Doctor's Secret (Carver Family)

by Lyz Kelley

  “If they could applaud, they would.”

  “Thank you for the lovely compliment.” Her lips compressed into a ruler-straight line. “Are you okay? You seem distant.”

  He wanted to run his hands through her red hair, or nuzzle the soft spot below her ear until she giggled, or press her against the wall and kiss her until her mind stopped for just a few seconds. He wanted all those things and much, much more.

  “I’m fine,” he said trying to breathe out the frustrations of the day.

  Her chin lifted a half-inch. “I have two brothers. They say they are fine, when they aren’t. Spill it.”

  “That transparent, huh?”

  A laugh began but dissipated. He studied her face for a clue, a reason for her sudden sadness, but she buried her emotions like a hidden treasure, locked and hidden away, deep in secret caves.

  On the verge of reaching out to comfort her, he stopped himself. She had warned him about no public displays of affection. If he didn’t respect her so much, he’d break the rules. Bending them here and now wasn’t an option. No. If he was going to touch her, he’d do it in a more private, intimate setting.

  “I need to review a few things with you. This evening, if possible,” he emphasized the last bit to grab her attention. “The board review’s tomorrow.”

  She paused and studied his face before disposing of her used mask and gown. “I see.”

  Not sure what “I see” meant, he closed in. He wouldn’t allow her to do an end-run on him like she’d done the day before, and the day before that. She’d been avoiding him. Why? He had no clue.

  “Let me put it this way. I need your help, and you need to eat. Let me buy you dinner.”

  “I’ll help, you know that, but paying for my dinner is not required.”

  “I don’t mind. Besides, it would be nice to have a conversation that doesn’t end with a diagnosis.”

  A smile sparked in her eyes seconds before her brow lifted. “Say pretty please.”

  The payback for the jersey was overdue. He’d discovered she didn’t enjoy wearing sports paraphernalia, much less his team’s colors. His grin faltered. “And, what if I refuse?” he said with an earnest attempt to keep from laughing.

  “You’re the one who wants help, not me.” Her sexy left brow lifted higher into a double-dare arch.

  “You have a point.”

  Crying uncle was something he never did, even when his older sisters tickle-tortured him hundreds, maybe even thousands, of times. Show no weakness—that was his motto.

  He went for an onside kick. “If you want me to help the children then you need to help me pass the board review.”

  “Nice try. Come on. It’s not that hard. If I can say it, you can say it.”

  Damn.

  Glancing down the hall, he monitored the staff’s movements before turning back. “Pur-pur-pur-purty please,” he said sputtering the p’s together.

  A pained smile greeted his cartoonish imitation. “Was that so hard?” she managed.

  “I have another favor to ask.”

  “This one might cost you.” Her expression asked now what?

  “I’m sure it will.” He raised a hand to his face and dragged his fingertips down the side of his jaw, debating. “I can’t leave right away. I need to check on a patient first. Can you wait five minutes?”

  Her shoulders sagged. His knees locked.

  Anticipating rejection, he figured he needed to close the gap. “Better yet, why don’t you come with me?”

  A sigh.

  He held his breath.

  Then, finally, a nod.

  Yes. He shoved his hands into his pockets to avoid pumping a fist in victory.

  He turned toward the children’s wing, and she moved beside him, matching him stride for stride. Stopping at a dimly lit room, he removed a chart from the door slot to scan the latest test results.

  Entering the room, he studied the still form lying on the bed. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, not able to say more. An intense sadness made his chest ache and forced him to don his doctor’s emotional body armor.

  The small shake of the boy’s head tugged at him, increasing the pressure. He set the chart on the bed and moved a chair closer. He wanted to tell Jacob he’d be home playing baseball with his friends soon, but it wasn’t true. The test results proved it. He picked up a bloated hand lying on top of the covers and listened to the boy’s halting, ragged breathing. His body was rejecting his new heart, and no drug, no procedure, no study—nothing but a miracle—could help him.

  Sportscasters highlighted the day’s games on the television. “Did you watch the Yankees game?”

  Jacob nodded with little enthusiasm, shifted, and peered across the room. “Is that your b-b-bird l-lady?” His voice came in rasping gasps as his infected lungs struggled to draw in air.

  Frowning at Jacob’s words for only an instant, she took a step into the room. The strained expression disappeared like magic.

  “Yep, she’s the bird lady.” He forced lightness into his voice.

  The sick child motioned for him to come closer. He moved his ear towards the boy’s lips to hear, and then glanced at her, who now stood at the end of the bed.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her? Her real name’s Mac.”

  “M-M-Mack’s a b-boy’s name.”

  “Mac doesn’t look like a boy, now does she?”

  Jacob studied her the way he might study a baseball stat sheet, slowly, carefully, taking in every piece of information. The muscles in his neck tightened, and his jaw worked to form words. “Doc s-says you s-sing l-l-like a b-bird. W-w-would you s-sing me a s-s-song?”

  The child became her sole focus, and the only person in the universe who mattered at that precise moment, and the most glorious smile lit her face. She dropped her bags at the end of the bed and angled in to reach for Jacob’s hand. “How about we all sing a song together. Would you like that?”

  The boy’s eyes darted to Garrett, brows furrowed. Garrett smiled and nodded toward Mac.

  “I bet you know this one.” She squeezed the boy’s hand with encouragement. “Take me out to the ball game. Take me…”

  Jacob’s mouth eased into a smile, and then broadened into a home-run-winning grin. Garrett added his tone-deaf voice to hers to encourage the boy. Soon all three were enthusiastically singing the ending chorus. The little-boy pleasure illuminating Jacob’s face was something Garrett would never forget, and he would cherish the mental keepsake she’d created when he could no longer hold the boy’s hand.

  “S-s-sing a-another?”

  A concerned protectiveness for both patient and caregiver pushed forward. “I don’t think—”

  “It’s okay,” she said, meeting his eyes.

  She knew. He could see it in her expression. Somehow, she knew.

  “I have time for one more. Then it’s off to sleep for you, young man, so your dreams can make you strong.”

  The song began softly and then rose in volume. For a brief second, time seemed to stop. Jacob fought off sleep to gaze at the beautiful woman before him. Garrett didn’t blame him. He’d do the same if he thought he could get away with it. After an eternity of seconds, Jacob relaxed into a shallow, medicated slumber. His breathing eased.

  The perfect memory was complete.

  Tucking Jacob’s hand under the starched white sheet, she brushed the back of her fingertips along his cheek. “Dream happy dreams,” she whispered. Her eyes lingered for another second on the boy’s pale, gaunt face before she picked up her bags. Garrett followed behind her when she slipped from the room.

  In the hall, she waited. “How much time?” she asked with watery eyes.

  “A day, a month. Only the heart knows when it will stop. The transplant occurred before the robot was ready.”

  Her breath stopped halfway out and then came out in a whoosh. “Is that your way of telling me the Carvers are responsible for Jacob’s condition? That we failed him because the operating room wasn’t�
�”

  “Leave it be, Mac. I need to sign out.” He took a step back.

  A hand firmly gripped his forearm. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Look, would the additional three, maybe five percent accuracy the robot provides have saved Jacob’s life? I don’t know. It might have given him better odds. As a doctor, I’ll take those additional percentage points if it means the difference between life and death.”

  Doubt, guilt, remorse—she looked like she’d swallowed an explosive emotional cocktail. His gut twisted. When was he ever going to learn to say the right thing? He released a low groan and wrapped his hands around his neck and squeezed to ease the tension. “Boss, I’m—”

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare ‘Boss’ me. And don’t you dare apologize. Being honest, without the need to attack to make your point, is an important lesson that you need to master. Hone your delivery, Branston. It will help you influence the administration to get what you want.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait.” He took a step to block her path, and then a deep breath to fight for a calm he didn’t possess. “Okay, yes. I’m angry that a funny, smart, creative little boy won’t be able to live a full life. I’ve done everything I can think of, and so has everyone else at this hospital, including you. I didn’t mean to sound like a fanatical surgeon and a jerk. I’m frustrated.”

  She scanned his face. “I get your passion. It’s what makes you a brilliant surgeon. What I don’t get is why you think you’re the only one who cares.”

  “I know you care,” he said, hoping she heard the honesty in his words.

  She slid the purse straps higher on her shoulder. “Maybe we should—”

  “Get something to eat. That’s what we both need right now.”

  The seconds spun out, on and on and on. He held his breath, waiting for a decision. The suspense grew agonizing. He hoped she wouldn’t change her mind.

  “I’ll get my car and meet you at the West Entrance,” she conceded.

  He ka-whooshed out a breath of relief, nodded and stepped back.

  But he couldn’t help staring after her beautiful, retreating form. She had a grace that pulled him in and melted away his anger and every defense he’d ever constructed against females. Her gentle floral smell, the elegant way she moved, the swing of her hair across her back—they incited a primal urge. A desire he found harder—actually impossible—to ignore. He retreated to the nurse’s station to complete the sign-out sheet.

  Two nurses stared at him.

  “It looks like you two might get hernias if you don’t say what’s on your mind. Come on, out with it,” he said to become more approachable like Mac had coached.

  “Her kindness. It’s not what you think.”

  What the hell does that mean? That she didn’t like him? That she was just pretending? That her feelings weren’t genuine? He didn’t feel like taking the time to clarify. “Thank you for sharing,” he responded in the most positive voice he could muster, considering his relationships were none of their damn business.

  He scribbled his name in a wild sweeping motion, and then marched toward the West Entrance. Irritation boiled beneath the surface of his skin. Why did everyone think they could get up in his business?

  Yanking open the heavy door, he strode out into the brisk air. McKenzie drove up seconds later. The chilly night did nothing to cool his irritation. He counted to three before sliding into the leather passenger seat and shoving his gym bag to the floor. The nurse’s words had pinched a nerve, a tender spot that reminded him again how he’d grown up on the wrong side—the unworthy side—of LA.

  “Do you mind if we skip dinner?” She asked before he could secure his seatbelt.

  Yes, he minded. He was starved, and she’d been at the hospital for hours. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  The slump of her shoulders communicated too many hours ago to count. “I don’t want to deal with crowds.” Distaste colored her words and caused her fingers to tap on the steering wheel. “I have an idea.” She punched a few buttons on her cell before tossing the phone in her purse. A perky voice emerged from the car’s speaker.

  “Hey, Abby.” Her head twisted both directions to watch for traffic. “Are you still working?”

  “I should be done in another two or three, hours. Why?”

  “I’m with Dr. Branston. I thought we’d order in. Would you be up for calling Joe’s for all of us? I should be home in a few minutes.”

  “I can do that. You sure this is a good—”

  “You’re wonderful. See you in a few.”

  She hit the button on the steering column, ending the call before the Abby person could finish her sentence.

  Who the hell was Abby? The familiarity of the conversation meant whoever she was, they were close, yet he had no idea who she was, or in fact, he didn’t know any of McKenzie’s friends’ names.

  And why was she gripping the leather wheel to the point he could see white-knuckle skin, but her expression remained casual? And why did she keep glancing at him every few seconds with a fake half-smile? How had he spent weeks with the woman and know so little? Yet, he knew her every mood. When she was sad, content, afraid, angry, playful.

  “You’ll like Joe’s,” she said too fast, breaking the silence. “It’s good food.”

  Her shaky undertone deepened his curiosity. He didn’t have a clue what had her worked up, but a neutral question might ease her back to a steady state. He searched for something, anything.

  “Is Abby your house keeper?” he asked, caring more about her than the answer.

  “Heavens, no. She’s my mom’s personal assistant. She’s using my art studio to create seating cards for the annual charity ball. Mom likes the look of handmade cards. After a calligrapher messed up last year’s batch, Mom asked Abby to make them this year. She does an incredible job.”

  Handmade cards. Leave it to the rich to spend cash on the trivial. The wasted money could be used to fund an inner-city medical clinic, or feed the hungry, something important. Images of the homeless and their overflowing shopping carts filled with their meager, precious possessions haunted him. He could still conjure the stale and putrid smell, the tired and battered bodies sleeping on chilled concrete, one hand on the cart’s wheels, the other clutching the threadbare blanket covering their bodies. The months spent working in the LA shelters came back easily, a stark reminder of the brutality of life.

  The BMW’s dashboard lights beamed back at him, mocked him, reminding him of life’s real priorities. Reminding him how far apart his view, his realities, his goals in life were from hers. Like how far apart his heart and head seemed to be when it came to the beautiful woman beside him.

  “You must like having your studio within easy walking distance,” he said, continuing the conversation rather than trying to deal with his emotions or memories.

  “Everyone has their indulgences. The studio is mine.”

  There it was, a real smile—a smile that warmed and excited his senses.

  She darted the car in and out of traffic, inches from bumpers, and honking her way through intersections. He braced both hands against the dash when a car swerved, missing the front fender by centimeters.

  “That was close,” he said, loosening the seatbelt around his throat.

  “Don’t you have sisters? I bet you find it hard to ride with them, too.”

  A yearning for his sisters wrapped around him so tightly he had to struggle to draw air into his lungs. If someone had told him being away from family would be this painful, he wouldn’t have moved. The time difference and the inability to drop by and play with his nephews bothered him more than he’d expected.

  When he managed to take a full breath, he said, “They might give Danica Patrick a run for her money around the track given the chance. They’re a rambunctious bunch.”

  Suddenly, the jazzy, soul-filled voice of Sarah Vaughan singing Fly Me to the Moon filled the car.

  Mac’s head eased back against the headrest,
her shoulders relaxed, and the pace of the buildings passing by slowed to normal. The music took him back to UCLA’s library at two a.m., when Vaughan, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, and the other talented jazz singers helped him get through medical school, reminding him of his dreams of creating a wonderful world.

  “Interesting choice.”

  “Hope you don’t mind. I love the old greats. My grandmother used to tell me about New York in the twenties. The stories she’d tell about the dancing, voting, and the cultural movement. She made the city come alive in my imagination.”

  Her wistful expression and nostalgic description took him back to his childhood home, to a twin mattress on cinderblocks, sheets for curtains, and the fifty-cent radio he purchased at a garage sale. “No one sings Summertime quite like Ella.”

  Several minutes passed before she turned into the parking lot of a high-rise apartment building and held her gate key to a security panel. Seconds later, the metal gate began its slow ascent.

  “You’re lucky,” she said.

  “Why’s that?”

  She drove the car down the steep ramp. “There wasn’t much rambunctiousness in my family. We came out of the womb primed for what lay ahead.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We had responsibility and accountability drilled into us from the day we took our first breath.”

  She whipped the car into the parking grid on a lower level, the car straddling two numbered slots, shut off the engine, and exited the car before he could respond.

  Grabbing his bag, he followed.

  Walking a few steps behind, he watched her hips and hair sway to the rhythm of his heart. His attention drifted down to her trim legs, ankles, and the sexy, high-heeled sandals adorning her petite feet. He followed her onto the elevator and stood on the opposite side, keeping his distance to shake off the urge to touch, to indulge, to feel her curves beneath his hands. Her reflection in the elevator’s mirrored panels caught his eye. He studied her curves the way a man considers a piece of art, drawing no conclusion, just appreciating her form.

  Exiting on the fourteenth floor, she paused in front of a double-wide entry door—the only entrance available along the plushly carpeted hallway—and rotated her bundle of keys to open two sets of locks. Once inside the apartment, she tossed her keys and purse on a hall table inlaid with frosted glass. He dropped his worn leather bag beside the four-foot, hand-thrown vase standing sentry next to the front door.