Her eyes were half-closed and she pressed her head against her pillow as if it hurt, still making that odd, whimpering sound.
Frisco was scared to death. He tried to judge how high her fever was by the touch of his hand, and she seemed impossibly, dangerously hot.
“Tasha, talk to me,” he said, sitting next to her on the bed. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me your symptoms.”
Cripes, listen to him. Tell me your symptoms. She was five years old, she didn’t know what the hell a symptom was. And from the looks of things, she didn’t even know she was here, couldn’t hear him, couldn’t see him.
He had medical training, but most of it was first-aid. He could handle gunshot wounds, knife wounds, burns and lacerations. But sick kids with sky-high fevers…
He had to get Natasha to the hospital.
He could call a cab, but man, he wouldn’t be able to get Tasha down the stairs. He could barely make it himself with his crutches. He certainly couldn’t do it carrying the girl, could he? It would be far too dangerous to try. What if he dropped her?
“I’ll be right back, Tash,” he told her, grabbing his crutches and heading out toward the kitchen telephone, where he kept his phone book.
He flipped the book open, searching for the phone number for the local cab company. He quickly dialed. It rang at least ten times before someone picked up.
“Yellow Cab.”
“Yeah,” Frisco said. “I need a cab right away. 1210 Midfield Street, unit 2C. It’s the condo complex on the corner of Midfield and Harris?”
“Destination?”
“City Hospital. Look I need the driver to come to the door. I got a little girl with a fever, and I’ll need help carrying her down—”
“Sorry, sir. Our drivers do not leave their vehicles. He’ll wait for you in the parking lot.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? This is an emergency. I have to get this kid to the hospital.” Frisco ran his hand through his hair, trying to curb his anger and frustration. “I can’t get her down the stairs by myself. I’m…” He nearly choked on the words. “I’m physically disabled.”
“I’m sorry, sir. The rule is for our drivers’ safety. However, the cab you requested will arrive in approximately ninety minutes.”
“Ninety minutes? I can’t wait ninety minutes!”
“Shall I cancel your request for a cab?”
“Yes.” Cursing loudly, Frisco slammed down the phone.
He picked it up again and quickly dialed 911. It seemed to take forever before the line was picked up.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“I have a five-year-old with a very high fever.”
“Is the child breathing?”
“Yes—”
“Is the child bleeding?”
“No, I said she’s got a fever—”
“I’m sorry, sir. We have quite a number of priority calls and a limited number of ambulances. You’ll get her to the hospital faster if you drive her yourself.”
Frisco fought the urge to curse. “I don’t have a car.”
“Well, I can put you on the list, but since your situation isn’t life or death per se, you risk being continuously bumped down as new calls come in,” the woman told him. “Things usually slow down by dawn.”
Dawn. “Forget it,” Frisco said, hanging up none too gently.
Now what?
Mia. He was going to have to ask Mia for help.
He moved as quickly as he could back down the hall to Tasha’s room. Her eyes were closed, but she was moving fitfully. She was still as hot to the touch. Maybe even hotter.
“Hang on, kid,” Frisco said. “Hang on, princess. I’ll be back in a sec.”
He was starting to be able to move pretty nimbly with the crutches. He made it into the living room and out of the front door before he’d even had time to think.
But as he rang Mia’s bell again and again, as he opened up the screen and hammered on the heavy wooden door, as he waited for her to respond, he couldn’t help but wonder.
What the hell was he doing? He’d just spent the past six hours resolving to stay away from this woman. She didn’t want him—she’d made that more than clear. So here he was, pounding on her door in the middle of the night, ready to humiliate himself even further by having to ask for help carrying a featherweight forty-pound little girl down the stairs.
The light went on inside Mia’s apartment. She opened the door before she’d even finished putting on her bathrobe.
“Alan, what’s wrong?”
“I need your help.” She would never know how much it cost him to utter those words. It was only for Natasha that he would ask for help. If it had been himself in there, burning up with fever, he wouldn’t’ve asked. He would have rather died. “Tasha’s sick. She’s got a really high fever—I want to take her over to the hospital.”
“All right,” Mia said without hesitation. “Let me throw on a pair of shorts and some sneakers and I’ll pull the car around to the outside stairs.”
She moved to go back toward her bedroom and her clothes, but he stopped her.
“Wait.”
Mia turned back to the door. Frisco was standing on the other side of the screen, crutches under his arms. He was staring away from her, down at the carpeting. When he looked up, all of his customary crystal anger was gone from his eyes, leaving only a deeply burning shame. He could barely hold her gaze. He looked away, but then he forced himself to look up again, this time steadily meeting her eyes.
“I can’t carry her down the stairs.”
Mia’s heart was in her throat. She knew what it had taken for him to say those words, and she so desperately didn’t want to say the wrong thing in response. She didn’t want to make light of it, but at the same time, she didn’t want to embarrass him further by giving it too much weight.
“Of course not,” she said quietly. “That would be dangerous to try on crutches. I’ll get the car, then I’ll come back up for Natasha.”
He nodded once and disappeared.
She’d said the right thing, but there was no time to sag with relief. Mia dashed into her bedroom to change her clothes.
“An ear infection?” Frisco repeated, staring at the emergency room doctor.
This doctor was an intern, still in his twenties, but he had a bedside manner reminiscent of an old-fashioned, elderly country doctor, complete with twinkling blue eyes and a warm smile.
“I already started her on an antibiotic, and I gave her something to bring down that fever,” he said, looking from Frisco to Mia, “along with a decongestant. That’ll keep her knocked out for a while. Don’t be surprised if she sleeps later than usual in the morning.”
“That’s it?” Frisco asked. “It’s just an ear infection?” He looked down at Tasha, who was sound asleep, curled up in the hospital bed. She looked impossibly small and incredibly fragile, her hair golden red against the white sheets.
“She may continue to experience the dizziness you described for a day or two,” the doctor told them. “Keep her in bed if you can, and make sure she finishes the entire bottle of antibiotic. Oh, and ear plugs next time she goes swimming, all right?”
Frisco nodded. “You sure you don’t want to keep her here for a while?”
“I think she’ll be more comfortable at home,” the young doctor said. “Besides, her fever’s already gone down. Call me if she doesn’t continue to improve.”
An ear infection. Not encephalitis. Not appendicitis. Not scarlet fever or pneumonia. It still hadn’t fully sunk in. Tash was going to be all right. An ear infection wasn’t life threatening. The kid wasn’t going to die. Frisco still couldn’t quite believe it. He couldn’t quite shake the tight feeling in his chest—the incredible fear, the sense of total and complete helplessness.
He felt Mia touch his arm. “Let’s get her home,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” he said, looking around, trying to collect himself, wondering when the relief was going to s
et in and push away this odd sensation of tightness and fear. “I’ve had enough of this place for one day.”
The ride home was shorter than he remembered. He watched as Mia carried Tash back up the stairs and into his condo. She gently placed the still sleeping child into bed, and covered her with a sheet and a light blanket. He watched, trying not to think about the fact that she was taking care of Tasha because he couldn’t.
“You ought to try to get some sleep, too,” Mia told him, whispering as they went back down the hallway to the living room. “It’s nearly dawn.”
Frisco nodded.
Mia’s face was in the shadows as she stood at the doorway, looking back at him. “Are you all right?”
No. He wasn’t all right. He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good night, then.” She opened the screen door.
“Mia…”
She stopped, turning back to face him. She didn’t say a word, she just waited for him to speak.
“Thank you.” His voice was husky, and to his horror he suddenly had tears in his eyes. But it was dark in the predawn, and there was no way she could have noticed.
“You’re welcome,” she said quietly and closed the door behind her.
She disappeared, but the tears that flooded his eyes didn’t do the same. Frisco couldn’t stop them from overflowing and running down his face. A sob escaped him, shaking him, and like ice breaking up on a river, another followed, faster and harder until, God, he was crying like a baby.
He’d honestly thought Tasha was going to die.
He had been totally terrified. Him, Frisco, terrified. He’d gone on rescue missions and information-gathering expeditions deep into hostile territory where he could’ve been killed simply for being American. He’d sat in cafés and had lunch, surrounded by the very people who wouldn’t have hesitated to slit his throat had they known his true identity. He’d infiltrated a terrorist fortress and snatched back a cache of stolen nuclear weapons. He’d looked death—his own death—in the eye on more than one occasion. He’d been plenty scared all those times; only a fool wouldn’t have been. That fear had been sharp edged, keeping him alert and in control. But it was nothing compared to the sheer, helpless terror he’d felt tonight.
Frisco stumbled back into the sanctuary of his bedroom, unable to stanch the flow of his tears. He didn’t want to cry, dammit. Tasha was safe. She was okay. He should have enough control over his emotions to keep the intensity of his relief from wiping him out this way.
He clenched his teeth and fought it. And lost.
Yeah, Tasha was safe. For now. But what if he hadn’t been able to get her to the hospital? It had been good that he’d brought her in when he did, the doctor had said. Her fever had been on the verge of becoming dangerously high.
What if Mia hadn’t been home? What if he hadn’t been able to get Tash down the stairs? Or what if during the time he spent figuring out how to get Tash to the hospital, her fever had risen dangerously high? What if his inability to do something so simple as carry a child down a set of stairs had jeopardized her life? What if she had died, because he lived on the second floor? What if she had died, because he was too damn proud to admit the truth—that he was physically disabled.
He’d said the words tonight when he spoke to the cab dispatcher. I’m physically disabled. He wasn’t a SEAL anymore. He was a crippled man with a cane—crutches now—who might’ve let a kid die because of his damned pride.
Frisco sat down on his bed and let himself cry.
Mia set her purse down on her kitchen table with an odd-sounding thunk. She lifted it up and set it down again. Thunk.
What was in there?
She remembered even before she opened the zipper.
Natasha’s medicine. Frisco had picked up Tasha’s antibiotic directly from the hospital’s twenty-four-hour pharmacy.
Mia took it out of her purse and stared at it. Tash wasn’t due for another dose of the liquid until a little before noon, unless she woke up earlier.
She’d better take it over now, rather than wait.
She left her apartment and went over to Frisco’s. All of his windows were dark. Damn. She opened the screen door, wincing as it screeched, and tried the door knob.
It was unlocked.
Slowly, stealthily, she let herself in. She’d tiptoe into the kitchen, put the medicine in the fridge and…
What was that…? Mia froze.
It was a strange sound, a soft sound, and Mia stood very, very still, hardly daring to breathe as she listened for it again.
There it was. It was the sound of ragged breathing, of nearly silent crying. Had Tasha awoken? Was Frisco already so soundly asleep that he didn’t hear her?
Quietly Mia crept down the hall toward Tasha’s bedroom and peeked in.
The little girl was fast asleep, breathing slowly and evenly.
Mia heard the sound again, and she turned and saw Frisco in the dim light that filtered in through his bedroom blinds.
He was sitting on his bed, doubled over as if in pain, his elbows resting on his legs, one hand covering his face; a picture of despair.
The noise she had heard—it was Frisco. Alan Francisco was weeping.
Mia was shocked. Never, ever in a million years had she expected him to cry. She would have thought him incapable, unable to release his emotions in such a visible, expressive way. She would have expected him to internalize everything, or deny his feelings.
But he was crying.
Her heart broke for him, and silently she backed away, instinctively knowing that he would feel ashamed and humiliated if he knew she had witnessed his emotional breakdown. She crept all the way back into his living room and out of his apartment, holding her breath as she shut the door tightly behind her.
Now what?
She couldn’t just go back into her own condominium, knowing that he was alone with all of his pain and fears. Besides, she was still holding Tasha’s medicine.
Taking a deep breath, knowing full well that even if Frisco did come to the door, he might very well simply take the medicine and shut her out, she rang the bell.
She knew he heard it, but no lights went on, nothing stirred. She opened the screen and knocked on the door, pushing it open a few inches. “Alan?”
“Yeah,” his voice said raspily. “I’m in the bathroom. Hang on, I’ll be right out.”
Mia came inside again, and closed the door behind her. She stood there, leaning against it, wondering if she should turn on the lights.
She heard the water running in the bathroom sink and could picture Frisco splashing his face with icy water, praying that she wouldn’t be able to tell that he’d been crying. She left the lights off.
And he made no move to turn them on when he finally appeared at the end of the darkened hallway. He didn’t say anything; he just stood there.
“I, um…I had Tasha’s medicine in my purse,” Mia said. “I thought it would be smart to bring it over now instead of…in the morning….”
“You want a cup of tea?”
His quiet question took her entirely by surprise. Of all the things she’d imagined he’d say to her, inviting her to stay for a cup of tea was not one of them. “Yes,” she said. “I would.”
His crutches creaked as he went into the kitchen. Mia followed more hesitantly.
He didn’t turn on the overhead lamp. He didn’t need to. Light streamed in through the kitchen window from the brightly lit parking lot. It was silvery and it made shadows on the walls, but it was enough to see by.
As Frisco filled a kettle with water from the faucet, Mia opened the refrigerator door and put Tasha’s medicine inside. As she closed the door, she saw that list that he kept there on the fridge, the list of all the things he could no longer do—the list of things that kept him, in his eyes, from being a man.
“I know it was hard for you to come and ask me for help tonight,” she said softly.
Using only his right crutch for support, he carried the kettle to the stove
and set it down. He didn’t say a word until after he’d turned the burner on. Then he turned to face her. “Yeah,” he said. “It was.”
“I’m glad you did, though. I’m glad I could help.”
“I actually…” He cleared his throat and started again. “I actually thought she was going to die. I was scared to death.”
Mia was startled by his candidness. I was scared to death. Another surprise. She never would have expected him to admit that. Ever. But then again, this man had been surprising her right from the start.
“I don’t know how parents handle it,” he said, pushing down on top of the kettle as if that would make the water heat faster. “I mean, here’s this kid that you love more than life itself, right? And suddenly she’s so sick she can’t even stand up.” His voice tightened.
“The thing that kills me is that if I had been the only one left in the world, if it had been up to me and me alone, we wouldn’t’ve made it to that hospital. I’d still be here, trying to figure out a way to get her down those stairs.” He turned suddenly, slamming his hand down on top of the counter in frustration and anger. “I hate feeling so damned helpless!”
His shoulders looked so tight, his face so grim. Mia wrapped her arms around herself to keep from reaching for him. “But you’re not the only one left in the world. You’re not alone.”
“But I am helpless.”
“No, you’re not,” she told him. “Not anymore. You’re only helpless if you refuse to ask for help.”
He laughed, an exhale of bitter air. “Yeah, right—”
“Yeah,” she said earnestly. “Right. Think about it, Alan. There are things that we all don’t do, things that we probably couldn’t do—look at your shirt,” she commanded him, stepping closer. She reached out and touched the soft cotton of his T-shirt. She lifted it, turning it over and bringing the factory-machine-sewn hem into the light from the kitchen window. “You didn’t sew this shirt, did you? Or weave the cotton to make the fabric? Cotton grows in fields—you knew that, right? Somehow a whole bunch of people did something to that little fluffy plant to make it turn into this T-shirt. Does it mean that you’re helpless just because you didn’t do it yourself?”
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