Dr. Forget-Me-Not (Matchmaking Mamas)

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Smart lady,” Melanie agreed.

  As she started to walk to the communal quarters that the women and their children all shared, April slipped her hand through hers. The small fingers tightened around hers as if she was silently taking on the role of guide despite the fact that she and her family had only been at the shelter a short time.

  “I think Jimmy needs a doctor,” April confided, her eyes meeting Melanie’s.

  “Even smarter lady,” Melanie commented under her breath.

  The comment might have been quiet, but April had heard her and went on talking as if they were two equals, having a conversation. “But we don’t have any money and Jimmy feels too sick to go to the hospital place. Besides, Mama doesn’t like asking for free stuff,” April confided solemnly.

  Melanie nodded. “Your mama’s got pride,” she told the little girl. “But sometimes, people have to forget about their pride if it means trying to help someone they love.”

  April eyed her knowingly. “You mean like Jimmy?”

  “Exactly like Jimmy.”

  Turning a corner, she pushed open the oversize door that led into one of the three large communal rooms that accommodated as many families as could be fit into it without violating any of the fire department’s safety regulations. Polly, the woman who ran the shelter, referred to the rooms as dorms, attempting to create a more positive image for the women who found themselves staying here.

  The room that April had brought her to was largely empty except for the very worried-looking, small, dark-haired woman sitting on the bed all the way over in the corner. The object of her concern was the rather fragile-looking red-haired little boy sitting up and leaning against her.

  The boy was coughing. It was the kind of cough that fed on itself, growing a little worse with each pass and giving no sign of letting up unless some kind of action was taken. Sometimes, it took something as minor as a drink of water to alleviate the cough, other times, prescription cough medicine was called for.

  Melanie gave the simplest remedy a try first.

  Looking down at the little girl who was still holding her hand, she said, “April, why don’t you go to the kitchen and ask Miss Theresa to give you a glass of water for your brother?”

  April, eager to help, uncoupled herself from Melanie’s hand and immediately ran off to the kitchen.

  As April took off, Melanie turned her attention to Jimmy’s mother. “He really should see a doctor,” she gently suggested.

  Worn and tired way beyond her years, Brenda O’Neill raised her head proudly and replied, “We’ll manage, thank you. It’s not the first time he’s had this cough and it won’t be the last,” she said with assurance. “It comes and goes. Some children are like that.”

  “True,” Melanie agreed. She wasn’t here to argue, just to comfort. “But it would be better if it went—permanently.” She knew the woman was proud, but she’d meant what she’d said to April. Sometimes pride needed to take a backseat to doing what was best for someone you loved. “Look, I know that money’s a problem, Brenda.” She thought of the newly erected, state-of-the-art hospital that was less than seven miles away from the shelter. “I’ll pay for the visit.”

  The expression on Jimmy’s mother’s face was defiant and Melanie could see the woman withdrawing and closing herself off.

  “He’ll be all right,” Brenda insisted. “Kids get sick all the time.”

  Melanie sighed. She couldn’t exactly kidnap the boy and whisk him off to the ER, not without his mother’s express consent. “Can’t argue with that,” Melanie agreed.

  “I brought water,” April announced, returning. “And Miss Theresa, too.” She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure that the woman was still behind her. “She was afraid I’d spill it, but I wouldn’t,” she told Melanie in what the little girl thought passed for a whisper. It didn’t.

  Theresa Manetti gave the glass of water to Jimmy. “There you go. Maybe this’ll help.” She smiled at the boy. “And if it doesn’t, I might have something else that will.”

  Brenda looked at the older woman and she squared her shoulders. “I’ve already had this discussion with that lady,” she waved her hand at Melanie. “We can’t afford a doctor. Jimmy’ll be fine in a couple of days,” she insisted, perhaps just a little too strongly, as if trying to convince herself as well as the women she was talking to.

  Theresa nodded. A mother of two herself, she fully sympathized with what Jimmy’s mother was going through. But she didn’t volunteer her time, her crew and the meals she personally prepared before coming here just to stand idly by if there was something she could do. Luckily, after her conversation with Maizie yesterday, there was. It was also, hopefully, killing two birds with one stone—or, as she preferred thinking of it, spreading as much good as possible.

  “Good to know, dear,” she said to Brenda, patting the woman’s shoulder. “But maybe you might want to have Dr. Mitch take a look at him anyway.”

  “Dr. Mitch?” Melanie asked. This was the first reference she’d heard to that name. Was the volunteer chef referring to a personal physician she intended to call?

  “Sorry, that’s what my friend calls him,” Theresa apologized. “His full name is Dr. Mitchell Stewart and he’s a general surgeon associated with Bedford Memorial Hospital—right down the road,” she added for Brenda’s benefit. “He’s been doing rather well these past couple of years and according to mutual sources, he wants to give a little back to the community. When I told Polly about it,” she said, referring to Polly French, the director of the shelter, “she immediately placed a call to his office and asked him to volunteer a few hours here whenever he could.” She moved aside the hair that was hanging in April’s eyes, fondly remembering when she used to do the same thing with her own daughter. “He’ll be here tomorrow. I’m spreading the word.”

  Brenda still looked somewhat suspicious of the whole thing. “We don’t need any charity.”

  “Seems to me that it’ll be you being charitable to him,” Theresa pointed out diplomatically. “If the man wants to do something good, I say let him.” Theresa turned her attention to Jimmy who had mercifully stopped coughing, at least for now. “What about you, Jimmy? What d’you say?”

  Jimmy looked up at her with hesitant, watery eyes. “He won’t stick me with a needle, will he?”

  “I don’t think he’s planning on that,” Theresa replied honestly. “He just wants to do what’s best for you.”

  “Then okay,” the boy replied, then qualified one more time, “as long as he doesn’t stick me.”

  Theresa smiled at Brenda. “Born negotiator, that one. Sounds a lot like my son did at that age. He’s a lawyer now,” Theresa added proudly. “Who knows, yours might become one, too.”

  The hopeless look on Brenda’s face said she didn’t agree, but wasn’t up to arguing the point.

  Theresa gently squeezed the woman’s shoulder. “It’ll get better, dear. Even when you feel like you’ve hit bottom and there’s no way back up to the surface, it’ll get better,” Theresa promised.

  For her part, Theresa was remembering how she’d felt when her husband had died suddenly of a heart attack. At first, she had been convinced that she couldn’t even go on breathing—but she had. She not only went on breathing, but she’d gone on to form and run a successful catering business. Life was nothing if not full of possibilities—as long as you left yourself open to them, Theresa thought.

  The last part of her sentence was directed more toward Melanie than to the young mother she was initially addressing.

  “I’d better get back to getting dinner set up,” Theresa said, beginning to walk away.

  Melanie followed in her wake. “Are you really getting a doctor to come to the shelter?” she asked.

  It was hard for her to believe and harder for her to contain her excitement. This was just what some of the children—not to mention some of the women—needed, to be examined by a real doctor.

  “Not me, personally,”
she told Melanie, “but I have a friend who has a friend—the upshot is, yes, there is a doctor coming here tomorrow.”

  “Photo op?” Melanie guessed. This was the Golden State and a lot of things were done here for more than a straightforward reason. It seemed like everyone thrived on publicity for one reason or another. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly, “some of these people really need to be seen by a doctor, but if this is just some kind of publicity stunt so that some doctor can drum up goodwill and get people to come to his state-of-the-art new clinic, or buy his new skin cream, or whatever, I don’t want to see Brenda and her son being used.”

  Sympathy flooded Theresa’s eyes. She had to restrain herself to keep from hugging Melanie. “Oh honey, what happened to you to make you so suspicious and defensive?”

  She was not about to talk about Jeremy, or any other part of her life. Besides, that had nothing to do with this.

  “This isn’t about me,” Melanie retorted, then caught hold of her temper. This wasn’t like her. She was going to have watch that. “This is about them.” She waved her hand toward where they had left Brenda and her children. “I don’t want them being used.”

  “They won’t be,” Theresa assured her kindly. “This doctor really does see the need to give back a little to the community.” That was the story Maizie and the doctor’s mother, Charlotte, had told her they’d agreed upon. “He’s a very decent sort,” she added.

  Melanie looked at her, confused. “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

  “I don’t,” Theresa readily admitted. “But I know the woman who knows his mother and Maizie would never recommend anyone—even a doctor—who was just out for himself.” Theresa paused for a moment as little things began to fall into place in her mind. She had the perfect approach, she thought suddenly, pleased with herself.

  “Dr. Mitch is a little...stiff, I hear, for lack of a better word. I hate to ask, but maybe you can stick around a little longer, act as a guide his first day here. Show him the ropes.”

  Melanie would have thought that Polly, the director who was bringing him on board, would be much better suited for the job than she was. “I don’t know anything about medicine.”

  “No, but you know people,” Theresa was quick to point out, playing up Melanie’s strengths, “and the ones around here seem to trust you a lot.”

  Melanie shrugged. She didn’t know if that was exactly accurate. She was just a familiar face for them. “They’re just desperate...” she allowed, not wanting to take any undue credit.

  Theresa laughed, nodding. “Aren’t we all, one way or another?” This was the perfect point to just retreat, before Melanie could think of any further objections to her interacting with Mitch on a one-to-one basis. So Theresa did. “I really do need to get back to the kitchen to get things set up and ready or dinner is going to be late,” she told Melanie.

  About to leave, Theresa hesitated. It wasn’t just small sad faces that got to her. She’d been infinitely aware of the sadness in Melanie’s eyes from the first moment she’d been introduced to the volunteer.

  Coming closer to Melanie, she lowered her voice so that only Melanie could hear her. “But I just wanted to tell you that should you ever need to talk—or maybe just need a friendly ear—I’m here at the shelter every other week.” She knew she was telling Melanie something that she already knew. “And when I’m not—”

  Digging into the pocket of her apron, Theresa extracted one of her business cards. Taking a pen out of the other pocket, she quickly wrote something on the back of the card, then held the same card out to Melanie.

  “Here.”

  Melanie glanced at the front of the card. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’m going to be having any parties that’ll need catering any time soon.”

  Theresa didn’t bother wasting time telling the young woman that she wasn’t offering her catering service, but her services as a sympathetic listener. “That’s my private number on the back. If I’m not home, leave a message.”

  Melanie didn’t believe in pouring out her heart and burdening people, especially if they were all but strangers. “But we don’t really know each other,” she protested, looking at the card.

  “That’s what phone calls are for,” Theresa told her. “To change that.” She paused for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say something further. “I know what it feels like to lose someone you love.”

  Melanie stared at her, stunned. She’d exchanged a few words with the other woman and found Theresa Manetti to be a very sweet person, but she’d never shared anything remotely personal with her, and certainly not the fact that her fiancé had been killed. Why was the woman saying this to her?

  As if reading her mind, Theresa told her, “The director told me about your young man. I am very, very sorry.”

  Melanie stiffened slightly. “Yes, well, I am, too,” she replied, virtually shutting down.

  But Theresa wasn’t put off so quickly. “I think it’s a very good thing, your being here. The best way to work through what you’re feeling right now is to keep busy, very, very busy. You have to stay ahead of the pain until you can handle it and it won’t just mow you down.”

  “I am never going to be able to handle it,” Melanie told her with finality.

  “I think you’re underestimating yourself,” she told Melanie. “You’re already thinking of others. Trying to talk that young mother into taking her son to see a doctor is definitely thinking of others.”

  Melanie’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the older woman. “How did you know?” She’d had that conversation with Brenda before Theresa had come on the scene.

  Theresa merely smiled, approximating, she knew, the look that sometimes crossed Maizie’s face. She swore that she and Celia were becoming more like Maizie every day. “I have my ways, dear,” she told Melanie just before leaving. “I have my ways.”

  Chapter Two

  He was having second thoughts.

  Serious second thoughts.

  Anyone who was vaguely acquainted with Dr. Mitchell Stewart knew him to be focused, dedicated, exceedingly good at everything he set out to do and definitely not someone who could even remotely be conceived of as being impetuous. The latter meant that having second thoughts was not part of his makeup.

  Ever.

  However, in this one singular instance, Mitch was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of what he had agreed to undertake.

  It didn’t mean that he wasn’t up to it because he lacked the medical savvy. What he would be doing amounted to practicing random medicine, something he hadn’t really done since his intern days. These days he was an exceptionally skilled general surgeon who garnered the admiration and praise of his colleagues as well as the head of his department and several members of his hospital’s board of directors.

  Mitch could truthfully say that he had never been challenged by any procedure he’d had to perform. In the arena of the operating world, it was a given that he shined—each and every time. He made sure of it, and was dedicated to continuing to make that an ongoing fact of his life.

  But just as he knew his strengths, Mitch was aware of the area where he did not shine. While he was deemed to be a poetic virtuoso with a scalpel, when it came to words, to expressing his thoughts and explaining what he was going to do to any layman, he was sadly lacking in the proper skills and he was aware of that.

  However, that was not enough for him to attempt to change anything that he did, or even to attempt to learn how to communicate better than he did. He didn’t have time for that.

  Mitch truly felt that successfully operating on an at-risk patient far outweighed making said patient feel better verbally about what was about to happen. His awareness of his shortcoming was, however, just enough for him to acknowledge that this was an area in which he was sorely lacking.

  Hence, the second thoughts.

  As he drove to the Bedford Rescue Mission now, Mitch readily admitted to himself that he’d agreed to
volunteer his services at the local homeless shelter in a moment of general weakness. His mother had ambushed him unexpectedly, showing up on his doorstep last Sunday to remind him that it was his birthday and that she was taking him out to lunch whether he liked it or not.

  She had assumed that as with everything else that didn’t involve his operating skills, he had forgotten about his birthday.

  He had.

  But, in his defense, he’d pointed out to her patiently, he’d stopped thinking of birthdays as something to celebrate around the time he’d turned eighteen. That was the year that his father had died and immediately after that, he’d had to hustle, utilizing every spare moment he had to earn money in order to pay his way through medical school.

  Oh, there had been scholarships, but they didn’t cover everything at the school he had elected to attend and he was not about to emerge out of medical school with a degree and owing enough money, thanks to student loans, to feed and clothe the people of a small developing nation for a decade. If emerging debt free meant neglecting everything but his work and his studies, so be it.

  Somewhere along the line, holidays and birthdays had fallen by the wayside, as well. His life had been stripped down to the bare minimum.

  But he couldn’t strip away his mother that easily. He loved her a great deal even if he didn’t say as much. The trouble was his mother was dogged about certain things, insisting that he at least spend time with her on these few occasions, if not more frequently.

  And, once he was finally finished with his studies, with his internship and his residency, it was his mother who was behind his attending social functions that had to do with the hospital where he worked. She had argued that it was advantageous for him to be seen, although for the life of him, he had no idea how that could possibly benefit him. He had no patience with the behind-the-scenes politics that went on at the hospital. As far as he was concerned, glad-handing and smiling would never take the place of being a good surgeon.

  In his book, the former didn’t matter, the latter was all that did.