Code Triage

by Candace Calvert

  Sam picked up the phone and punched in his cell number again. She listened to the message, feeling the blood pressure cuff inflate on her arm, then spoke—keeping her tone soft, fragile, bruised.

  “Nick, I talked with Elisa just now. She’s frightened, crying—it’s breaking my heart. I tried to tell her I was okay, that Mommy wouldn’t die . . . like her uncle Toby did. She asked for you.”

  That should do it.

  +++

  Leigh pointed to Nick’s face, brushing at her own. “You have a little flake of churro, right . . . You got it.” She watched him over the rim of her cup—rich Mexican chocolate with cream, eggs, vanilla, and a dash of cinnamon. She almost never indulged in something so decadent, but today . . . “This is perfect,” she said, noticing that Nick still had a faint sprinkling of sugar in the dark beard growth on his chin. “The chocolate, I mean,” she added quickly.

  “I knew what you meant.” He glanced around the pastry shop, and she could tell by his expression that he was remembering the few years this space had been his. The lemon soup he made, the street folks he’d fed after hours, his friends clowning. Toby.

  “You stood right there,” he said, pointing to where a Mexican flag was draped along the wall by the cash register, “that first time you walked in here. You were wearing your riding boots that day too, with a scrub top over your breeches. Sort of Dr. Cowgirl.” He turned back to look at her. “You planted yourself right there and complained that nothing on my menu was takeout.”

  “I had a two-hour reprieve from the ER. I wanted to ride, but I was starving.” She exhaled, remembering the moment she’d first seen him. Even in sturdy boots, her knees had gone weak.

  “I came out from the kitchen and tried to explain that good food takes time to prepare, and eating it—enjoying it—should take at least as long.”

  “You said, ‘Fast is for racehorses.’”

  “And you—” she saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes—“you said you’d come for food, not a commitment.”

  I said that?

  The stretch of silence between them was filled by strains of mariachi music from a radio behind the counter. Leigh noticed for the first time that the other patrons had gone and the staff was wiping down the tables. The faint odor of bleach mingled with the scents of chocolate and fried pastries.

  “I think they’re getting ready to close,” she said, still thinking of the moment she’d met him. She in riding clothes, he with a dish towel draped over his shoulder; their discussion about the takeout, her tour of the kitchen, and her first taste of his lemon soup. There had been scents of mint, garlic, and roasting lamb, and it had begun to rain. I stayed, Nick. I stayed that day. “I suppose we should go.”

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll drop you back at the hospital, and then I’ll . . .” That foreign, hopeless look she’d seen in the parking lot earlier came back into his eyes.

  “And you’ll do what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll drive around. I’m not sure yet. But I’m just not ready to face Buzz’s couch. I’ll drive for a while and think.” He caught the look on her face and gave a short laugh. “Don’t worry; I won’t sleep in my car outside your house.”

  “Our house,” she heard herself say. “It’s still ours—together. Regardless.”

  “Okay. I won’t sleep in the car outside our house. Regardless.”

  Their eyes met and they were silent again.

  They drove back to the hospital, saying very little. Nick pulled up to her car and got out, leaving the engine running while she unlocked it. She stood for a moment with her back to him, thinking. Trying not to think. Feeling, despite every red flag, that—

  “Don’t drive around,” she said, turning to him. “I don’t want you to wander around with no place to go. Not after what happened in the ICU tonight with Kristi, and . . .”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That you should come to our house. I’ll make coffee.” She smiled. “Wait—you can do it. It’s your coffeemaker.”

  He was quiet for a few seconds, then exhaled. “Deal.”

  She sat in her car, pretending to warm the engine, and waited for her hands to stop shaking. Then drove out of the parking lot with Nick following. She hoped he wouldn’t mention that he’d taken the lemon tree—rescued it from her. The past two days had been tough enough and she didn’t need another reminder of her failures.

  +++

  Nick opened the door for Leigh and made a point of not looking at the empty spot where their potted lemon tree had always stood. He didn’t want to think about how she’d tossed it out—too much of a reminder that he was on the same course, even with this unexpected reprieve. He wasn’t sure why tonight was happening, but he’d take it.

  They stood in the foyer in awkward silence, Leigh wiping her boots a few more times than necessary on the throw rug, Nick making a production of putting his keys back in his pocket and then inspecting the weather stripping around the doorframe. A homeowner concerned about his investment, nothing deeper than that.

  “Well,” she said after clearing her throat, “you know where the coffee is.” She flexed the toe of her riding boot and grimaced. “I need to get out of these boots and breeches, maybe pull on a sweater; it’s kind of chilly. It won’t take but a few minutes.” She pointed to the staircase. “I’ll just be right up—”

  “I know where,” he said, wondering for a strange moment whether or not the “our house” she’d insisted upon earlier extended as far as “our bedroom,” “our shower.” He thought not, then felt a quick stab of guilt as he recalled Sam’s invitation a few nights before: “There’s a shower here.” Going there that night had been a mistake. And a reminder—like picking at a scab—of the far bigger one he’d made almost a year ago.

  “Okay,” she said, hand on the banister. “Make yourself at—” She grimaced and hurried up the stairs without looking back, her riding boots thumping against the sisal carpeting.

  Make yourself at home. He groaned at the irony of her swallowed words as he walked toward the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the dining room as he passed. The McNealys’ table still sat there, under a chandelier no longer choked short. The elegant vintage fixture hung freely as it was meant to, ready to cast sparkling prisms of light over a family gathered below. After all his attempts to put a table in that room, it was finally there—days before his wife divorced him. He shook his head, thinking of how they’d carried the old table across the driveways, he and Leigh and Caroline. Everything had seemed hopeful—so like an answer to his prayers—until Sam had placed that phone call to Leigh. The first in an ugly roll of events that ended in his raising a weapon to take a man’s life.

  He crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator and reached for the door handle, his gaze moving over the haphazard grouping of papers held by magnets. He glanced quickly toward the stairway, feeling oddly like a Peeping Tom in his own home. Their photos, of course, had long since been taken down. And now there was only a list of community college classes, the business card for Frisco’s vet, a scribbled telephone number for a Holland America cruise ship—Leigh’s mother, most likely. And an invitation to an engagement party. Erin Quinn, Scott McKenna. He’d met the red-haired charge nurse at Pacific Mercy very briefly, the day he’d driven there to tell Leigh about Caroline’s DUI arrest . . . and to ask her to come home. He’d told Leigh that her sister needed her; that was the truth. And that he’d move out of the house so she could stay with Caroline until she got back on even ground and could live by herself; he’d done that. What he hadn’t said was that he’d hoped—prayed—that having Leigh back in San Francisco would give them one last chance to save their marriage. That, he hadn’t accomplished.

  Nick pulled the refrigerator door open, found the coffee, and got it brewing, the gurgle and hiss of the Moccamaster mingling with the distant sound of the upstairs shower. He grabbed cups and tried to ignore the heaviness weighing in on him, the sense of finality and ending as rea
l as Kurt Denton’s body lying in that ICU. His gaze fell on a brochure lying on the counter beside the refrigerator. Doctors Without Borders? He picked up the tri-folded paper, its cover showing a heavily robed woman holding an infant, above a list of sites urgently needing physicians: Somalia, Pakistan, Sri Lanka. And a featured book, written by a participating doctor: Six Months in Sudan. His throat closed. He knew Leigh had been pursuing job opportunities outside San Francisco, but he’d never dreamed she would go that far.

  He gritted his teeth. This could not happen. He wouldn’t let her go to Somalia or Sudan. Go . . . anywhere. This time he wasn’t sitting outside in a car. Tonight he’d been invited in. He had an advantage; he had a shot—Nick winced, then took a slow breath. In truth, it wasn’t all that different. Though he wished it hadn’t happened, he’d done what he had to do yesterday in that hospital parking lot. And now, tonight, he was prepared to aim just as carefully to save his marriage.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You made a fire,” Leigh said, surprised. She stepped into the living room, breathing in the scents of coffee and earthy-rich burning oak. Nick sat on the couch, holding a coffee mug.

  “You said you were cold.” His brows scrunched together. “You’re limping.”

  Leigh shrugged. “New boots. The left one must have been laced too tightly—my foot’s aching. I should have changed my clothes before I went to the hospital.” Except I was so angry about Sam. She hugged her soft shawl cardigan close, noticing how the firelight, orange as the Golden Gate Bridge, played off Nick’s features and cast a warm glow around the room. He’d shed his jacket and laid his holster on the tall mantel, the same way he’d done a thousand times before. Except tonight was so very different. “Coffee smells good.”

  She started to sit and saw that he’d moved her yarn and needles from the couch to the end table. He caught her gaze.

  “I didn’t know you learned to knit,” he said, pointing at the pile of soft wool. “What is that?”

  “Something to relax with, that’s all. I’m knitting caps for an African ministry, Knit One, Save One.”

  “Caps?”

  “For newborns. At-risk babies. To keep their heads warm.”

  The look that came into his eyes shouldn’t have. Babies. Don’t do that, Nick.

  She lifted her cup from the table and settled onto the far end of the couch, watching the flames, listening to the crackle, and wondering if inviting Nick in was a huge mistake. Why did I ask him here? She glanced toward him. “I didn’t know there was any firewood.”

  “It’s from that pile stacked out back by the fence. The fallen tree Toby and I cut down out on his property last September.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “Anyway, it had to dry and season. Oak takes a while, and now . . . it’s ready.”

  “Oh.” She glanced away and took a sip of her coffee. “Does administrative leave mean you don’t go into work at all?” She noticed for the first time that the McNealys’ Tony Bennett CD was playing in the background.

  “I can work at a desk, but—” he smiled—“you know me.”

  She smiled back. “I do. If you’re not out with the people, you’re not doing your job. I guess I’d feel the same way. If I couldn’t be treating patients . . .”

  “You’d be at the stables. I know you, too. I forgot to ask—how is Frisco?”

  “I called a few minutes ago. Patrice said he drank some water, but not as much as we’d like.” Leigh sighed. “I won’t bore you.”

  “I’m not bored. I know how concerned you are.”

  Leigh wondered, with a bittersweet twinge, if he really meant it. Or if this newfound truce—his acceptance of her interests, her new empathy for his career—was simply a sign that they’d finally surrendered, given up. And that their parting would be far gentler than their years together. There was something unfair about it. “If Frisco doesn’t drink and if his digestive system doesn’t show signs of recovery, he could end up in surgery. I could lose him. I know how that sounds after everything that’s happened with Cappy and—” she glanced down—“Sam, Kurt Denton, and the others. An animal doesn’t compare, but I love him.” A rush of tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.”

  “Hey, don’t apologize. There’s no need.” He set his coffee down next to hers. “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m okay,” she said, feeling her chin tremble as Nick reached for the down-filled throw draped over the back of the couch.

  “Hush,” he said, sliding closer. “I’ve seen homeless people huddled under newspapers shivering less than you are. Don’t argue with the officer.”

  She smiled feebly and closed her eyes, feeling the feather-soft weight of the blanket and Nick’s warmth as he tucked it around her. His scent—soap, oak bark, coffee, and a faint trace of leather—filled her senses. She struggled against another shiver and a frisson of regret as he slid back to his spot on the couch.

  “Now, let me have that foot,” he said as she opened her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Your aching foot,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Let’s have it. You know I’m good.”

  Her face warmed. “I . . .”

  “It’s only a foot. And this is your last chance. I won’t offer again.”

  Last chance.

  “That’s more like it,” he said, settling her stocking foot across his thighs. “Where does it hurt?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That’s my line; I’m still paying student loans for the privilege of asking it.”

  He smiled, gently taking her foot in his hands. “I’m the doctor now. Where’s the pain?”

  My heart—my whole life.

  “The arch and instep,” she said as his warm fingers began to knead. “Ah . . . ouch, that’s the place.”

  She shook her head as Tony Bennett started to croon, “I left my heart in San Francisco. . . .”

  “Does it seem as impossible to you as it does to me, that it was just three nights ago that the McNealys were here for dinner?” As soon as the words left her lips, she knew it was a mistake. She saw it in his eyes.

  Nick was quiet for several seconds. “What seems impossible is that we sat on our porch that night and talked about delaying the divorce. And by Tuesday we were back at square one.” His thumbs moved over her instep and his eyes held hers, unwavering.

  “Nick, don’t start this. I’m exhausted.” She started to pull her foot back and pressed her lips together when he stopped her. “You were at her house.”

  “I was. I admitted that. I also told you that nothing happened between us.” His forehead creased. “But you didn’t give me a chance to say that I went there because Elisa made a gift for me. A macaroni butterfly. You didn’t let me tell you that I haven’t been there, to that house, for more than a few minutes since that time in November. I swear.”

  The shivers returned. “And if I hadn’t called you this time, interrupted you?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “For the truth, Nick. Would you have slept with her again?”

  He was silent long enough to make her want to throw Tony Bennett against the wall.

  “The truth is,” he said, his voice low and halting, “I think Sam wants that. I know she does. But I don’t. I don’t love her—I never loved her. I can’t even imagine that, because . . .” He took a breath. “I love my wife.”

  Tears threatened again. “Nick, please—”

  “I’m not finished,” he said, letting go of her foot. “I’m not even started. You said you want the truth. Okay. You’re getting it. The truth is that I screwed up last November; I made the biggest mistake of my life. I hurt you—it still makes me sick to know that. But I’ve tried, Leigh. I’ve tried everything I know to get you to listen to me. I know I did it wrong sometimes, wrong enough for you to start talking about a restraining order. Then pack up and leave. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never done it before and, God knows, I don’t want to ever do it again. But I want us to have another chance. I can�
�t give up on us. I can’t lose you.”

  He cleared his throat and took a slow breath. “When I got that call from dispatch yesterday, all I could think about was you, someone hurting you. I thought I’d never see you again. I shot someone; I killed those children’s father, and my best friend’s sister is lying in that hospital, but all I can think about is you. You, Leigh. You’re what matters to me.” The look in his eyes made her heart ache.

  She didn’t know who moved first, but somehow she was in Nick’s arms. They were in each other’s arms, her face burrowed against his neck and his hands in her hair. She was crying and he was rocking her.

  “I love you,” he whispered against her hair. “You have to believe me—say you believe me.” He held her away to stare into her face. “Do you?”

  A tear slid down her face. “I think I do, but I’m afraid that . . .” Her voice choked.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Nick whispered. “I promise.” He cradled her face in his hands. “I love you. I’m going to make this work.” He brushed his lips across her forehead before leaning close and kissing her. Gently at first, more insistently as her arms slid around his neck and she responded. Then more deeply . . . as if he never intended to stop.

  She moved away finally, her senses swirling. “Nick, wait. I don’t know how to handle this. I’m not sure what I want, or . . .” She smiled, completely confused as her pulse thrummed in her ears. “I’m trying to be honest.”

  “Good.” He brushed her hair away from her face. “That’s the way it’s going to be from now on. Completely honest. The truth, always.” He smiled, then groaned painfully.

  “What?”

  “The truth is that right now all I can think about is carrying you upstairs and making love to you until dawn. Maybe noon tomorrow. And waking up with you in my arms, begging me for an omelet.”

  She raised her brows. “I don’t beg.”

  “You have . . . you will.” He smiled at her. “But I don’t want those things to happen because you’re tired and confused or because the last two days have been a nightmare. I want them to happen because you know you love me and that you can trust me and because you want our marriage to work.” He glanced toward the stairs, honest regret on his face. “So all I need right now is for you to say there’s a chance for all of that.” His dark eyes searched hers. “Is there?”