A Heartbeat Away Page 3

  She looked at him without speaking.

  “You have to agree to counseling. Learn to express your emotions in a positive way.”

  “I never once raised my voice to those nurses. My emotions weren’t out of control.”

  “It’s not a matter of control. You called them idiots.” He shook his head. “One of the nurses claimed you said he had a stupidity virus.”

  “Because he acted stupidly. He clamped off a chest tube to stop the bubbling. When we discovered it on rounds, my patient was in distress from a tension pneumothorax. He’d have died in another ten minutes.”

  Tori watched as a smile fought with the edge of the chairman’s lips. He cleared his throat, and the smile disappeared. “You’ve got some time to think about it.” With that, he turned and left, before she could fire back twenty excuses. He closed the door behind him, leaving Tori alone.

  Then, for the first time since she was a little girl, Tori began to cry.

  3

  Tori quickly wiped her tears with her hand when she realized that someone was pushing the door open again. Her eyes met those of Charlotte Rains, the closest person to a true friend that Tori had.

  “Don’t you know how to knock?”

  Charlotte smiled and placed a bouquet of flowers on a small table by the bed. Daffodils, Charlotte’s favorite. “I didn’t want to wake you in case you were sleeping.” She took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest.

  Tori flinched. Here it comes.

  “Girl, you should have told me. Imagine my surprise when I arrived back in town and heard the news.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Charlotte huffed and smoothed the front of her blouse. Charlotte was sixty, African-American, and as skin-color-blind as Mother Teresa. She ran a soup kitchen for Richmond’s homeless and had taken Tori in during her last year of high school right after Tori’s mother died of breast cancer. Though only seventeen, Tori had a posture of self-defense and self-preservation that was clothed in a thick blanket of I-can-take-care-of-myself independence. Nonetheless, she needed a place to stay, and Charlotte had been Tori’s mother’s choice to help provide a bridge until Tori was old enough to be an independent adult. Tori tolerated Charlotte’s bubbly exuberance for life because of one thing: she knew Charlotte’s love was as real as the pain Tori had been through in losing her parents.

  Charlotte smiled. “I don’t know whether to rejoice because you’re okay or scold you for thinkin’ you had to go and do this alone.”

  “You were with your family. How long had you been planning that reunion?”

  “Two years.”

  “See, I didn’t want you to miss it.”

  “You’re my family too.” She reached out and took Tori’s hand.

  It felt good. Tori managed a smile.

  “You look great.”

  “Tell the truth.”

  “Okay, you look like you just lost your last friend. And don’t tell me that the strong and independent Dr. Taylor actually has tears. I’m callin’ the paper!”

  “Dr. Evans just left. They put me on a three-month administrative leave.” Tori dropped Charlotte’s hand so she could put finger quotation marks around the last two words.

  “That’s good. You need time to recover.”

  “It’s not for recovery. It’s because a few nurses complained. It seems there is little tolerance for my discipline style.”

  Charlotte sat and joined her hands so that they could rest on the ever-present black purse on her lap. “I know Dr. Evans. He’s just helping you save face. Don’t you get it? You’ll stay out three months and then come back and everyone will just think you were out because of your health. It’s perfect.”

  Tori shook her head. Pollyanna. “It’s horrible. I haven’t taken a vacation week in more than two years. What am I going to do with three months?”

  “Rehab.” Charlotte shrugged and looked like she wanted to say more.

  “What?”

  “Maybe this is the time you need.”

  “The time I need?” Tori shook her head. “I’m a surgeon. I need to work.”

  “You need to heal.”

  “I’ve got a new heart. It won’t take long. I just need a little endurance.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your heart.” She paused. “Not your physical one anyway.”

  Tori didn’t respond. She’d shielded her heart for so long, she didn’t see the need to start unpacking now. She’d succeeded in a demanding field where many men failed. Emotions just got in the way of making objective clinical decisions. Just because she was taking a break from work didn’t mean she had to start crying over every hangnail.

  Charlotte let her comment float. After a minute, she stood. “When will they release you?”

  “Not sure. I’m supposed to have a biopsy of my transplant tomorrow to check for early rejection.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “I’ll be back.” She paused at the door. “Call me tomorrow. I want to know how things go.”

  Tori watched her friend leave and felt her throat tighten, closing to keep a sob from escaping. What’s happening to me? A friend leaves me and I find myself fighting back tears. This medicine must be working on my mind.

  A minute later, her door swung open again and a visitor walked in from the bright hallway beyond. This time the silhouette belonged to Jarrod. He flashed a quick smile. Probably the one he let patients see. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said softly.

  He seemed to be inspecting her appearance. Ever the clinician.

  From the bed, she decided to see him as his patients did. Professional. Cool. He wasn’t rough on the eyes either, his brown hair just beginning to curl and touch the top of his white coat. From her position, he looked tall. This one was strong, strong enough to bear the stories of hundreds of cancer victims. He wasn’t exactly warm. In fact, in his demeanor, he’d been detached. Even in their most intimate moments, he’d remained a safe pick, never probing. Never caring?

  “I didn’t come while you were in the ICU. Knew you’d be needing your private time.”

  How efficient. Like me?

  He inspected the flowers, lifting open a little card. Checking for competition, Jarrod?

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “It’s weird.” She laid her hand across her breast. “This heart was someone else’s. I find myself thinking about her.”

  He let it pass. “Your nurse told me you’ve been up walking.”

  She nodded. “Every day a little more.” She motioned to him. “Hold my hand.”

  He squinted at her. They’d never been much for this sort of tenderness. He sat on her bed and took her hand. His was warm. She curled her fingers into his and took a deep breath.

  He tried to fill the silence with words. “When will they let you out?”

  “Shh. Just be quiet and hold my hand.”

  “Listen, I—”

  “Shh. We can communicate without talking.”

  He stood up and pulled away. “Where’d that come from?”

  She smiled. “Don’t know.” She paused. “Not sure I care. I know it’s different for me, but I think I’m okay with a little change.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “A little?” He smoothed the lapels on his starched white coat. “Look—I’m on rounds. My team is in the hall.”

  “Boy, aren’t you the efficient one, combining a visit to your old girl and rounding at the same time?”

  “Tori, it’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t it?” She sighed. “Go on.”

  He looked at her, backing away. It was a look of wonder. Surprise perhaps, the look you give to a child who just quoted Einstein. “Good to see you, Tori. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  She nodde
d, but inside felt her heart leap to follow him. She wanted more than the polite conversation of strangers. She wanted to tell him things she’d never shared. She knew it was new territory, but she wanted to share her feelings. She wanted him to know about the nightmares, her fears, and about the number.

  She’d felt something else when he held her hand. She’d been giving him strength, a tender touch of unspoken communication. Love.

  4

  “Wow, you were incredible out there. Where’d you learn to play like that?”

  Christian Mitchell looked up into the prettiest green eyes and smiled back. “Africa. I played a lot of street ball growing up.”

  The girl pushed blonde bangs away from her face and held out her hand. “I’m Emily. Emily Greene.”

  He nodded. Everyone knew Emily.

  “I heard your family was from Africa. Your dad was a doctor or something, right?”

  “Something,” he said, echoing her words. “A surgeon.”

  “You live on the Cassady farm, right?”

  He nodded, unsure why this popular beauty would want to talk to him.

  “They’re letting us stay there while my parents are on furlough.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Furlough?”

  He didn’t want to use the m word with her. As soon as he said “missionary,” most of his new acquaintances found a reason to move on. “My parents work for a service agency in Africa. When we get time off in America, they call it furlough.”

  “Nice.” She wiped her brow. “I’m a mess. We just finished volleyball practice.”

  She looked anything but a mess to Christian. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he just looked out over the soccer field and tried to keep his mind off Emily’s short shorts.

  “Got wheels?”

  “No. My mom’s picking me up.”

  “I can give you a lift. Our place backs up to yours.”

  “You have the strawberry farm?”

  “It’s my dad’s.”

  His throat felt suddenly dry. She wanted to give him a ride? “Uh, sure.”

  He followed her to her car with the distinct thought that his social status at Shore High was about to make an upward turn.

  A minute later, they were in her BMW convertible with the wind in their hair. They approached a curve, and Emily ignored the sign posting a reduced speed limit. Christian’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the door and braced himself against the dash.

  Emily glanced at him. “Don’t worry.” She laughed. “I’m an organ donor. I signed up on the back of my license.”

  The BMW magically tracked around the corner.

  Christian relaxed.

  A little.

  Emily slowed and turned into the gravel lane leading up to the Cassady farmhouse. “You looked a little freaked out back there.” She hesitated. “I was only joking.”

  He shook his head and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. He inhaled deeply, bringing in the scent of honeysuckle. He forced a laugh. “This car is amazing.”

  The bedroom is on fire, flames blocking the doorway. How appropriate—the room that had become a hell is now an inferno.

  Calls for help. Forgiveness. So sorry.

  Too late for that.

  I have to get out of here.

  Flames spreading into the hallway, blocking the exit.

  Maybe if I run …

  Choking smoke.

  My arm is on fire!

  She felt a nudge on her foot. “Dr. Taylor, are you asleep?”

  Tori opened her eyes. Where am I?

  She waited a moment as the fog cleared. She rubbed her left arm. She looked down to see a man with a familiar face. Tall. About thirty. Sandy blond hair. No white coat. An administrator?

  “Dr. Taylor, are you okay?” His accent was British.

  She rubbed her eyes. “Nightmare,” she said. “I think it’s all the medicines.”

  He nodded. He had the build of a runner. Lean. Hungry. “Is this a bad time?”

  “A bad time for …?”

  He reached out his hand. “I’m Phin MacGrath. I work on the transplant team with social services.” She’d seen him a thousand times, but like so many others, she hadn’t taken the time to learn who he was. He was outside her circle. The people she noticed were those in orbit around her.

  “Okay.” She took his hand. Callused, belying his hospital day job. She inspected his clothes. He looked like he had just stepped out of an Eddie Bauer catalog. Professional but contemporary. Casual but neat. “What’s this about?”

  “I visit all the transplant patients. We need to talk about your discharge.” He sat in the chair next to her bed.

  “Great.”

  “Are you single?”

  “If that’s a pickup line, it’s a winner.”

  “It’s a part of what I do,” he said, smiling. “I need to know who will be with you after discharge. Dr. Parrish doesn’t allow his patients to be alone for the first few weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked confused.

  “I’m single. I take care of myself. I’ll be fine at home. I can live on the first level for a while. I don’t think I want to take the stairs just yet.”

  “Hmm.”

  She didn’t like his response. It was patronizing. “Look, Mr. MacGrath—”

  “Call me Phin. Everyone around here does.”

  “Okay, Phin,” she said, emphasizing his name. “I’ll be fine.” She reached for his hand, surprising herself, as she’d never been much for such physical gestures. What is happening to me?

  His hands were strong and rough. She ran her finger across his callused palm, distracted from their conversation. “What do you do when you’re away from here?”

  “I swing a hammer for Habitat.”

  She let her hand rest in his for a moment and looked at his face. He had dark eyes set below a thick growth of brown hair gelled into submission. She offered a smile. “Just tell Dr. Parrish that I’ll be fine. I’m not like his other patients. I’m a surgeon. I know what to look for.”

  He squeezed her hand and shook his head, then withdrew his hand to his lap. “You’re used to getting what you want.”

  “I’m used to getting what I deserve. What I’ve earned.”

  “How about friends? Is there someone you can stay with? It would only need to be for a couple weeks.”

  Tori ran down a very short list. A fellow surgeon? No, her relationships were strictly professional. Jarrod? No, he’d moved on with a new girl. Besides, that didn’t feel right. That left Charlotte. Charlotte would say yes, but Tori wasn’t sure. The last time she’d lived with Charlotte was years ago, when Tori’s life had been disrupted by her mother’s death. She wasn’t sure returning to that environment would be healthy. Too many memories. Too much of the baggage she had gladly set aside. Tori shook her head. “Not really anyone I’d like to live with.”

  “We can always go the nursing-facility route. I’ll check for open beds,” he said, standing.

  “Wait! A nursing home?”

  He smiled. “It’s not just for old people.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I understand. Just try to think of it as a place for people needing a little extra care.”

  She sighed. “I’ll find someone.”

  “Think about your options. In the meantime, I’m going to contact a few of the local homes so I can reserve a spot for you.” He placed his hand on the door to go.

  Maybe a surgery resident will agree to live with me for a few weeks. Images of gorked-out, drooling old people in wheelchairs pushed ahead of Phin’s good-bye.

  She watched her door closing behind him. I’m not going to a nursing home!

  5

  A kiss.


  Just a kiss.

  In the end, that’s all it took to nudge God from the top spot in Christian Mitchell’s heart.

  It’s not like it came as a surprise. He’d thought about it, dreamed about it for weeks. One ride home from school had turned into two, then a lift back to school, and then a regular pattern. Who wanted to ride the bus when Emily Greene was offering curbside service in her convertible?

  The progression just seemed so natural.

  He went from hearing “Can you help me with this chemistry homework?” to “Stay for dinner” in a short week.

  Laughter. Shared feelings. Walks along the Chesapeake Bay, during which the backs of their hands would just happen to brush.

  His mother’s questions were brushed aside.

  “Is she a Christian?”

  “Mom! They go to church. Her dad’s an elder at First Baptist.”

  “Does she know about your love of Africa?”

  “She loves Africa too. They sponsor a child from Kenya. She wants to visit him.”

  His mom would just turn away and stay quiet, continuing to wash the supper dishes.

  It all unfolded in the strawberry patch. Carolyn Greene, Emily’s mother, had invited Christian to pick a basket of strawberries to take home. It was Saturday, and the sun was straight overhead, baking the Eastern Shore. Emily and Christian picked and ate their way along, stooping over the low rows of strawberries until their baskets were brimming with ripe fruit.

  Christian sat on the straw between rows and looked at Emily. Sticky with sweat and with her T-shirt clinging in all the right places, she did her best exaggerated pitch windup and fired a strawberry, catching him by surprise right on his forehead. Moist red strawberry flesh stuck to his left eyebrow.

  Emily exploded in laughter and sat down on the straw beside him.

  “Here,” she said, still giggling. She wiped strawberry from his forehead with her index finger and quickly dropped her finger between her red lips and sucked the juice with a noisy smack. Then she moistened her finger with her tongue and wiped it across his face, cleaning his eyebrow of crimson juice. Leaning closer, she laid her finger against his lips. Without thinking, he closed his lips around it, tasting the strawberry on her skin.