by Sykes, V. K.
CHAPTER THREE
Katie Canizaro leaned on the counter of the nurses’ station, her back to Holly. She was in animated conversation with another doctor, a graying, middle-aged guy wearing jeans and a wildly-patterned Hawaiian shirt. Only the stethoscope around his neck identified him as a physician.
Canizaro turned around as Holly approached, looking concerned. “Dr. Bell, were you able to talk to Tyler’s dad?”
Holly nodded an affirmative and held out her hand to the other doctor. “I’m Holly Bell. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Richard Morris,” the man said, a smile creasing his tanned face. “Cardiologist. The ER attending gave me a call about Tyler Arnold, because he knows I live close by. I figured I might as well drop over and check on him for myself. In fact, I was just getting an update from Dr. Canizaro.”
“Nice to meet you, Doctor, and thanks for coming in,” Holly replied.
Morris smiled. “I’m pleased to finally meet you, too. Your excellent reputation as a surgeon preceded you here.”
“Uh, thanks,” she said, repressing the urge to deflect his compliment. Everybody seemed to know that PCH had enthusiastically recruited her. It was great to be appreciated, but she’d rather do without the effusions until she’d actually had the chance to prove herself. “I believe you’ve been treating Tyler for some time, according to his file.”
“About two and a half years, since the family moved down from Pittsburgh. He’s a good kid, but he’s never known a minute of life with a normal heart.”
Another kid dealt a truly rotten hand, especially with a father like Arnold. Holly pushed another stray lock of hair away from her eye and tucked it behind her ear. “Dr. McMillan briefed me on the case earlier in the week.”
“According to Dr. Canizaro, you think the valve repair is failing?”
“I do. But you’ll listen for yourself. And as soon as we get the echo back, we’ll let you know.”
“Fair enough.”
“Dr. Morris, would you mind if we had a brief chat outside?” Holly turned to her resident. “Dr. Canizaro, would you excuse us?”
“Of course,” Morris said.
Canizaro gave her a puzzled look, but nodded.
Holly led him back to the corridor outside the swinging door to the trauma center. “I just spoke with Mr. Arnold,” she said. “He’s in the waiting room.”
She wondered if she’d let her expression betray her thoughts, since Morris arched his eyebrows.
“Ah, yes,” he said.
She shifted uneasily, not sure how to voice her concern. “He struck me as a little odd. What can you tell me about him?”
Morris pulled at his short, gray-flecked goatee. Combined with a thick mustache, it gave him a rather distinguished look. “The man’s a single parent. His wife committed suicide a few months before Tyler was referred to me. After her death, father and son moved here from Pittsburgh.”
“He seemed surprisingly blasé when I told him Tyler’s condition was serious,” Holly said.
Morris gave his goatee another little pull. “I’ve noticed that, too. More so, I think, as time has passed. He’s often barely interested in what I’m saying to him. The grandmother seems to be more involved in Tyler’s care than he is. She’s a lovely woman, but the poor dear was mowed down by a car crossing South Street last year. A hit and run that left her paralyzed from the waist down, if you can believe that.” He shook his head. “She doesn’t get around very well, of course, so I don’t see her as much anymore.”
The family situation was far from optimal, but Holly felt some relief knowing Tyler at least had a devoted grandparent in his life. She would need to find a way to have a talk with the woman. Still, though, she couldn’t ignore her gut.
“I don’t want us to get ahead of ourselves,” she said, “but I have a sinking feeling this guy could be a problem. I’m thinking we may even have to bring DHS into this at some point.”
Department of Human Services staff—and specifically those of the Children and Youth Division—were often called in by the hospital to consult on suspected cases of lack of proper parental responsibility, or even child abuse.
“Maybe he’s a decent parent,” she continued, “but he sure got my antenna up tonight.”
Morris frowned and pursed his lips. “You are getting ahead of yourself, Doctor. Lance Arnold’s not going to win any parenting awards, but I haven’t seen evidence that Tyler has been abused or neglected. I don’t see any point in speculating about DHS.”
He was probably right, but Holly couldn’t help bristling at his sharp tone. Although she’d only met Arnold once, he’d clearly ignored signs of Tyler’s illness, and in her book that constituted neglect in a child with such a serious heart condition. Dr. Morris should be an ally if it ever came time to take action, but his “show me” attitude was not a good sign.
She bit back a retort, deciding to let the issue drop for now. “Okay, I’ll see how it goes. Are you planning on sticking around for the echo and lab results?”
Morris gave a little snort and shook his head. “You know how long that could take around this place? No, somebody can call me, tonight if necessary, but preferably tomorrow morning.”
Holly frowned. Why had Morris bothered to stop by in the first place if he wasn’t going to check the test results tonight?
Then she gave herself a little mental slap. After all, Morris had come right over after the attending called him, and the last thing Holly needed to do was make adversaries out of colleagues—especially after only a few days on the job. “Well, I’ll be here,” she said, making sure she didn’t inject a note of judgment into her voice. “I’ve booked an O.R., just to be on the safe side.”
“Really?” Morris said, a bemused smile breaking through between the mustache and the goatee. “I realize you’re the boy’s surgeon, and you’ll do what you will, but I’d certainly appreciate being consulted unless it really is an emergency situation.”
This time she had to physically bite her tongue to keep her mouth shut. Of course she would only act in an emergency! Morris’s patronizing tone made her teeth clench with frustration. She’d battled that kind of dismissive attitude from older doctors her entire career, especially from men who seemed to think their female counterparts couldn’t manage without their gratingly superior guidance.
Calm down, Holly. Keep your eye on the ball.
She swallowed her resentment and inhaled a deep breath. “That goes without saying, Doctor,” she said, calmly. “Whatever happens, you’ll definitely be in the loop.”
Morris opened his mouth, apparently ready to argue. But then he closed it again and inclined his head, as if in submission. “Much appreciated, Dr. Bell. Well, I’ve enjoyed our chat, but I think it’s time I examined my patient.”
Without waiting for her reply, he pivoted and strode back into the trauma center.
That went well. Not.
Sighing, Holly began to massage her neck. The muscles on the right side felt like frozen rope, and the pain extended all the way down to below her shoulder blade and all the way up into her sinuses. Sudden stress and tension often triggered the reaction, and tonight she’d had her share. A sick little boy with a leaky heart valve was bad, but it presented the kind of challenge she was used to handling. What she thrived on.
But what she wasn’t very good at was working with difficult parents or paternalistic colleagues. Sometimes she wished she’d gotten just a little more in the social skills department to go along with her academic ability. She’d never had much luck learning those skills, either. At least not according to her mother.
Shrugging that unpleasant thought away, Holly headed to the only hospital coffee shop that stayed open until midnight. She ordered a decaf skinny latté, and spent twenty minutes trying to clear her mind of the encounters with Arnold and Morris. There was no point trying to plan three or four or ten steps ahead, or speculating what Lance Arnold would or wouldn’t do in any given scenario. Whatever happened, s
he’d react and deal with it. Of course, for a lifelong control freak, that kind of acceptance ran completely counter to the grain. But she’d been working on it, and she liked to think she’d been making progress. After all, she hadn’t bit Morris’s head off, had she?
After twenty minutes, Holly figured Morris would have long since completed his examination and gone home. She worked her way back through the maze of corridors to the trauma center. Canizaro sat at the nurses’ station, engrossed in paper work. Holly nodded and headed into bed six, drawing the curtains tight to completely enclose the cubicle. She pulled the lone metal chair closer to the bed and sat.
The intubation tube had been withdrawn and Tyler, asleep, was breathing fairly comfortably without assistance. She glanced at the monitor. His temp remained the same, which she’d expected. The rest of his vitals—pulse-ox, heart rate, blood pressure—were in the acceptable range for his condition. She let out a tight breath of relief.
Her professors and mentors had drummed it into her head that she couldn’t afford to let herself get too invested in her patients. She knew it was sensible advice—a survival tactic. But even after years of med school, residency, and surgical practice, Holly couldn’t easily swallow the realization that all her skills, and all the technology the best hospital could offer, sometimes weren’t enough to prevent a child’s death. Her mind acknowledged and accepted the cold, clinical reality, but her heart and her gut always rebelled.
She stretched in the uncomfortable chair. Her neck ached, and she knew she should go home and get some sleep. But she decided to stay right there. She had nothing to rush home to, no one waiting for her. For now, all she could do was hold this little boy’s hand, and that was exactly what she planned to do.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nate liked to sleep until noon or later on an off day. For baseball players, off days were practically rare gems. They averaged just three a month—usually Mondays—during the long major league season. That was it. Every other day it was up early and nose to the grindstone.
He loved Mondays.
The flight home following the L.A. game had arrived late last night, getting into Philadelphia after one A.M. His body had ached with pain and fatigue from pitching a complete game shutout, but his brain had been in overdrive since the meeting with Buddy Baker. There’d been no hope of falling asleep right away. He’d wound up channel-surfing almost until dawn before finally collapsing into bed. His sixty-inch, wall-mounted HDTV had been on all night, but he’d barely noticed what was on.
Nate had initially thought his friend was screwing with his head, but quickly concluded otherwise. Buddy was clearly speaking for the Dodgers’ front office, and the message was clear: the L.A. team wanted him, and they were willing to pay big bucks to pry him loose from the Patriots. No way was he going to rush into that kind of life-altering decision, though. He’d let Buddy know that the Dodgers would get what they were looking for, but only when he was good and ready.
He threw back the covers and sat up. Taking a quick glance at the digital clock on the night table, he had to blink and look again until the glowing green numbers finally registered in his brain. One-fifteen. He sighed and rolled out of bed.
So much for a leisurely breakfast.
Clicking on the bedroom TV to ESPN, he threw the remote on the bed and headed for the bathroom. His visit to the Children’s Hospital was scheduled from two to four o’clock, and he wasn’t going to disappoint the kids by cutting it short just because he couldn’t get his lazy ass out of bed on time.
Still, one thing he wouldn’t rush was his shower. Stretching his sore muscles, he ambled into the condo’s state-of-the-art bathroom, crossed to the marble-lined shower enclosure, and turned the temperature control to hot. As he eased his frame under the spray, he welcomed the tingling needles of water from the multiple showerheads digging into his shoulders and upper back. The plane’s cramped seats had intensified the stiffness and ache that always followed his pitching starts. He soaped up and massaged the tight soreness in his arms and shoulders, then let the hot water pound down on them for a few more minutes.
Stepping out of the shower, he briskly toweled off, taking a moment to glance at the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. He turned his left side to the mirror and ran his hand over the big, multi-colored tattoo covering his left upper arm and shoulder.
It was shallow of him, but God, he loved that tattoo.
The idea had come to him after one of the USA Today baseball beat writers had dubbed him “The Tornado,” likening his blazing slider to a tornado rushing toward home plate. Despite the ribbing of his teammates, Nate had thought the nickname was kind of cool. He’d hired the best body artist in Philly to design a dark, menacing-looking twister sucking a hapless batter up into its vortex. It still made him chuckle every time he caught a glimpse of it.
He pulled on jeans and a silk shirt, grabbed his Patriots’ sports bag from the table by the door, and headed down to his car.
Today’s visit was going to be his first of the season to the Cardiac Center. Along with the Cancer Center, Nate found it to be the toughest facility in the Children’s Hospital complex to work. While the kids inspired him with their courage, it hit him hard whenever he learned that one of them didn’t make it home from the hospital. Still, if he could continue to bring them even a few minutes of fun, he’d keep doing it forever.
Getting off the elevator, he strode quickly toward the 5 North nurses’ station. The two nurses seated in front of computer monitors looked up when they heard the ping of the elevator bell.
“Nate Carter!” The younger one jumped up from her chair with a star-struck grin on her face. “It seems like such a long time since we had you here.”
He peered at the laminated card hanging from the lanyard around the woman’s neck. From the way she’d greeted him, he knew he must have seen her before. But he met a lot of people, and had never been great on remembering names. Maybe he should have paid a little more attention. This Florence Nightingale’s knockout body sent a little zing to his tired brain, even though its lushness was partly shielded by the baggy-looking, flower print outfit.
Nate believed nurses should still be in crisp, tight white dresses, with funny starched caps pinned into their hair. Like the nurses in old movies.
He leaned against the counter. “Glad to be back. It’s great to see you ladies again, too.”
“I have to ask you a question, though,” he continued in a drawling voice, turning the charm dial up a notch. “Is it true there’s a rule that only beautiful women can get admitted to nursing school?”
The older nurse, still seated, replied without missing a beat. “Sure it’s true. And so is the rule that all ballplayers are full of hot air.”
Nate grimaced dramatically, pretending to stagger back from the counter as he clutched at his chest. As the younger nurse laughed, he gave them a quick wave and strode off down the hall.
The first room on the left was empty, so he glanced toward the one directly across the hall. Glimpsing a little red-haired girl sitting up in bed, half-hidden by the door, he approached and put on his biggest smile.
“Hey, young lady,” he called out, stopping just outside the doorway, “would it be all right if I visited with you for a while?”
For a few seconds the child stared at him wide-eyed and puzzled, as if some fabled, friendly giant had materialized in her doorway. Then, spotting his Patriots ball cap and catching his smile, she broke into a dazzling grin and bobbed her head up and down. Her mop of red curls jiggled.
Grinning back, Nate entered the room. Two steps inside, he stopped short, brushing up against a woman in a white lab coat. She must have been standing at the foot of the bed, fully hidden by the door.
The woman took a small step backward, clearly startled by the brief physical contact. As their eyes met, Nate felt all the air sucked from his lungs in one whoosh.
Sweet Mother of God.
He had to pull in a deep breath. What a bab
e.
The woman’s brow creased. “I’m Dr. Bell. Can I help you?”
He couldn’t stop his gaze from quickly traveling the full length of her body, from her face to her ankles and all the way back again. Though not nearly as tall as he was, this doctor was one seriously long drink of a woman. Close to six feet, he reckoned. Her unbuttoned lab coat revealed a lean but curvy figure, and long, elegant legs. She had a naturally beautiful face, too, with big, hazel eyes, a full, sexy mouth, and a peaches and cream complexion. Still, he suspected she tended to hide her light under a bushel. She wore no makeup that he could see, and her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Glasses were perched on the end of her nose, secured by a fine gold chain around her neck. They added to her unadorned, resolutely professional look.
The doctor extended a slender hand. Her fine eyebrows arched as she waited for him to find his voice.
Her outstretched hand finally registered in his brain and jolted him into action. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, “I was a little surprised for a moment. You were hidden by the door.”
He took her hand and held it a few seconds. It was long and fine-boned, but her firm grip told him it was strong, too. The kind of hand he’d like to have doing surgery on him. In fact, he mused, he wouldn’t mind that hand doing all sorts of things to his body.
He introduced himself. “I’m Nate Carter. I come around whenever I can to visit with the kids.”
She still looked puzzled. It dawned on him that she had absolutely no idea who he was. It didn’t bother him, though. Actually, it felt like a nice change of pace from the constant fan recognition.
“I’m a pitcher with the Patriots,” he said. “You know, baseball.”
