“It’s called considering your options.” Elliot shrugged. Honestly, he had no idea what his parents would think. Vicky and Mitchell wanted more grandbabies, no denying that, but enough to uproot themselves again and start over in another new state?
Probably. His dad’s immediate family had all lived on the ranch for the convenience of the work, but he had other relatives who’d moved from here to there to help out an ailing grandmother, a mama with a new baby and three kids under five, a cousin who’d relocated permanently to keep her uncle from having to go into a nursing home. The Rosses cared about family; Fia had picked up on that right away.
She paced the room, then stopped at the window, one hip leaning against the sill. “If you were any kind of ordinary guy, last night would have scared you off.”
“If I were any kind of ordinary guy, you wouldn’t have brought me home with you last night.” He mimicked her position at the other side of the window, but while she kept her gaze fixed outside, he kept his on hers.
“You didn’t sign up for this.”
“I don’t remember signing anything. I asked you for a drink. You asked me for a burger. I invited myself to your house to cook. You dragged me into bed—”
“Not that quickly, and you weren’t exactly resisting.” The memories softened the sadness on her face, sent a good deal of it fleeing. Those memories could brighten his day, too, from drab and dreary to blinding sunshine, flowers, and rainbows. Damn near every memory of her had that effect on him.
“You can’t make a commitment, Elliot. Because I blindsided you with my monster, you never had a chance to back off. You lacked valuable information that most likely would have led you to avoid intimacy with me. Now I can’t let you commit to me until we find out what’s wrong and what the prognosis is.”
His snort told her what he thought of that. “You can’t let me? Aw, darlin’, do you even know me?”
He stepped toward her, and she stepped back. “I know you’d never force yourself into a situation where you’re not wanted.”
“True.” He moved again, and so did she. “So you’re saying you don’t want me.”
Heat flushed her face, and her gaze shifted away. She couldn’t look him in the eye and lie. “That’s what I’m saying.”
The last step put her back to the wall, the bed table wedging her in. He didn’t crowd her, but he didn’t leave her room to escape, either. “Then you have to say it.”
“S-say it?”
“‘I don’t want you, Elliot. I don’t want to spend time with you. I don’t want to make love with you. I don’t like your hair or your body or your dog or your cooking or even your bread. I don’t like or want anything about you.’”
He fully believed she was capable of lying for someone else’s good, but not today. Her mouth opened, and a few breathy sounds even made it out, but she couldn’t say the words. Maybe it was pride; maybe her dignity didn’t want to put herself in the position of telling blatant untruths. Whatever the reason, when her jaw closed, it stayed closed.
Leaning forward, he kissed her, then teasingly rubbed his jaw against hers. She gasped at the stubble and pushed him back. Sometime in those last moments, she’d surrendered, at least for the time being. He could see it in the faint hope in her eyes. “You do that again, I’ll have new rashes to show the doctor tomorrow.”
“The new neurologist?”
She nodded.
“Can I go with you?”
She hesitated before giving half a nod. “My appointment’s at three thirty. You should already be off.”
“I’ll definitely be off.” An easy promise to make when his bosses were her best friends. “Do you feel up to some real lunch now? Maybe egg salad sandwiches?”
He was walking away when she caught his arm. The hope was gone, sadness back in its place. “This isn’t over. When I find out what’s wrong, you’ll be free to go. I won’t let you stay if it’s bad.”
Another spike of uncertainty ripped through his gut. But he gently patted her hand where it rested. “Yeah, you’d better be looking for some middle ground there, Sofia. I’m not so easy to get rid of.”
Leaving her to think about that, he left the bedroom, hooked on Mouse’s leash, and took her outside for a go around the yard. “Fia’s not the only one who needs to do some thinking, pup,” he murmured. “I need to figure out what that big mess of something in my stomach is and get rid of it.”
* * *
Fia had never been so nervous going to a doctor’s appointment. She’d worn a flowery, flowy dress and her favorite flip-flops and put on makeup—when she spent so much time at home, she grabbed whatever excuse she could find to pretty up—and knowing she looked good helped her confidence a little.
But confidence wasn’t the problem this afternoon. It was fear, a word she hated with a passion, that gnawed at her. Fear that the little hope flaring inside would soon die. Fear of expecting too much from the new doctor. Of being disappointed yet again or, worse, of hearing news so bad that she had no choice but to send Elliot away.
You didn’t have much luck with that yesterday.
Covering her grimace at Scott’s droll comment, she shifted awkwardly on the exam table. She’d never told a guy it was over and gotten a response like Elliot’s before. He was crazy for not taking the chance to run like hell.
He is crazy. About you.
It was a lovely thought that sent all sorts of sweet, warm feelings through her, quivering her nerves and shivering everything else. But…
Aw, hell, she hated that word with a passion, too.
It was nearing five o’clock when the doctor came in. All doctors ran late, she’d learned, though sometimes it seemed military doctors ran later. He was a slight, nice-looking guy, his black hair cut high and tight, his glasses reminding her of Harry Potter. He looked about as old as Harry in the first movie, way too young to be a board-certified neurologist. Had he graduated medical school at the same time he finished Hogwarts?
He extended his right hand. “I’m Dr. Haruno. You’re Sofia?”
“Fia, please. And this is Elliot.”
After they exchanged handshakes, he sat on the wheeled stool and adjusted his glasses. “I apologize for being late. I just got here last week, and I’ve been trying to go over all my patient records on the run. It’s a good thing we’ve gone digital because a print copy might weigh more than you.”
She smiled faintly. Her health record before all this began had been minimal: patient healthy, blood work and Pap smears normal. Hardly even enough to qualify for a file.
“They’ve tested you every which way, haven’t they?”
She nodded grimly, hoping he wouldn’t want to redo the tests looking for different results. She’d been taken enough electroencephalograms, slid into enough MRI chambers, and had enough blood tests and lumbar punctures to last a lifetime.
“I won’t repeat all the tests, but I noticed that it’s been a while since your last MRI and lumbar puncture, and I’d like to see how things look now. I also didn’t find any record of an electromyogram, which you should have had back in the beginning. It’s a test that records the electrical activity of muscles. It’s not too bad. They’ll ask you to wear loose shorts and a T-shirt, or they’ll put you in a gown, then poke a few needles in you and zap them with current. Does that sound like something you could put up with?”
Fia glanced at Elliot, swiftly looking away before she made eye contact. “I can give it my best shot.”
“Okay then.” The doctor’s owlish gaze met Elliot’s before fixing on hers. “According to his notes, your previous doctor discussed the possibility of MS with you.”
“Yeah, but he ruled it out.” She’d been grateful for that, since she knew just two details about multiple sclerosis, and they both scared the crap out of her: It was a disease that attacked the central nervous system, which she needed for, well, everything, and it had no cure. When the last doc had taken MS off the table, she’d thanked God.
Was D
r. Haruno putting it back up for consideration?
Still avoiding looking into Elliot’s face, she swiped her damp palms on her dress. That big tight feeling in the pit of her stomach was familiar, anxiety and fear and nausea and hope and dread, a combination she’d tolerated every time she’d thought the staff was going to tell her something important.
Wheels squeaking, Dr. Haruno rolled the stool to the cabinet, where he could have back support. “Generally speaking, multiple sclerosis isn’t really something you rule out. There’s no definitive test that says yes, you have it or no, you don’t, though researchers are working on that. Usually, the way you diagnose MS is by ruling out everything else with the same or similar symptoms.”
Elliot leaned forward in his chair. “Are you saying that pretty much everything else has been ruled out?”
“Like I said, I want to dig deeper into her records and make sure I haven’t overlooked anything. But given what I’ve seen so far, I’m thinking that’s what we’re looking at here.”
“Why didn’t any of the other doctors think that?” It was Elliot speaking again because Fia was fixated on the turmoil in her stomach that was rising into her chest, tightening her throat, and swirling up into her brain. This appointment day had been just like every other appointment day. Was it really possible it was going to turn out to be totally different? Was she actually going to get a diagnosis after so many months of praying and hoping? And did it have to be a diagnosis that was so damn scary?
Dr. Haruno’s expression remained solemn. “MS can be difficult to diagnose because the symptoms vary widely from patient to patient. There’s a term in medicine, the Great Imitator, that refers to a number of systemic diseases that have nonspecific symptoms, symptoms that can be found in numerous other conditions. MS is one of the Great Imitators.”
Then his manner changed from confident and serious to awkward, as if he wasn’t comfortable with what he was about to say. More bad news? Did he suspect she had the most aggressive form of the disease?
“I don’t mean to criticize your other doctors. I don’t know them. I wasn’t here. But…doctors are like any other professionals. Some are passionate about what they do. Some can’t stand a problem they can’t solve, so they don’t quit until they do. Some see it as a job. They show up on time, put in some effort, but they don’t really invest themselves in their patients’ problems. And some are just calling it in.” His face flushed, he shrugged. “I’m just saying that in my opinion, MS should have been fully explored as a likely diagnosis a long time ago.”
Fia’s shoulders slumped before she stiffened them. A diagnosis was good, even when it was bad. A diagnosis meant treatment, medication, knowledge, support, understanding. And if it couldn’t be cured, maybe it could be managed decently. And with all the billions of dollars going into research, maybe a cure was around the corner. Maybe five years, ten, fifteen, they’d have a magic pill that would make her all better.
A lump swelled in her throat, and tears filled her eyes. She would not cry, not in front of the high school doctor boy and for damn sure not in front of Elliot. She’d wanted a diagnosis; now warrior girl had to deal with it.
Dr. Haruno laid his hand over hers. “It’s not an easy thing to hear. But it’s treatable, Fia. You’ll have a normal lifespan. You can have children if you want them. The disease is important, and it always will be, but the treatments provide work-arounds. You can live a fairly normal life when you’re in remission, and hopefully we can lessen the occurrence and severity of your relapses.”
So her good days were remissions, and the bad ones were relapses. See? She’d already learned something new about MS.
“Do you have any questions?”
Her smile was unsteady. “I need to go home and learn something so I can figure out what questions to even ask.”
He opened a cabinet door and pulled out a handful of pamphlets. “These will get you started, and of course there’s tons of information on the Internet. Just remember, a lot of what’s on there isn’t true, so don’t let any of it scare you before we talk again. So here’s the plan: I’ll get you scheduled for an MRI, a lumbar puncture, and an EMG as soon as they can work you in, then see you back here. We’ll talk about medication, physical therapy, alternative therapies like yoga and acupuncture, and we’ll figure out a plan for you. Sound good?”
“Yeah.” She had to force in a breath. “About as good as being told I probably have an incurable disease can sound.”
He stood, and so did she, stepping down from the table while he held her hand. “Remember what they say: Knowledge is power. Knowing what you’re up against takes away most of the fear.”
She clenched the pamphlets in one hand. “Then I’d better go home and absorb a whole lot more knowledge. Thank you, Dr. Haruno.”
When he left, Elliot claimed the hand he’d held. There was such comfort in his fingers around hers. This was a hand she could hold forever…depending on what she learned.
“You ready to go home?” he asked in that husky voice she adored so much.
She squeezed her eyes shut to force back the tears, breathed deeply to clear her throat and lungs, then gave him a dismal smile. “Yup.” As they walked through the clinic, then out to the elevator, she asked, “What did you think of him?”
“I think he’s one of those passionate people who don’t rest until they solve every problem they come across.”
“Me, too.” Though the last doctor had fooled her. He’d jumped to attention and seemed all passionate and concerned once Jessy and Patricia had told him what they expected, but apparently he’d just gone through the motions. With her life.
She remained quiet until they’d left the building and crossed the lot to Elliot’s truck. With a heavy sigh, she stood next to it, head tilted back, the sun warm on her face. The hardest thing about adjusting to Oklahoma had been the winters. Though her home state didn’t hold many good memories for her outside of Scott, when it came to weather, she was definitely a bright-sunshine-and-sandy-beach girl. It healed what ailed her.
But not this time.
Elliot had opened the door and was waiting, a grim look replacing his usual Zen-ness. She glanced at the booklets, the words multiple sclerosis jumping out at her, then gazed into the distance. “All along, I’ve been nursing this secret hope that everything was going to be okay. That it was just some funky fluke, some mysterious ailment that would run its course and miraculously disappear.” Her voice quavered, but for the first time, she didn’t try to hide it. “Even when I tried to prepare myself for the worst, there was always this optimistic little voice inside, whispering, But maybe…just maybe…”
The sun’s warmth drained away, leaving her chilled and empty. “Now there’s no more maybe.”
Elliot wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, enfolding her in the security of his embrace. She wanted to stay there forever. Wanted to break down and sob and be weak and let the fear consume her, knowing he would keep her safe, that when she was done, he would put her back together again.
She didn’t break. She couldn’t. But she leaned against him, drew strength from him, absorbed heat and life and hope from him. She stayed there until everything inside her began to settle, until the need to fall apart passed, and then she lifted her head and smiled weakly at him. “I guess we should go home.”
“And learn things,” he said, then a hint of his usual demeanor cracked his solemn façade. “Knowledge is power.”
With his help—she didn’t need it, just wanted it—she climbed into the truck, fastened her seat belt, and watched him walk around to the driver’s door. If the two most important men in her life said it, then it must be true.
But she could barely resist the urge to point out to them that, sometimes, ignorance could be bliss.
* * *
The last time Marti had invited someone to her house for dinner had been more than eight years ago, before Joshua’s last deployment, when he’d been there to man the grill and her only resp
onsibility had been tossing a salad and taking bread from the oven. The guests had been Lucy and Mike Hart and another couple from the guys’ squad, and they’d sat on the patio late into the night, filled with steaks and grilled potatoes, and laughed and drunk cheap wine and beer.
Idly she wondered what had happened to that other couple. The husband had deployed with Joshua and Mike; he’d survived the battle that killed them; and his wife had basically removed herself from Marti’s and Lucy’s lives. Sometimes people just didn’t know what to say. Sometimes they found the widow too frightening a reminder of the danger their spouses were in. Some widows resented it, were hurt, but it had just made Marti appreciate the ones who stuck around, like the margarita girls, that much more.
“Is the table set?”
She glanced up from laying the last piece of silverware on the dining table and smirked. “Yes, Mom, it’s done.”
Cadence, wearing an apron over her tee and shorts, placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head the way Eugenie always did when she was inspecting someone’s work. “Did you use real napkins, not paper?”
“Yes.”
“Real plates, not foam?”
“Of course.”
“The good silver?”
“It’s all good.” Passing her, Marti pinched her cheek on her way into the kitchen. “I can’t believe you brought an apron from home with you.”
“I didn’t. It’s yours.”
“I have an apron?”
“I found it in the pantry.”
Marti widened her eyes. “I have a pantry?”
Cadence swatted her before returning to stir the sauce on the stove. When Marti had mentioned that she needed to talk to Dillon—the paper bearing the information she had for him crinkled in her hip pocket—it had been Cadence’s idea to invite him for dinner. But I can’t cook, Marti had reminded her, and Cadence had rolled her eyes. I’ll cook. She knew only one dish—spaghetti and meat sauce—but it was very good. Add a loaf of garlic bread from the bakery, and poof! Dinner.
A Summer to Remember Page 27
