auxiliary efforts at Honeygrove's children, who will find the care and comfort they need in our expanded ability to serve the ill and infirm. I speak of Pediatrics, ladies and gentlemen, which is to be a major part of our new twenty-year wing.

  "Recent events put our efforts in jeopardy. And our chief administrator, Ryan Malone, is here tonight to speak to us all about what's been done—and what we need to do—to get this important project back on track. Let's give him a warm welcome. Ladies and gentlemen, our own Ryan Malone…"

  Polite applause filled the room. The lights, including the spot on Murleen Anniston, dimmed to black as Ryan slipped out of the chair at Ronni's side.

  Slowly, twin images took form on the white screens. On one side, a photograph of Memorial as it stood right then, including the half-finished new wing. A raw-looking projection off the east side of the original structure, the new wing was a naked two stories of unpainted, preformed concrete slabs and glass.

  The other screen revealed an artist's rendering of Memorial as it was supposed to look seven months hence, when the finished new wing would blend right in with what was already there. The rendering showed a new front entrance, complete with a canopied projection that drew the eye and brought everything together. The entire structure had been repainted. Now the whole thing was a salmon-accented dove gray. A beautiful roof garden topped the new wing, greenery spilling over the walls, softening all that concrete, making the whole massive structure look alive and inviting.

  The polite applause hit its modest peak and began to fade as the spotlight came up on the podium once more. Ryan waited there. He looked out over the ballroom, saying nothing at first, as the applause died to silence. Two bright flashes went off—meaning photographers in the audience. Perhaps from the Gazette, Ronni thought.

  Ryan began quietly, his low, rich voice amplified to perfection, filling every corner of the hushed, shadowed room.

  "Thirty-four years ago, on a winter night much like this one, a man and a woman were hurrying home to their children after an emergency visit to a sick relative in the Bay Area. Their car hit a patch of black ice, spun out of control and into a concrete piling. Both the man and the woman died within minutes of the crash. They never got home to the three…" he faltered, coughed. Ronni's heart froze in her chest.

  But then he smiled, that wonderful, unwilling smile of his. "Excuse me. Make that two. Two young sons. That couple never got home to the two young sons who were waiting for them.

  "Until their parents were killed, those boys had everything. A loving home. Two people dedicated to the job of seeing them to adulthood. But then, their world changed.

  "No family members stepped forward to claim those two boys. No one adopted them. They were raised by the state, and in foster care—with all the odds stacked against them, a lot of people might say.

  "Yet, today, one of them runs his own construction company. And the other is the chief administrator of your hospital: Honeygrove Memorial."

  Ryan paused, let that sink in.

  Then he continued, "Those two boys—myself and my brother—are living proof that no one—no one—can predict what will be. Those boys floundered, they failed sometimes. They often felt very much alone.

  "But they weren't alone. Helping hands were extended, the state did provide for them. And both of them received Pembroke scholarships, money to go on to college, provided by the very organization that is so much in trouble now."

  He paused again, looked out over the ballroom, his eyes seeming to connect with every person there.

  He went on, "What I want you to understand tonight, if you believe nothing else, is that, though the odds do seem stacked against us right now, we can still build our new twenty-year wing. You see behind me—" he gestured with a sweep of his right arm "—how far we've come. We are halfway there, ladies and gentlemen. Construction is halted now. We need to get going again. We need to mobilize the press and the various branches of the media in our favor." He smiled again. "Are you out there, ladies and gentlemen of the press? I hope so. Right now, you're reporting a scandal. We want more out of you. We need you focused on the future, on the forty million dollars we plan to raise.

  "We have ten million, from our community fund, which was originally intended for later use. We think within the next few weeks we'll be able to rechannel that money. We'll get construction moving again. But we'll need more. Much more. We'll need a massive fund-raising drive—and I do hope I can count on all you ladies from the auxiliary to work with me on that."

  There was a smattering of applause. Ryan said, "Good. And I will be exploring a number of other avenues. There are state and federal monies to be had. We just have to contact the right agencies and fill out the right forms. The people from the Pembroke Foundation are working night and day to try to get us at least some of the money they originally promised us. And other charitable institutions are being approached."

  He gestured with his left hand. "This is what we can have, by September, in time for the twentieth anniversary of Honeygrove Memorial as we know it now.

  "Our community needs to see this project completed. This is the new millennium. Projected population growth in our city is astounding in the next decade. Children's Hospital is overburdened. When we're providing pediatric care ourselves, we can take on some of that load. We need more medical and surgery beds, and our new wing will have them. More services, and better services, for the people of Honeygrove. With your help, and the help of the whole community, we can get there. We can do it.

  "The worst may have happened. We've been orphaned. We've lost what we thought we could count on, and it's been a crushing blow. But we are not beaten. The future is not set. And here, tonight, I know, are many of the people who will see us through this rough time. My door is open, at Memorial. Come and see me, or pick up the phone and give me a call. I want to hear your ideas. And yes, I want you and everyone you know to get out your checkbooks. Again." A ripple of laughter went through the room. "I see you know just what I mean. I will do what I have to do, to bring us through this tough period and on to success. But I cannot do it alone." He looked down at the podium, seemed to gather himself, then lifted his dark head to face them all once more.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, look how far we've come. And look where we're going. It won't be easy, but we will get there. I'm not a man who believes in what fortune cookies tell me. But tonight, mine said, 'Being faithful to a trust brings its own reward.' I'm going to choose to believe that. I'm going to make a promise to you. And you're going to help me keep it, just as this community helped my brother and me to grow up, to forge productive lives, after our parents were lost to us.

  "We will succeed.

  "And in September of this year, the Friends of Memorial will throw a party as terrific as this one. A party where we will celebrate the completion of Honeygrove Memorial's twenty-year wing.

  "We can do this. And I promise you. We will."

  Ryan said no more. There was a huge and echoing silence.

  And then the slow, building roar of deafening applause.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  « ^ »

  The Gazette ran a recap of Ryan's speech in its Sunday edition the next day, complete with nice, big color photos and a notice in bold print explaining where to send donations. On Monday, Ryan went on the local six o'clock news to explain to the community at large about the major fund-raising drive they were mounting. He also did two guest spots on radio during the week. Beyond that, he accepted invitations to speak to the Elks, the Masons, the Knights of Columbus, the University Boosters, Catholic Daughters and the ladies of the Eastern Star.

  And his door was always open. I
f he wasn't in a meeting or giving a speech, he was answering phone calls or welcoming visitors who knew of this or that avenue for funding they wanted him to be sure to explore.

  Ronni never saw him until late at night. But she had her own work to keep her good and busy. Yes, once or twice, she found herself thinking wistfully that she would like just a little more time with the man she loved.

  They had so many things to talk about—where they were going together, the children, the problem with Lily, how to mesh their mutually complicated lives. But by the time he would come to her, at the late-night end of an inevitably exhausting day, he would want to make love. And so would she. And then, after that, well, she couldn't really blame him for falling asleep in her arms. Most of the time, she fell asleep right along with him, only to be wakened by the alarm at four, to watch him gather his scattered clothes and pull them on. Then he'd bend over her. She would kiss him a drowsy goodbye and he would slip away, back to his own house. His own bed.

  They hadn't even shared words of love yet. They were just getting through each day now, holding on to each other whenever they could. Everything had happened so fast between them. And right now he carried an enormous burden, trying to pull off a miracle and save his hospital's new wing.

  Also, she sensed that he felt the same reserve she did. When the words were said, Ronni wanted them to be … leisurely. Special. She wanted a candlelit dinner and roses on the table, soft music playing in the background. And then, as they talked and kissed and laughed together, on an evening when, for once, hours stretched out before them, she would tell him, "I love you."

  And he would say he loved her, too.

  On Thursday of that week, Ronni went to Kelly Hall's office. She took a routine pregnancy test, a required procedure for any patient seeking birth control. The test came out negative. Of course, Ronni knew that if she were pregnant, it wouldn't be likely to show up in a test yet. Like a home test, the office urine test worked by detecting the hormone HCG, which became present in the urine of a pregnant woman about two weeks after conception. Only six days had passed since the night she and Ryan had made that dangerous mistake.