Love's Healing Touch

by Jane Myers Perrine

  "Isn't she talented?" He turned toward Mike, beaming proudly.

  "I've always known she was."

  His mother didn't notice either him or Mr. Ramírez, too wrapped up in her creations.

  * * *

  A week later, Ana searched in her purse for the key to her apartment. When she found it, Mike put it in the lock and opened the door.

  "Thanks for a great lunch," she said.

  He wished he could say something romantic and flowery. But every word seemed to stick in his throat and jam up in his mouth if he tried.

  "Yeah. Great," he said instead.

  She smiled. "I wish you didn't have to work the early shift, but I'll see you later."

  He gave her a quick kiss.

  Without bothering to take the elevator, he just ran down the stairs filled with happiness and energy. Life was terrific. Tim had gone to the recruiting office last week, taken a test and was pretty much set to leave for basic training in four months. Before that, he had to meet with the recruiting officer to set things up, but it sounded as if Tim's life and plans were set for a few years.

  His mother's creations filled several walls of the hospital. On top of her success, she'd received a raise and an increase in hours to thirty a week. She and Mr. Ramírez were happily courting. When Mike'd asked her if they were getting serious, she'd laughed and waved her hands but given no information. A true Fuller.

  The best part, what made him happiest, was Ana. She'd gone with him to church for two more weeks. He knew she'd gone with him the first time to please him, but she had reminded him last week to pick her up Sunday. More surprisingly, they'd discussed faith a few times. She was still skeptical but had been willing to listen and ask questions.

  All in all, life was good. His family seemed on the right track and he was in love.

  Yeah, no use denying it. He was in love and very pleased about it. She was the right woman for him: smart, pretty and caring. Their interest in medicine gave them a strong tie. When he looked back, he realized how shallow the relationship between him and Cynthia had been, based on her beauty and his future. He'd liked to show Cynthia off, amazed that a woman like her could love little Mike Fuller, son of an ex-con. She liked to say, "Mike's in medical school."

  Ana accepted him as who he was— well, except that one thing. He didn't communicate well. He'd never been able to, but, as long as life was good, he didn't have to dwell on those old hurts or hide those parts of him he didn't want to share with anyone. He could bury them deep where they wouldn't bother anyone.

  He believed Ana cared for him. They were together as often as they could work out. They had fun, as well as interesting conversations. And he really, really liked to kiss her.

  * * *

  By the time he saw Ana at work that evening, he wasn't feeling nearly as great as he had earlier. His head was pounding and his joints felt as if he'd been stomped on by a herd of orderlies. Did he have a temperature? He thought so but didn't want to know. If he did have one, he'd probably feel worse.

  Ana didn't let him off as easily. She watched him during staff change, then charged toward him when she saw him in the hall.

  "Stand still." She put her hand against his forehead. "Olivia, get Fuller's temperature."

  He was running a fever of 101.

  Ana put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Why are you here? Don't you realize your illness jeopardizes both patients and staff?"

  "But I can't go home. I need— "

  "Listen, Fuller, I'm speaking as Dr. Ramírez so you have to listen to me. Go home now."

  Not strong enough to argue and knowing he'd lose anyway, he nodded, went into the staff locker room and got his billfold and keys.

  "Okay, what's the matter with you?" Ana entered the room behind him. Now she was both the professional Dr. Ramírez and his girlfriend, a difficult balancing act.

  "Headache." He put his hand on his forehead. "Weak and achy."

  "Go home. Drink plenty of water and sleep. Take some aspirin to bring down the temperature if your stomach can handle it." She shook her finger in front of him. "Don't come back until you're not contagious and," she said in a softer voice, "until you feel a lot better."

  She glanced around the room, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Go on. Get in bed and get well."

  "I'll be back tomorrow," he said in an effort at humor that didn't work at all. He gave her a pathetic grin and headed for the parking lot.

  It was almost midnight when he got home. As he drove down the street, he saw a movement in the bushes next to the window of the bedroom he and Tim shared.

  Was someone trying to get in? Not that they had anything worth stealing, but Mom and Tim were in there. He wished he had a cell phone, but his was in the house for everyone to use.

  He turned off the headlights and pulled up a few houses past theirs. Making as little noise as possible, he opened the door and slid out. Ignoring his shaky legs, he hunkered down and crept silently around the neighbor's yard and through his backyard.

  When he could see between the houses, the shadow moved and became a person. He sneaked closer to the figure of a man who looked a few inches shorter than he and about thirty pounds lighter. He could probably take him if he had to. Well, maybe if the intruder was also suffering from the flu and had the strength of lettuce, Mike could take him.

  Mike slid behind a crepe myrtle to see if the man was breaking in, but he had to lean against the wall to rest for a few seconds first.

  No, the prowler had placed the screen against the house— had he already been inside?— and was moving away from it. He had nothing in his hands, but he could have hurt the family. Should Mike check inside the house or chase the man? He'd never catch him, not with his legs still shaking. He couldn't climb in the window due to his painful joints, so he watched.

  As the figure reached the front yard, a car drove up, a dark SUV with silver flames on the side. When the man ran toward it, Mike recognized the jacket in the illumination of the streetlight. It was his. Then he recognized Tim's familiar lope and ran after him as fast as he could, which matched the speed of an arthritic snail.

  "What in the world do you think you're doing?" Mike said as Tim opened the door of the SUV. "Tim, get back here."

  Tim froze. Mike hadn't ever seen anyone freeze like this except in a movie. It was as if the words had fallen over his head and down his body like a blanket of ice.

  "Tim, come here."

  Tim turned toward his brother but didn't move closer.

  "Hey, are you coming?" a male voice asked from the SUV.

  "Go on." Tim closed the door and waved toward the driver. "Get out of here."

  The tires squealed as the car took off. Step by hesitant step, Tim moved closer to the house. Mike expected him to say, "I can explain," but he didn't.

  "Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Mike asked.

  He was beginning to feel even worse. With the adrenaline rush when he believed his family was in danger, he'd been able to function. Now the headache throbbed so much he felt as if someone were driving a spike through his eye. He was so weak he had to hold on to the porch column to stay on his feet. Slowly he sank to the ground.

  "Hey, what's the matter?" Tim leaned over his brother.

  "Don't change the subject." Mike stared up at him from his position on the grass and made an effort to sound intimidating. "Where were you going?"

  Tim put his hand on Mike's forehead. "You're hot. You're really sick."

  "Where were you going?" He wished he could go to bed instead of carrying on this conversation. Sweat dripped down his forehead and body. When a light, warm breeze hit him, it nearly knocked him over. He shivered.

  "You should be in bed."

  "Tell me the truth. I'd rather be in bed, but I'm not going to do that until I find out more." Although he feared he might die first.

  "A bunch of us were going for a drive."

  "A ride after midnight? Don't kid me. Why did you climb out
of the window?"

  Tim didn't answer immediately. He shifted from foot to foot, an action Mike could see very well from his seat on the ground.

  "I didn't want Mom to hear me close the front door. It has a really bad squeak."

  Mike's body slowly listed to the left until he allowed himself to lie prone, hardly the most threatening position. "Why?" he murmured.

  "You need to go to bed."

  "Tim, why?" he forced the words out.

  "Rudy wanted to do some stuff."

  "Rudy? The kid with the juvie record who lives two blocks over?"

  "Yeah, but he's really a nice guy."

  "Guns?" He couldn't talk enough to form a complete sentence.

  "No, no guns." Tim sat on the ground next to his brother. "Just some fun."

  "Knocking over mailboxes? That kind?"

  He thought Tim nodded but, of course, with his eyes closed, he couldn't see the action. "When I'm feeling better, you're in a whole lot of trouble." After a few minutes of silence during which Mike almost fell asleep on the ground, he said, "For now, help me up." He reached out his hand for Tim to grab and pull him to his feet. They limped into the living room where Mike collapsed on the sofa, unable to go another step.

  As he fell asleep, Mike had an unnerving thought. His brother had felt the call of the wild again, the terrible gene of danger that wandered through his family and had destroyed several of them. What was Mike going to do to stop that?

  Obviously nothing tonight.

  Three days passed before Mike was able to get to his feet for longer than a few minutes. Ana had visited the day after he'd left the hospital sick. First she greeted his mother, who was hovering over Mike and driving him crazy.

  As a doctor, Ana checked on him, diagnosed the disease as a virus, and told him to keep forcing liquids and stay in bed. Then, as Ana, she gave him a bunch of flowers and kissed his forehead. Nice. On the second day, she read the newspaper to him while his mother cooked his favorite food to try to tempt his appetite. It didn't work, but he appreciated the effort more than he had her pillow fluffing.

  All those days he was sick, Mike had stayed on the sofa. Although it was too short for him, he didn't notice that first twenty-four hours. Then, even sick as he was, he couldn't rest in the bedroom with a two-foot-high accumulation of Tim's clothing— dirty and clean— empty soft-drink cans and other unidentifiable debris covering the floor. He didn't have the strength to pick them up. Besides, out here he could sleep through a few more baseball games.

  As Mike began to feel better on the third day, Tim got sick and spent the next few days on the bottom bunk.

  By the time Mike was better, he'd missed five days of work. Although he'd accumulated sick days, he couldn't use them until he'd completed the six-month probation period. That was money he couldn't make up quickly because he was in no condition to do overtime.

  Tim had missed three days at the burger place so far, and their mother had missed hours of work taking care of them.

  The financial situation looked bleak and was even worse when he found a check for sixty dollars their mother had written for paint supplies. He knew there was a huge charge for the antibiotic for Tim when his virus went into bronchitis. Thank goodness Ana had taken care of Tim. They could never have afforded to pay a doctor.

  * * *

  The evening of his fifth night off, Ana dropped by with chocolate ice cream for Mike to put some weight back on him. When she saw him, she asked, "What are you doing up and dressed?" She glared at him. "You don't plan to go to work, do you?" When he didn't answer, she glared even more fiercely. "You can't go back to work. You're too weak. You won't make it until midnight."

  "I'm fine."

  "Sure you are." She put a hand on his chest and pushed gently. He dropped down on the sofa. "See." She sat next to him. "Mike, this is a very serious virus. It really saps your strength. We've admitted a lot of people to the hospital."

  "See, that's another reason I have to go to work." He stood. "You're not my supervisor and you're not my doctor. You can't tell me what to do."

  "Oh?" Her expression hardened. "If I'm not your supervisor or doctor, what am I to you?"

  It took a few seconds for both of them to realize what she'd said, really said. She'd asked about their relationship. She hadn't meant to, but it had popped out when he listed what she wasn't.

  She guessed he hadn't thought the conversation would turn to this and maybe it was mean to ask him when he was so weak, but she wanted to know.

  After a long pause during which he sat on the arm of the sofa and she shoved the ice cream into his hand, he said, "You're my good friend."

  That's great. He considered her his good friend? "Do you often kiss your good friends?"

  "Shh!" He waved his hands toward the kitchen. "Mom can hear you."

  "I don't care." When she took a step toward him, he attempted to move back on the arm of the sofa until he couldn't move farther away.

  "No." He cleared his throat. "You're more than that, but I don't know how to describe it. I'm not good at that, and I still feel bad."

  His complexion had taken on a greenish tinge on top of the earlier pale gray. He wasn't well. He'd lost so much weight his jeans hung on him. She sighed. Even though he was playing on her sympathy, this wasn't the time to press him. Besides, she feared he'd tell her she was a nice lady next, and her ego couldn't handle that. She took pity on him and changed the subject although he wouldn't like this one, either.

  "Mike, you cannot go to work tonight. As you said, I'm not your doctor, but I am a doctor. What I say about your condition will have influence in the E.R. A doctor has to clear you for work after this long an absence. None of them will, not after I talk to them."

  An expression of relief skimmed across his face. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Okay. One more day."

  "I'll come by and check on you tomorrow. If you're stronger, I'll clear you, but no overtime until I say so."

  "Yes, Doctor." He opened his eyes and grinned.

  "I'm going to check on Tim while I'm here." She headed toward the bedroom.

  "You're a really nice person," Mike mumbled before he fell asleep, still sitting on the sofa with his head resting against the wall.

  Not as bad as being a nice lady, but she still wished she hadn't heard those words.

  Chapter FourteenThe next day, Mike felt stronger, but Ana couldn't drop by and check on him. She'd called that morning to tell him she'd now caught the virus, as well, had left the E.R. early and was at her father's home where the family could take care of her.

  He consoled her until she stopped speaking and he heard a sharp voice on the other end of the line.

  "Ana, you go to bed, now." After a pause, the same voice said, "Hi, Mike, this is Luz. My stubborn sister almost fell asleep while you were talking so I sent her to bed."

  "How's she doing? Really."

  "Probably about the same as you were on your first day of this stuff." She sighed. "She's the worst patient you can imagine."

  "Really?" he asked, not a bit surprised.

  "She's so hardheaded. She knows she can do anything if she pushes hard enough. She hates being weak, so this is really tough on her, but it's worse on the family."

  "I'm sorry for all of you."

  There was a pause while Mike heard Luz put a hand over the phone and say, "Get back in bed or I'll drag you there." Then she said to Mike, "Bye," and hung up.

  After he showered, shaved and got dressed, he looked in on Tim. The kid had really been sick but that wasn't going to save him from a reaming out as soon as Tim could stay awake for five minutes and as soon as he could force himself to do that.

  Mom fixed him breakfast, a nice bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar. For the first time in days, Mike had an appetite.

  "May I have another?" He spooned the cereal into his mouth, finished that and held the bowl out. "Please."

  "Of course. I've got to get some weight back on you." She placed the second serving in front o
f him. "I want you to rest until it's time to go to work."

  He wanted to protest, but it would be childish. She was right. Maybe that was what becoming an adult was: recognizing that what your mother said made sense. Occasionally.

  Breakfast finished and the dishes washed, he went back into the bedroom he and Tim shared and began to pick up clothes, dishes and stuff he preferred not to identify. Once he could walk across the floor without tripping, he pulled the sheets off Tim, who groaned but didn't wake up, and dumped them in the laundry bag with the clothes to take to the Soap and Spin.

  "Mom," he shouted from the front door, "You'll need to put clean sheets on Tim's bed. I'm taking these to the Laundromat." He escaped before she could say anything.

  By noon, he had a pile of clean laundry but had begun to wish he'd listened to his mother. When he got home, he carried the basket inside. Before he could do more, he dropped on the sofa and fell asleep.

  Waking up when his mother called felt like struggling up through deep mud. He lay on the sofa for a few minutes, forcing himself to move, but his body refused to respond.

  "It's seven-thirty, Mike." She stood at the arch into the kitchen. "I have your dinner ready and your lunch packed. Are you going to see Ana before you go to the hospital?"

  He nodded.

  "Good. Antonio wants me to come over. I'll go with you and he'll drive me home." She smiled and her eyes shone with joy.

  * * *

  Everyone was conspiring against her, enjoying her weakened state. Luz had left at noon and put her in the unsympathetic hands of Martita. Her sister-in-law had given her a sponge bath when Ana wanted a shower. This request had been refused only because Ana couldn't stand on legs made treacherously unsteady by this stupid illness.

  Then Martita, the devious woman, had given her a back rub that lulled Ana to sleep. She napped until almost four o'clock. Now, since Mike had called to say he'd be by on the way to the hospital, she wanted to get up and get dressed, but Martita and her father had refused to allow it.

  Martita washed Ana's face again, helped her put on makeup over Ana's loud protests that she could do it herself. That completed, Martita had swaddled her in a warm gown and robe, helped her into a chair in the living room and tossed a blanket over her. As if she couldn't walk to the living room herself. Of course she could, although there had been that one little trip over the edge of the throw rug. She'd never noticed how dangerous that spot was before.