Love's Healing Touch

by Jane Myers Perrine

  Then Mike had arrived. With a kiss on the cheek, he'd awakened her from yet another nap.

  "You're so skinny." Oh, bother. She could feel tears gather in her eyes. What an idiot she was, so sentimental, so emotional. She hated being sick. "I'm glad to see you."

  He handed her a tissue.

  "I don't need that." She waved it away. "I'm not crying. I never cry."

  Why did everyone smile when she said that?

  "Querida," her father said. Why would he call her his darling when she was acting like such a cranky person? "You're sick. You can cry over nothing when you're sick."

  "While you were asleep," Martita said, "Francie brought you some of Manny's chicken soup. I'll fix you a cup later."

  "How nice." She lay back and put her arm over her eyes so no one could see the tears.

  "Honey, it's okay." Mike kneeled on the rug in front of the sofa, gently moved her arm aside and blotted her cheeks with the tissue. "You're human."

  "What a terrible thing to say."

  "You can't reason with her," Martita said. "I've always heard doctors were the worst patients. Don't we know that."

  After a few minutes, Mike stood and his mother took his place, brushing Ana's hair back and cooing soothingly.

  "Ana, I've got to get going to the hospital. I'll be back tomorrow. What can I bring you?"

  "Just you," she said. "Don't overwork yourself. Rest whenever you can."

  "Yes, Dr. Ramírez." He laughed and headed outside.

  Ana closed her eyes. She had a virus. It would take a few days to shake it, but soon she'd be as healthy as Mike.

  But, oh, how she hated to be sick.

  * * *

  The next few days were a nightmare for Mike. It had been a killer virus, as Ana had said. Still not at full strength, he struggled through an eight-hour shift, then went home, called Ana. After that, he'd go to bed and sleep until noon. His mom awakened him for lunch, he read his anatomy book until he dozed off and slept until she woke him up again at eight to eat and go see Ana.

  He was so tired when he went into work at ten-thirty he wondered how he'd make it. He had no illusions he could work a double shift. With Tim sick, his younger brother wasn't earning a penny. Fortunately, he was well enough for Mom to work her full thirty hours, but they were so far behind financially.

  He hadn't discussed the paint and supplies Tessie had bought. They'd work that out.

  What he dreaded most was that he still hadn't talked to Tim about his sneaking out of the house the night Mike got sick. He didn't want to. Confrontation was his least favorite thing in the world. Mike preferred withdrawal, and he knew Tim well enough to know his little brother would make the conversation as difficult as possible.

  When Mike got home after his second night back at work, he pulled out the checkbook and looked at his budget. They were okay now, but after he paid the bills there wouldn't be enough money and not much coming in. He'd have to take money from his savings, which would wipe out that account. He dropped his head in his hands. He'd have to work overtime or they wouldn't be able to eat.

  He could take the bus home from work, but not to work because there were no connections that late at night. What good would it do to have someone take him and drive home so he could save gas money taking the bus home? None of the other graveyard shift staff lived in this direction, so carpooling was out.

  What was left to cut? Nothing. He'd have to work more hours.

  The sound of someone moving around awakened him at ten-thirty. "Tim?"

  "Yeah. I'm fixing breakfast."

  He stood and went into the kitchen. "We need to talk."

  "What part— " Tim bit the words off "— of 'I'm eighteen' don't you understand?"

  "The part about 'I can do whatever I want and won't get into trouble with the law.' That's the part."

  "I wasn't going to get in trouble." He slid the eggs from the skillet onto his plate. "We were going to drive around, that's all."

  "No throwing eggs? No paint cans? No vandalism?"

  Tim shook his head and shoved two pieces of bread in the toaster.

  "Did anyone have a gun?"

  "How would I know? You didn't even let me get into the car."

  "Tim, you could have ignored me. You could have gotten into that car, but you didn't. That makes me feel that deep down you knew whatever was going to happen wasn't what you wanted, really wanted, to do."

  Instead of leaving the kitchen, Tim sat down and began to spread peanut butter on his toast.

  "Was there beer involved?" Mike asked.

  Tim frowned. "You know I'm not old enough."

  "Like that's ever stopped a kid."

  Tim shrugged and took a bite of toast.

  "Playing chicken?" Mike asked.

  "Driving fast, most likely. Maybe shooting paint-balls. I don't know." He chewed and swallowed. "I didn't go."

  "How many times have you sneaked out?"

  "A couple." He slapped the table with his fist. "You don't know how hard it is to make friends when you're out of school. Everyone I work with is going to college. The Montoyas live on the other side of town, and we have only one car."

  "I know that's tough."

  "Sure you do." He stood. "You're Super-Mike. You're smart. You're good-looking. You make friends easily. How would you know?" He turned, took a step and tossed the dishes toward the sink. "Everyone says I should be like you, hardworking, responsible, never get in trouble." He scowled. "Well, I'll never be as smart or good as you so I might as well give up trying."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You know, Mr. Perfect."

  Mike got up and followed Tim into the bedroom they shared. "I'm not Mr. Perfect."

  "Sure."

  "Tim, I did something really stupid, something criminal when I was eighteen." He leaned against the wall. "I got someone I really love in trouble for that, and I'll never forgive myself."

  "What?" Tim swiveled to look at him. "What did you do?"

  "I can't tell you."

  Tim took off and tossed his T-shirt in the direction of the hamper. "Then I bet it didn't happen. You're making that up to scare me."

  "No, I'm not. Believe me. I can't tell you because the person I hurt, the person who ended up taking the blame made me swear never to tell anyone." He put his hands in his pocket. "I broke that promise once for a good reason, and that person got very angry with me. I'm not going to do it again."

  Tim ambled over and leaned against the wall facing Mike. "You really messed up? You know what it's like?"

  "I was as short as you were in high school, didn't grow until I was a senior. I lived with six or seven foster families in different parts of towns and gave up trying to make friends or playing varsity basketball— and I was a great shooting guard. Yeah, Tim, I know what it's like. Being a teenager is hard."

  "Oh." Tim nodded. "Okay, I'll think about what you said." He slipped into his flip-flops and headed toward the bathroom before he turned around and said, "But I'm eighteen and I can leave this house whenever I want to. You can't stop me."

  That hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped, but it was going to have to be enough.

  * * *

  When Mike got home, he fell on the sofa and slept so deeply he didn't hear Tim go to work or Mr. Ramírez drop his mother off from the hospital. He did hear her come in and close the door quietly.

  "Mom, I need to talk to you." Still half-asleep, he sat up and glanced at his watch. Whoa, almost five o'clock in the afternoon. He'd napped for nine hours.

  She twirled to the couch, smiling and happy, and reached down to touch his cheek. "How are you feeling? Your cheek feels cool." Then she sat beside him. "But you look tired."

  "I made it." But was he ever thankful he didn't have a double shift today. "Mom, I need to talk to you about the money you spent for paint."

  "I should have talked to you when I bought it. I'm sorry."

  "Just tell me about it. Wasn't the hospital supposed to buy your supplies?"


  "Yes, but you know the hospital purchasing procedure. I knew I was going to run out of paint two weeks ago, just before you got sick. I filled out a purchase order request but it would take a week to process and another a week to ship." She shrugged. "I had no paint or brushes and wouldn't for weeks. I decided it was better to spend the money so I could work and make money than to take time off." She patted his hand. "I'm sorry. You got sick and I forgot."

  "It's okay, Mom. We'll cover it somehow."

  That meant he'd have to do a double shift tomorrow. He'd be stronger by then. He had to be.

  Chapter FifteenFor Mike, the best thing about the double shift was seeing Ana during his evening break. When he drove over to her house to take her a milk shake, he was glad she felt better but worried because she was determined to work part of her next shift. Of course, there was no reasoning with her.

  The worst part about the double shift? Simply that it was a double shift. By ten in the evening, he had to take a vertical nap. During a lull at 4:00 a.m., he crashed for thirty minutes in the lounge. An hour before he could go home, a sheen of perspiration covered his face and his legs had taken on an unsteady life of their own. The attending physician took one look at him and told him to go home immediately. Mike didn't argue.

  After a quick call to Ana, he hit the lower bunk and slept until three-thirty that afternoon. Groaning when the alarm went off, he wished he hadn't promised to take the second half of an afternoon shift.

  Nine hours of sleep. He felt stronger, but he wished he could sleep nine more hours. That would give him the final shove he needed to be completely well. What he had now was an ephemeral kind of strength sure to desert him by midnight. He'd have to hide from Ana or she'd send him home early.

  The thought of seeing Ana at the hospital stopped him right there on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head in his hands to think.

  What about Ana? He loved her so much. Who wouldn't? But the relationship was way out of balance. She was smart, successful, beautiful and gave him so much. The only things he'd given her were a few kisses and the flu.

  He hated the fact that his thoughts kept ending up in the same place, but with his family problems, their growing debt and his still feeling so tired physically, he struggled to find anything about himself he could offer Ana. Of course, he had his faith, which was such a huge part of his life now. But faith was one thing he and Ana didn't share.

  "Dear Lord, thank You for all You have done. Please give me wisdom," he whispered. When he searched his muddled thoughts to add more, he reminded himself God knew his needs. "Amen."

  In spite of the prayer, his brain circled back. Would it be better to stop seeing each other until he could figure out how to handle the mounting money problems, how to juggle his mother and brother's lives plus the terrible realization he'd have to put med school off for even longer? Right now, as much as he cared about her, he couldn't face Ana's cheerful pushiness, her insistence that he communicate. He didn't do it well, not at all well. Couldn't she just accept that?

  No, she couldn't, and he didn't want to discuss the mess that was his life with anyone.

  At the hospital it was so easy to fall into the routine of kidding and chatting when they passed in the hall or had a free minute. He'd always looked for her during that time, to see if she were free, if they could spend a few minutes together. Life would be easier if he switched to another unit, if he didn't have to be close to her so often.

  All in all, Mike wasn't in the best state of mind to go to the hospital. He made it through the half shift from seven to eleven fine, but it got tougher when he saw Ana during the shift change. Although pale and thinner, she looked terrific. She always looked terrific to him. That was the problem.

  It would be better for them to be apart now, for him to transfer to another unit until he got his head straight and his life in order.

  * * *

  Ana didn't feel all that great. When she'd checked in the mirror before she left home, she'd looked as bad as she felt: dark circles under the eyes and a greenish complexion the same color Mike's had been. She wore her skinny jeans, the ones she seldom could zip but tonight they closed easily.

  Once in the E.R., she revived a little but didn't feel her usual confidence or enthusiasm.

  "How're you doing, Fuller?" She passed him in the hall on the way to an exam room.

  He nodded. "Fine, Dr. Ramírez. Thank you."

  The evening went pretty much like that. He assisted her with patients although he disappeared during a letup in the patient load. Probably helping in another section of the E.R. She was in no shape to look for him.

  The hours went by slowly until finally it was close to 7:00 a.m. She'd worked one-third of her usual shift, and exhaustion had dropped over her like a lead cape. Fortunately, she had almost thirty-six hours until her next shift. During that time, she could rest and maybe see Mike this evening or for lunch the next day. The thought made her feel a lot better.

  At the end of the shift change, Mike asked, "How'd it go?" when they headed out the door together.

  As if he didn't know. As if he hadn't just gone through the first day back after the killer virus.

  "Okay for the first shift back at work." She leaned against the wall. "I'd love to talk to you, but I've got to get home."

  "Going back to bed?"

  "Exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to sleep all day." She pushed off the wall. "You had the same thing. When do you start feeling better?"

  "I'm doing fine tonight. Give yourself a couple more days. Rest, drink plenty of liquids and don't push yourself."

  She grinned weakly. "You sound like a doctor."

  "And you're going to do exactly as I say."

  "Why don't you come over tonight? To make sure I do?" she asked as he walked her to the parking lot.

  He stopped walking for a second and glanced quickly down at her. "Um, can't. Sorry, I've got some stuff to do."

  "Oh, okay." She could use the rest. She got in the car, started it and headed toward the exit. Through the rearview mirror, she saw Mike watch her drive off. Then he turned back toward the hospital. He must have left something behind.

  * * *

  On her next shift, Ana felt much stronger, but she was not happy. Furious would describe her emotion better. Because she didn't see him earlier in the evening, she'd thought Mike was off duty. At 3:00 a.m., Williams said, "I'm going to pedes during my break later."

  "Oh, why's that?" she asked.

  "To see Fuller."

  "What's Fuller doing in pedes?" Ana asked, distracted while adding notes to a patient's history. "Filling in for someone?"

  "He got transferred there."

  The chart clattered against the tiles when Ana dropped it. "Sorry," she said when everyone turned to look at the source of the noise. She picked up the chart but didn't ask another question. No reason to give the E.R. the juicy gossip that Dr. Ramírez hadn't known Mike transferred and was not happy— actually, she was furious— that he hadn't told her.

  "How nice." She smiled. "He loves those kids."

  She finished charting, placed the clipboard back in the rack at the nurses' station and headed outside. Once there, she dialed pediatrics and asked for Fuller.

  "Yes," he said when he got to the phone.

  "Fuller, this is Dr. Ramírez."

  Mike didn't answer for a few seconds. "Oh, hi," he said in a cheerful but uncomfortable voice.

  She didn't swallow that response for a second. He wasn't a bit glad she'd called.

  "I'd like to talk to you." She paused then added, "Soon," because she knew he wouldn't want to talk to her anytime, not in the near future, not in the distant future.

  "Meet me in the cafeteria? Seven-thirty?" he suggested.

  His complete lack of enthusiasm filled her with dread. What was going on?

  Besides, the cafeteria wouldn't work. What she wanted to talk to him about might end up with a lot of yelling on her part because she could imagine the silence and c
ontrol on his. "I'd prefer someplace less crowded and more private."

  When he didn't make another suggestion, she said, "How 'bout the picnic area in the south lawn by the clinic?"

  "All right."

  "Will you be there?"

  "Yes, I'll be there." But he didn't sound at all pleased about it.

  Too bad.

  Ana chose a bench under a post oak. To distract herself, she studied the contortions the branches of the trees made. She'd begun to look for another diversion when she saw Mike amble across the grass toward her with the eagerness of a child going to the dentist.

  The man looked great. He'd put weight on so his jeans didn't hang from his hips. Strong arms swung from those broad shoulders. The breeze ruffled his hair, but he didn't smile. Not a good sign. Not at all. The sight of his grim features made her catch her breath. She felt as if someone had filled her stomach with balloons that weighed a ton each and burst every few seconds.

  When he reached her, he settled at the other end of the bench leaving a good ten inches between them. He didn't show any interest in beginning the conversation. He just sat there, resting his elbows on his knees and looking toward the hospital, all of which made it very clear it was up to her to say something.

  She'd never felt so confused and deflated in her life. "When did you decide to transfer to pedes?" she asked.

  "Wednesday."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  He didn't look at her, not a glance. "You know I wanted to work there. I thought you'd be happy for me."

  Oh, sure. Make this her problem. "I didn't realize…" She stopped words that had taken on a sharp edge. Confrontation wasn't the tactic she wanted to use, not with this unapproachable man. "If you thought I'd be happy, why didn't you tell me?"

  He shrugged. "Didn't have time."