Love's Healing Touch

by Jane Myers Perrine

  "You tell your parole officer how hard you've looked for work." He squeezed her hand. "We'll make it. We'll be fine."

  She stopped crying and wadded up the tissue. "Maybe I'll have to go back to forging paintings again."

  He dropped her hand and sat straight. "What?"

  "Dear," she said with a pitiful shrug, "forging is the only skill I have."

  "No, Mother, you are not going to go back to forgery. No, no, no!" When she didn't say anything, he added, "Your parole officer isn't going to like that."

  "What do I care?" She stretched her arms out, the bangles on her wrists sparkling in the light. "I have to take care of my boys."

  "No." Mike took both of her hands and turned her to face him. "Listen to me carefully. You're not going to go back to forging. Do you understand?"

  She dropped her hands into her lap and the bracelets gave a light jingle. "But I have to help you somehow. Forging is the only— "

  "I know you think it's the only skill you have, but it isn't true. You're friendly and good-looking. I say that even though you're my mother. You might be able to be a hostess in a restaurant or something."

  "I'd like that." She looked down at her finger, at the short but nicely manicured nails. "I don't want to go back to forging, but it's the only job I've ever made money at. My pictures were so lovely."

  "Yes, but you're not going to do that. You're not going back to that life." She still didn't respond. "And Mr. Ramírez would miss you."

  "Oh." She bit her lip. "That's true. Antonio would miss me if I went back to prison."

  "We all would." He spoke slowly. "And he would not like you to return to a life of crime."

  "I know."

  "Promise me you won't think about this anymore."

  "All right." She sighed. "It's so very discouraging not to be able to find a job when we need the money. I guess I fell back into old habits."

  "Old, bad habits."

  The conversation might have been funny if she hadn't been so serious. Had he convinced her to stay straight?

  So here he was, thirty minutes later, without a shower, driving to work at ten-fifteen, headed toward a job he both loved and hated.

  What was happening in that little house? His mother had considered returning to a life of crime. They had deep financial problems and his brother wanted to be a professional snowboarder.

  "Oh, God." The words left his mouth to his surprise. A prayer he hadn't planned to say had popped out.

  "Oh, God," he repeated. "Where are You when I need You?" He stopped at a light and watched for a sign that God was listening. He didn't know what he expected: A sudden strike of lightning? A small voice? Perhaps a wind or a shimmer of light? He looked for any response, but none appeared. Inside, he didn't experience the assurance of God's presence that used to be such an anchor in his life. "Oh, God," he whispered. "I'm worried about Tim, and my mom's unhappy. I'm working hard to live a good life. We all really need You now." He paused again. "Are You listening?"

  Again, no answer came.

  He'd gone to God in prayer at his lowest time but had received no reply.

  Well, that was it. If God wanted to talk with him, God was going to have to start the conversation.

  Chapter NineA typical Friday night in the emergency room— sliding from busy to hectic and headed straight toward chaotic. About 3:00 a.m., staff was pulled from other floors to pitch in.

  It had started with fifty guests at a banquet with food poisoning. Ten were admitted.

  If that wasn't enough of a mess, fifteen coeds from a college dorm came in suffering from exposure to an unidentified poisonous gas. Follow that with several car wrecks, a Harley accident, a couple of gang shoot-outs, miscellaneous chest pain, appendicitis and other cases Mike could no longer remember, and the staff was exhausted and drawn thin trying to cover it all.

  Still the ambulances came. Several were loaded with victims from a bar brawl while those in the waiting room filled that area and spilled onto the sidewalk.

  With the shrieks and roars of the ambulances, the shouts of vitals from paramedics, the moans of patients and the urgent questions of the families, the noise level intensified. Mike leaned against a wall outside Trauma 3 for a quick vertical nap, a talent he was perfecting, when another sound grabbed his attention.

  "Security," Dr. Ramírez yelled from Trauma 4. Shoving himself away from the wall, Mike ran into the cubicle just after the nurse ran out.

  Inside stood a man six inches taller than Mike and a hundred pounds heavier. Worse, he waved a long knife aimlessly around the cubicle.

  On the other side of the exam table, her escape route cut off by the man, Dr. Ramírez leaned against the wall of cabinets, her eyes wide and frightened. The man on the trauma bed had blood across the front of his T-shirt. From an earlier event or a wound from the armed guy? With his fingers curled around the railing of the bed, the patient looked terrified.

  Fear hit Mike hard, almost paralyzing him until a jolt of adrenaline kicked in. With that, he focused, first glancing at Ana then scrutinizing the room to get an idea of the layout and what was going on.

  "I'm gonna kill you, Benton." The guy with the knife kept shaking his head as if trying to clear it while the weapon shook in his hand.

  "Security," Mike called. Outside he heard people running around, the sound of panicked voices, but no help came. He moved around the room stealthily, shortening the distance been him and Ana while he tried not to alert the man of his progress.

  "Thought you'd get away with taking my girl, huh?" the man bellowed at the patient.

  "Leave it alone, Jimmy."

  The patient tried to speak calmly. Hard to do with a knife inches from his face Mike guessed. "It's over. Barb doesn't want to see you again. She's afraid of you."

  Jimmy growled as his lips became taut and misshapen in a chilling grin. As the big man moved around the bed and swiped the knife through the air, his face got even redder, so bright Mike wondered if he were going to have a stroke.

  Mike was only a few feet from Dr. Ramírez when she again shouted, "Security."

  Jimmy looked up at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Why are you staring, lady?"

  He turned toward her, raised his left hand— the one without the knife— and backhanded her hard across the face before Mike could move. By the time Jimmy could raise his fist to punch her again, Mike closed the last steps between them. With more strength than he believed he possessed, he sprang away from the wall and threw himself on the man's back. Once there, he reached over the man's shoulders with both arms, trying to keep his balance and to stop Jimmy before he could hurt Dr. Ramírez again.

  "Dear Lord, help us," Mike whispered. He kept his balance with his legs scissored around Jimmy's hips and battled for the weapon as the man twisted and twirled around the room in an effort to dislodge him. He prayed constantly for strength and courage, prayed he could distract Jimmy from Dr. Ramírez and the patient.

  "Security." Mike held on with a hammerlock, his left arm around the man's neck.

  Dr. Ramírez picked up an emesis basin and struck Jimmy on the arms with it, careful to miss Mike and leaping away from Jimmy's reach. As he fought, Jimmy swung his free hand and smashed into one of the large lights over the trauma bed, breaking the glass and cutting his hand. The crystals showered down on the patient and the floor while blood spouted and flowed down Jimmy's arm.

  Mike knew he couldn't hold out much longer against such a powerful opponent. Dr. Ramírez's efforts and the wound in Jimmy's hand seemed to make him even stronger, more violent, almost as if his anger fed off the battle.

  "Get off," Jimmy shouted. He shuffled backward and fell against the wall in an effort to smash Mike against it. Air shot out of Mike's lungs but he held on. He had to. At least he'd distracted Jimmy. At least the man had stopped threatening Dr. Ramírez.

  "Get out," Mike shouted to her as Jimmy moved away from the exit.

  But she ignored him. Instead she replaced the basin with a cru
tch and began to punch at Jimmy's body.

  Still Mike whispered a prayer with every breath. "Please, God. Please, God."

  "Security," she called as she landed a good blow in Jimmy's abdomen. It didn't seem to faze the man.

  "Shut up, everyone!" Jimmy brandished the knife and methodically beat his back against the wall, attempting to crush Mike with each slam.

  Even as Mike softened the blows by bending his knees and pushing away from the wall with his feet, it felt as if his legs were breaking. He didn't know how long they'd last under the bombardment.

  Then Mitchelson, the nurse, silently entered the small space. In a second, he grabbed the trauma bed with the patient on it, unlocked the brakes with his foot and shoved it outside. After that, he returned, moving around the edge of the room to take the crutch from Dr. Ramírez and stand in front of her.

  "What's the problem, buddy?" the RN asked in a soothing voice.

  "He's angry and high on something, maybe meth," Benton shouted from the hall.

  Which explained the man's incredible strength, Mike thought as he pulled himself higher on the man's back.

  "His name is Jimmy," Dr. Ramírez picked up another crutch and tried to push around Mitchelson.

  "Jimmy, you don't want to hurt anyone here," Mitchelson counseled.

  In response, Jimmy attempted to scrape Mike off again while he swung the knife toward Mitchelson.

  Just as Mike thought he'd have to let go, three security guards and Williams, the big orderly, hurtled through the open door. Seeing them, Jimmy grabbed the crutch Mitchelson held, swung it and hit one of the guards in the head, knocking him down and out.

  "You got his arms?" one of the guards asked Mike.

  "Not really." Wasn't the swinging crutch evidence of that? With his last bit of strength, he reached over Jimmy's shoulders and grabbed the crutch as Mitchelson took hold of the other end.

  "Hold on. We'll try to get his legs."

  After scuffling for a minute, the two guards, Mike and Mitchelson each had a limb while Williams had knocked the knife to the floor and held one of Jimmy's wrists in each of his beefy hands. A guard cuffed Jimmy, which took a lot of the fight out of him. Security hustled him from the cubicle and toward the outer door while Williams followed. Mike bent his knees and flexed them up and down to relieve the knotted muscles in his legs.

  "Cops are here," said a nurse to the medical team. "They'll want to talk to you."

  Mike and Dr. Ramírez stood against the cabinets, breathing deeply, her face mottled red and white where the man had hit her. "I was really scared," she said in a shaky voice and swallowed hard. "Really scared."

  "You were great." He opened him arms and pulled her into them while she shook. With one hand, he rubbed her back; with the other, he held her close, to keep her safe although the danger was over, but more to assure himself she was alive and pretty much unhurt. The fact that he held Ana, breathing, and thoroughly alive in his arms calmed him. He was not about to let go of her.

  "Um, Fuller, I hate to interrupt but he cut you," Mitchelson said. "Better let the doctor examine it."

  "He cut me?" Mike asked matter-of-factly as he reluctantly let go of Dr. Ramírez and stared at the blood dripping from a wound in his right arm. "I hadn't noticed."

  Immediately Dr. Ramírez became a doctor again. "On the trauma bed, Fuller." She looked around before realizing there was no bed and the room was covered with broken glass while the floor was littered with instruments. The knife shone silver and crimson against the white tile floor.

  "Guess this is a crime scene now," Mike said.

  "Okay, let's go to Exam 1." She pushed Mike ahead of her. "Mitchelson," she asked, once they were in the new room and Mike was on the trauma bed, "what happened to the patient who was in there before this started?"

  "Dr. Patel took him to Trauma 3. He's working on him while the police question him."

  "I don't even remember what was wrong with the man." Dr. Ramírez shook her head. "Let's get you taken care of, Fuller."

  "The police'll need a statement from us, too." Mitchelson got a suture tray while Dr. Ramírez cleaned the cut.

  "Your wound is long but not deep," she said as she examined Mike's arm. "Won't take much to hold it."

  By the time Dr. Ramírez had finished cleaning and closing the cut, Dr. Harmon, the Director of Emergency Services, bustled into the cubicle.

  "Is everyone all right?" She glanced from the gauze on Mike's arm to the bruise beginning to show around Dr. Ramírez's eye. "Guess not."

  "We're okay," Dr. Ramírez said. "Minor injuries. Fuller's arm will heal fine."

  Dr. Harmon strode toward Dr. Ramírez and studied the redness and start of swelling on her left cheek. "You're going to have a beautiful shiner there. Better put some ice on it. Olivia," she shouted. "Get an ice pack in here, stat." Then she pulled out a small flashlight to examine Dr. Ramírez's pupils. "They're okay, but go home and get some rest." She pointed a finger toward the door when no one moved. "Everyone, home!"

  "I can't." Dr. Ramírez moved away from the counter but had to lean against the trauma bed after her second step.

  "Doctor, you are in no condition to care for patients." Dr. Harmon squinted at her. Mike thought she might shake her finger if Dr. Ramírez kept disagreeing with her. "You're unsteady, and you won't be able to see out of that eye in a few hours."

  Although she kept her hand on the bed, Dr. Ramírez straightened and lifted her chin. "I'm not used to giving up. I can do this."

  "No, Doctor, you cannot. Go home and stay there for a few days. If not for yourself, think of your patients. Remember the damage you could do and the hospital's insurance rates."

  "I can't leave, not when we're so busy."

  "Yes, you can, Doctor." Her tone of voice became more authoritative. "When your boss tells you to, you'd better do exactly what she says." She turned toward Mitchelson and Mike. "How are the two of you?"

  Mike held up his bandaged arm. "Fine. A little cut."

  "No injuries." Mitchelson put his arms out to show her.

  "All right, you two gentlemen go home, too."

  "I can't leave. I need the money," Mike said.

  "You'll be paid for two shifts. I'll see to that. Don't forget to go to the business office and fill out the paperwork on worker's comp for an injury caused on the job." She waved them out of the exam room. "Get out, all of you. Just to be safe."

  Mike tried to support Dr. Ramírez as she left the trauma room, but she shook his hand off.

  "Thanks, but I can do this myself."

  "Are you sure?" Although he was worried about her balance, Mike recognized her mood and was careful not to take Dr. Ramírez's arm as they walked down the corridor.

  She nodded. Color had returned to her face and she'd stopped shaking and swaying, always a good sign. She held the ice bag Olivia had given her against her eye. "It hurts some, but I'm fine. I'm going to change clothes." She gestured to the lab coat smeared with Mike's blood. "Check in the business office then go home." She put her hand on his arm. "Thank you, Mike. You saved my life."

  Sometimes all her determination drove him crazy. He watched her walk down the hallway, ambling more than striding but she didn't put her hand against the wall so he guessed she felt steadier. He would have admired her display of self-sufficiency and grit if the whole experience hadn't been so frightening.

  Following instructions from security, Mike gave a statement to the police before he went to the business office to fill out forms. Focusing on the forms and his statement, the easy stuff, kept him from reacting to what had just happened.

  When he could no longer hide behind routine, when he had to face the attack and the danger to all of them, anxiety filled him. He relived the moment Jimmy hit Dr. Ramírez, and he'd been powerless to stop it. She could have been killed or badly hurt. So could he or Mitchelson. Considering what a crazy man with a knife could do, they'd been fortunate. More than fortunate. They'd been protected and blessed.

  "Th
ank you, God," he whispered.

  He looked down at his watch. Almost 7:00 a.m., time to leave, but he had someplace to go before he went home.

  * * *

  In the chapel, three pews lined each side of an aisle wide enough for wheelchairs. On the walls were beautiful stained-glass windows backlit to show scenes of Jesus healing the blind and lame, welcoming the children, curing the leper. A gold cross dominated a Communion table covered in rich green cloth.

  Alone in the chapel, Mike sank into a seat in the last row. Although he'd meant to kneel on the step in the front, his legs had turned so weak he couldn't walk farther. Back here, he sat in silence for a moment, eyes on the cross until the scene in the trauma room forced itself into his thoughts.

  Over and over again, he saw Jimmy with the knife, hovering over the patient; Jimmy slapping Dr. Ramírez; and Dr. Ramírez hitting him with the basin and crutch. Didn't she realize the danger she'd been in? He could feel himself, dizzily whirling around the room on Jimmy's back, certain the out-of-control man would crush him then go after the doctor with his knife.

  He shook all over as if he were chilling. Grasping his hands in an attempt to regain control, he sucked in huge gulps of air as he repeated, "The Lord is my shepherd," over and over. After what must have been at least ten minutes of those terrifying visions flickering through his brain, the shaking slowed and his breathing became close to normal.

  Little by little, he realized he wasn't alone. The chapel was filled by a presence. He could feel the Holy Spirit surrounding him, here to enfold and comfort him, to bring him courage and peace.

  "Thank you, God," he whispered, aware he and the Lord were communicating again, at last. What else was there to say? Because he didn't want to break this sense of closeness, he added, "For watching over us all, for keeping us safe." He paused because the last prayer was hard. "Please help Jimmy find his way."

  As he meditated, tears began to fall, but he didn't try to stop them. Instead, he reached for the box of tissue at the end of the pew to blot his cheeks while he allowed the tension and fear to flow from him. The disappointments and doubts of the past year poured out with them and he turned them over to God. In that moment of gratitude, he recognized God had always been near. God had listened to him every time, every second.