All He'll Ever Need

by Loree Lough

  “I do.”

  “You know how they got that way?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “It happened bit by bit, year by year, because hundreds of people, maybe even thousands of people, have rubbed His feet as they go by. They ask Him to watch over things. Doctors and nurses ask Him to bless the work of their hands. Patients beg for healing. Mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, all want the same thing—healing for their loved ones.”

  She heaved a great sigh. “I believe the original plan was, beautiful as He is, He’d be some kinda fine decoration. But He’s so much more. Why, this statue became a symbol of hope.” She nodded. “Yessir, hope. That’s what He is, all right.”

  Now, the woman looked up into Phillip’s face. “Tell me, son, what brings you here, to the feet of Jesus?”

  “My, ah, my little boy. He’s in surgery right now. His heart is—”

  “No need to go into the details,” she interrupted. “He knows your need. And He will answer your prayers.”

  Phillip’s experience with prayer hadn’t left him much reason to feel optimistic. And yet, looking into her dark eyes, hope flickered in his heart.

  “I see that you’re wearing those peculiar work shoes. Talk a bit funny, too.” She narrowed one eye. “You one of those Amish fellas?”

  Chuckling, he said, “Yes, I’m Amish.”

  “Pennsylvania?”

  “Maryland’s Allegheny Mountains.”

  “Well, shoo-eee, you’re a long way from home, ain’t you?”

  “A few hours . . .”

  She squinted the other eye. “Now, wait just a li’l minute here. I thought you Amish didn’t believe in medicine. Or doctors. Or hospitals.”

  “That’s true for some communities.”

  “But not yours?”

  “My community is New Order Amish, so on occasion, modern medicine is allowed.” It felt strange, calling it his community, because he hadn’t felt part of Pleasant Valley for a long time. If they’d loosened the rules for his father, his brother, Rebecca . . .

  Phillip glanced around, wondering about the woman’s family members. “What brings you here?”

  “My husband. He had a heart attack. Big one. ‘Widow-maker, ’ they called it. Doctor by the name of Duke gave him a four-way bypass. He’s up in the CICU right now, sleepin’ off the drugs.”

  “My son is being operated on right now.”

  “You taking him home soon?”

  “That’ll depend on how things go during the next few hours.”

  “Oh, he’ll be fine. Just fine. I feel it in my bones.”

  “And your husband? How long will he be here?”

  “Oh, the doctor says a week, maybe more. Lord but I’m glad I called nine-one-one when I did. Right after I made him eat four aspirins, dry, like they were M&Ms. I said, ‘No water for you, mister! You just set there with your La-Z-Boy’s footrest down, and cough. Cough hard. Cough a lot,’ I said. The doctor said I saved his life.” She snickered behind one withered hand. “First time that man sasses me, don’t you know I’m gonna remind him of that!”

  “Your husband is a lucky man.”

  “Blessed, not lucky. What about you, son? Where’s your wife?”

  “I, ah, she died. A few years ago.”

  She shook her head. “Mmm-mmm-mmm. Now ain’t that a sorry shame. Young handsome man like you, all alone here with a sick child. How old is the boy?”

  “Four. Soon to be five.”

  “Mmm-mmm-mmm. Poor li’l thing.” She touched the statue’s toes again. “So in all this time since your wife passed, why didn’t you remarry? Can’t be easy, raising a young’un all by yourself.”

  “My mother helps out.”

  “Well bless her old soul.” The woman cackled. “You got somebody in mind, though, I can tell.”

  “Oh?”

  “Can’t say why, exactly, but . . . you got a look about you. Like the love bug bit you good and hard.” She snickered again but sobered quickly. “Now, stop frettin’, son. I’m a good judge of character. Everybody says so. You’re a good man. A decent man. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve got no reason to feel guilty about lovin’ someone new. Why, I expect even your wife would tell you the same. It’s what I’d tell my husband, if the good Lord saw fit to call me home!”

  He didn’t feel guilty . . . exactly. Confused. Frustrated. Annoyed by the community’s inflexible rules—

  “Ah, I get it. She isn’t Amish, is she?”

  How she’d guessed such a thing, Phillip couldn’t say. Would she still think he was good and decent if he admitted that he’d broken another inflexible rule by falling for Gabe’s doctor?

  “Quit your worrying now, hear? It’s like that old song says. Y’gotta have hope. And remember, He’s watching your boy. Watching as closely as if the little one was His own.” She winked. “Because the truth is, that boy of yours is His own.”

  She hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Guess I best be getting back to my man. I want to be there when he wakes up. Just needed a minute here with Him, to put my mind right. But you get that, don’t you?”

  Phillip nodded, and she said, “I’ll say a prayer for you and your boy, Mr. Amish.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do the same.”

  “Never doubted it for a minute. Like I said, you’re a good and decent man. I can see it in your eyes. Take a little advice from somebody who’s run around the block a time or two: Whatever’s eatin’ at your soul, let it go. Holding on to things like that, well, they’ll fester, make you even more miserable than you already are.”

  “Thanks,” he said again, and when she rounded the corner, Phillip touched the statue’s toes. Eyes closed, he whispered, “I’m asking for Gabe, not myself: Watch over him. Heal him, so I can bring him home to live a long, happy, healthy life.”

  “Mister?”

  He looked down at the small girl standing near his elbow. She couldn’t have been more than six. What sort of parent would allow a young child to wander, alone, in a hospital so large people called it a small city?

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “Over there.” She pointed across the way, where a man and woman stood, each clutching the hands of twin boys. “Mama said you looked sad, because maybe someone you love died.”

  Several someones, to be precise. But she didn’t need to hear that. “My little boy is upstairs, in the operating room.”

  Nodding, she held up a wrinkled tissue. “Mama said you might need this, to wipe away your teardrops.”

  Until that moment, Phillip hadn’t realized his eyes were damp. Blinking, he returned the woman’s smile. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the tissue. “And thank your mama, too.”

  The girl grinned, exposing four missing front teeth. Before long, Gabe would have a smile like that.

  He hoped....

  “She said to tell you we’re praying for you!” And then she dashed off without another word or a backward glance, leaving Phillip to accept that since finding the statue, two people had promised to pray for him and Gabe.

  The elderly woman had been right: The statue was a conduit to hope. Perhaps his indecision about leaving Pleasant Valley had been orchestrated by the Almighty: If he’d gone away when the idea first struck, he wouldn’t have been near Garrett Regional when Gabe collapsed. Wouldn’t have been near Emily, who’d led them here, to the best hospital and surgeon on the East Coast. Definitely something to seriously consider . . .

  He made his way to the long, curved staircase, followed it to the elevators. When at last he reached Gabe’s room, it didn’t surprise him to find Pete fast asleep in a stiff-backed chair. Smiling, Phillip shook his head. How like Emily’s brother to return from the cafeteria with doughnuts, muffins, candy bars, and cheese-filled crackers. For a reason he couldn’t explain, the strange assortment of snacks lifted his sagging spirits, and he felt more optimistic about Gabe’s future than he had since before Emily’s diagnosis.

  He pictured her, hunched over the operating tabl
e, doing everything in her power to help Dr. Williams save Gabe. Pete was probably right. It wouldn’t be easy, merging their Amish and Englisher worlds.

  Yesterday at this time, an admission like that would have left him feeling anything but hopeful.

  Stretching, Pete said around a yawn, “So, you’re finally back. Where’ve you been? The chapel?”

  “Thought about it. Couldn’t find it. Ended up at the big Jesus statue instead.”

  “It shows.”

  Phillip didn’t have to ask what Pete meant; calm, he decided, must be a by-product of hope.

  “Hey, what do you know about the initials doctors pile up behind their names?”

  Pete’s face wrinkled with confusion. “Huh?”

  “FACC. What’s it stand for?”

  “’Fellow of the American College of Cardiology.’ It’s quite an honor. Doctors have to work hard to earn membership in that exclusive club. It’s one of the things Williams used to nag Emily about.”

  “You have my word.”

  Pete looked confused again. “About?”

  “If something develops between your sister and me, I promise never to nag her.”

  “Better not.” He shook a fist in the air. “I’d hate for either of us to find out the hard way that you have a glass jaw.”

  * * *

  During their months apart, Emily had changed in so many ways. She hadn’t defended herself against his “you’re late” accusation. Held her own as he outlined his step-by-step plans for the boy’s surgery. Hadn’t given up an iota of information when he pressed her for details about the child’s father. It incensed him that she’d fallen for the big, oafish Amishman. And she had fallen for him. Alex could tell, because once upon a time, she’d directed that caring, eyes-for-you-only look at him.

  Even gowned and masked and hair hidden under a snug skullcap, she looked stunning. Her hands were sure and steady, her gaze serious and straightforward, and within minutes, she’d commanded the respect and cooperation of the surgical team. His surgical team. Alex had never wanted her more.

  Dr. Rubens had already administered fentanyl-midazolam and monitored the boy’s vitals while an OR nurse—Jennings? Mason?—painted his narrow, newly shaved pale chest with Betadine. They were ready.

  Alex adjusted his mask, thinking about the two minutes he’d spent with Baker, who’d looked alert and sounded fully informed during the explanation of the ICD insertion. “You know what that is?” Alex had asked. And without hesitation, Baker said, “Implantable cardioverter-defibrillator, the device that will monitor Gabe’s heart rhythm and deliver electrical shocks if it starts beating abnormally.” He’d continued with a textbook description of the flexible, insulated wire leads that Alex would insert just under the boy’s collarbone and secure to the ventricles. He also understood that his son would remain in the hospital for a few days, and that in the coming weeks the ICD could send unnecessary shocks, even if the heartbeat wasn’t life-threatening. And he knew which medication to administer if that should happen. Emily, Alex knew, was responsible for the guy’s calm, on-target recitation of facts.

  He’d been a fool to let her go. With a woman like that by his side—

  “Doctor,” she said, “should we wrap things up?”

  Hands elevated, he said, “Yes. Of course.” He avoided her eyes. Her big, long-lashed, sometimes-green-sometimes-brown eyes. Eyes that had once beamed with love, for him.

  “Doctor?” Jennings-or-Mason said. “Okay to bandage him up and get him to recovery?”

  “Yes,” he repeated. “Of course.” Alex cleared his throat. “Good work, team.”

  Now, he looked at Emily. “You want to deliver the good news to the, ah, the father?”

  That look on her face . . . he didn’t recognize it. But if he had to guess, Alex would have called it indifferent. He’d rather see loathing. At least that would mean she felt something for him.

  “No,” she said—and he didn’t recognize that tone of voice, either—“you should do it.”

  He removed his gloves and tossed them onto the tray. If he had any hope of reviving what he’d nearly smothered, he had to tread carefully. And slowly. Trouble was, he didn’t have much time. In a day, maybe three, she’d return to Oakland. With her little-boy patient and his anything-but-little Amish daddy. And more likely than not, she’d spend every possible moment with them between now and then.

  Feeling helpless, and more than a little hopeless, Alex blasted through the doors between the surgical suite and the waiting area.

  “Mr. Baker?”

  The man was on his feet in an instant. “How’s Gabe?”

  “Things went well, very well. No reason to expect anything but a full recovery.”

  Pete stepped up beside the father. “That’s great news, man.” He dropped a brotherly hand onto Baker’s shoulder. “Great news.”

  Alex’s mouth went dry. If Pete was here, offering moral support at a time like this, well, what did that say about the relationship between Baker and Emily?

  Her brother held out a hand. “How’re things, Doc?”

  He willed himself to grasp it. “Fine. Good. You?”

  “Fine. Good,” Pete echoed.

  “When can I see Gabe?” Baker wanted to know.

  At his last physical, Alex had measured six foot one. Yet he had to look up slightly to meet Baker’s eyes. Emily had never been the “wowed by broad shoulders” type. A good thing, since he’d never exactly been a heavyweight. And unlike other women he’d dated, she wasn’t captivated by his Beneteau Oceanis sailboat. The 1960 Porsche Spyder or plush Harbor East condo. If it impressed her that maître d’s at the city’s most elegant restaurants knew him by name, or that his friends list included politicians, entertainers, and business moguls, it didn’t show. If he’d been as poor and plain as this Amishman, she would have accepted him, as is. Why hadn’t he appreciated that about her when they were a couple?

  Alex collected himself. “He’ll be in recovery for another hour, maybe two.”

  “Then back to his room?”

  “Yes.”

  Baker leaned slightly left to peer over Alex’s shoulder. “Where’s Emily?”

  What he wouldn’t give to tell Baker She’s on her way back to Oakland or At my condo, starting dinner for me. It killed him to say, “Scrubbing up, I imagine.”

  “Can we wait for her in the recovery room?” Pete asked.

  Alex wanted to shout, No! Instead, he reminded himself to speak cautiously. “I guess it can’t hurt to bend the rules.” He stepped aside. “Just follow the green stripe on the floor. You can’t miss it.”

  Just as the men plowed through the doors, Alex saw her, making her way down the hall. The skullcap had mussed her thick curls, and without the bulky surgical gown, she looked tinier, younger than he remembered. Her smile said what words needn’t: She was happy to see them. Both of them. He watched as she stepped between them, linked her arms with theirs, and walked toward the recovery room. When they told her that he’d bent the rules for them, would it help put him back in her good graces?

  A guy can hope, he thought. A guy can hope....

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It’s wrong, I tell you. Just plain wrong. A doctor should never, ever get romantically involved with a patient,” Barbara announced.

  Mike stood, hands on hips and shaking his head. “First of all, Gabe’s dad isn’t a patient. And secondly, you have no proof that there’s anything romantic between him and Dr. White.”

  “I don’t care. It’s wrong. She’s wrong. And it isn’t the first time. You know that better than anyone.”

  “Nothing happened between Dr. White and me. How many times do I have to say it!”

  “Fine. Defend her. It’s only fair that she has someone in her corner.”

  “Barbara, you need to drop this complaint. You’re going to make a fool of yourself.”

  Arms folded across her chest, she said, “We’ll see who looks like the fool.”

  “Have
you even read the manual?”

  If that stubborn pout was any indicator, she had not.

  “I know romance between doctor and patient is frowned upon,” he said. “Once the medical connection ends, though, things change, and there are no hard and fast rules against it.” Mike rested his hands on her shoulders, gave her a gentle shake. “In any case, I don’t remember reading anything that says it’s against the rules for a doctor to associate with the relative of a patient.”

  Barbara slapped his hands away. “Oh, but you’re wrong.” She slid an iPad from her purse, scrolled through a few pages, and paraphrased: “What matters is how involved the third party is with the medical decision-making process. They cite an example here; if you’re a pediatrician working with a three-year-old, dating that child’s mom might cross the line.” She met his eyes. “Do you get it now? It’s wrong, just as I said it was.”

  “Maybe, but it’s still on you to prove there’s something going on between them. And to prove Dr. White is exploiting Mr. Baker’s trust, or using the relationship to influence his decisions about Gabe.”

  “Yeah? Really?” She scrolled to another page. “The AMA has dealt with this before. In fact, they published an article about sexual or romantic relations between physicians and”—she drew quote marks in the air—“‘key third parties.’ You want proof? Take a look at the AMA’s Code of Medical Ethics, Opinion 8.145.”

  “You’re reaching, Barbara. Reaching way out there.”

  “I saw them, Mike. Plain as day, in the middle of a well-lit hospital hallway. She planted one on him. And it lasted a good minute. Two, maybe. I wasn’t the only one who saw them. Sheila, Marsha, Libby . . . others, too. We were all shocked. Disgusted. And we’re going to do something about it.”

  Would she have stirred up this hornet’s nest if he’d responded to Barbara’s flirtations? Mike didn’t think so. Dr. White had been polite about it, as was her way, but she’d rejected him, flat out. If anyone had a right to be this angry with her, it was he, not Barbara!