03_The Doctor's Perfect Match (5 page)

“That’s the plan. He just needs to hang in for one more year.”

“He wouldn’t have such a hopeful future to look forward to without you,” Marci said.

A flush crept across her brother’s cheeks as he set the drawing aside. “God can take most of the credit for that.”

Heather entwined her fingers with her husband’s. “That’s true. But without you, he wouldn’t have found God, either. You did good with both of your siblings.” She sent Marci a smile.

“I second that.” Marci lifted her water glass in tribute to the one person in her life she had always been able to count on. Whose love for his siblings had never wavered, despite the trouble and heartaches they’d given him.

There weren’t too many guys like him around, Marci mused as she buttered a roll.

But she was beginning to think a certain ’Sconset doctor might qualify for membership in that exclusive club.

W
hy wasn’t Henry answering her knock?

Marci tapped her garden gloves against her palm. Usually he met her at the front door. But she was a few minutes late. Maybe he was waiting for her in the yard.

Circling the house, she paused to inhale the heady, old-fashioned scent of the pink roses clinging to the arbor that arched over the gate to the backyard. She’d spent a good part of one afternoon untwining the ivy and wild morning-glory vines from the hardy canes, and based on the profusion of buds she’d uncovered, the bush would be a showstopper in another couple of weeks.

“Henry, are you back here?” Marci pushed through the gate, clicking it shut behind her.

No response.

Hmm. If he wasn’t in the house or the yard, where was he?

A few seconds later, when she rounded the corner of the clapboard cottage and got a full view of the backyard, she got her answer.

The older man was lying on the ground, the bowl of the
concrete birdbath upside down on his chest. And he wasn’t moving.

She froze, her heart slamming against her rib cage. Pulse pounding, she raced across the lawn and dropped down beside him. Reached for his hand. It was cold.

“Henry? Henry, can you hear me?”

At her frantic question, his eyelids fluttered open. For a moment he seemed disoriented. Then he blinked and slowly focused. “Hey, Marci. Got myself…into a real pickle…didn’t I?”

The words were gasped rather than spoken. And etched with pain.

But at least he was conscious. That was a good sign. She hoped.

“Don’t move, Henry.”

“Can’t. That’s why…I’m here.”

She tried to stay calm. Think logically. Okay, the bowl of the birdbath was resting on the ground on Henry’s left side. That would give her some leverage to push it off without putting any more pressure on his chest.

Moving to his right side, Marci knelt and grasped the elevated edge of the bowl. “I’m going to lift this off of you, Henry. Hang on.”

She took a deep breath. Tightened her grip. Raised the oversized concrete basin inch by inch, her muscles straining. The thing weighed a ton.

When it was standing on end on Henry’s left side, she rose and stepped over him, keeping a firm grip on the concrete edge. Then she lowered the bowl to the ground.

“That’s a relief. Thank you.”

Henry started to move, but Marci pressed him back with a hand on his shoulder as she knelt beside him. He was way too
pale, and his skin still felt cold. And clammy. “We need to get you checked out by the EMTs. Does anything hurt?”

“My left side is kind of sore. Might have cracked a rib.” He blinked up at her again. “You look a little fuzzy, too.”

She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone, her fingers shaking so badly it took her two tries to punch in 911. As she waited for the call to go through, she rested one hand on Henry’s shoulder and did her best to sound calm. “Just stay still, Henry. Help will be here soon.”

While answering the dispatcher’s questions, Marci kept an eye on the older man. His eyelids had drifted closed again, and she took his hand, pressing her thumb to his wrist.

“Ticker’s still working, if that’s what you’re checking,” he told her wryly.

Despite the gravity of the situation, her lips twitched at his humor.

Ending the call, Marci shoved the phone back into her purse. “The ambulance is on the way.”

“Last time an ambulance came here was when Marjorie had her heart attack. She never came home.”

Marci’s throat constricted at his melancholy tone. “This isn’t a heart attack. You’ll be back. We’re not done with the garden yet.”

A whisper of a smile touched his lips, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re a good girl, Marci.”

His voice was weakening, and another wave of panic washed over her. “How long ago did you fall, Henry?”

“I came out about noon. Thought I’d get the birdbath out of our way, since we were going to work in that section today. Guess I’m not as strong as I thought I was. Used to be able to lift stuff like that with no problem. But I twisted my ankle when I turned and lost my balance. Fell back with the bowl on top of me. Not my most graceful moment.”

She checked her watch. He’d been lying out here fifteen minutes before she arrived. Not good.

The faint wail of a siren pierced the air. Although it was a seven-mile trip from the main town, she figured the ambulance would make good time on Milestone Road.

But it couldn’t get here fast enough to suit her.

“Sorry for all this trouble, Marci.”

Henry’s apology tugged at her heart. “It’s no trouble, Henry. I just want you to get back on your feet fast so we can finish this garden before I leave.”

He squinted up at her, as if trying to focus, and his grip loosened. “Might not happen, Marci.”

“Of course it will.”

Another smile whispered at his lips. “I like your spirit. You’d be good for Christopher, you know. That boy needs a woman like you.”

He was starting to drift, and Marci didn’t respond. The
last
thing Christopher needed was a woman like her—for reasons she didn’t want to get into with Henry. Why tarnish her relationship with the older man by introducing bad stuff from her past?

The minutes passed in slow motion, but at last she caught a glimpse of flashing lights as the wailing ambulance came down the tiny byway in front of the cottage. Only when the EMTs pushed through the back gate did she relinquish her grip on Henry’s hand.

She stepped aside as they went to work, answering their questions while they started an IV and took Henry’s vitals. Most of the terminology they bantered back and forth was Greek to her, but she gleaned enough to determine that his blood pressure was low and that they were concerned about the pain on his left side.

When the EMTs were ready to transport him, Henry turned her way. “Would you call Christopher, Marci?”

“Sure. And I’ll follow you to the hospital, too.”

He lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then closed his eyes again.

As the technicians loaded Henry into the ambulance, Marci slid into her car, following the ambulance when it began to pull away from Henry’s cottage.

By the time she finally got a live operator on the phone for directory assistance and was put through to Christopher’s office, she was back on Milestone Road, headed for the main town.

“Family Medical offices. How may I help you?”

“I’m trying to reach Dr. Morgan. Is he in?”

“Yes. He’s with a patient. May I have him return your call later this afternoon?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d give him a message as soon as possible. This is Marci Clay. Would you let him know that Henry Calhoun has had an accident? He’s en route to the E.R. now. Let me give you my cell number.” Marci recited it.

“I’ll catch him between patients.”

With a murmured thank-you, Marci set the phone in her lap.

Less than five minutes later, it rang. “Christopher?”

“Yes. What happened?”

She could hear the worry in his clipped question. Keeping her narrative as brief as possible, she gave him the highlights.

“His color wasn’t good, and he said his left side hurt. Do you think he might have broken some ribs?” she finished.

“It’s possible. I’ll call the E.R. and let them know I want to be kept informed. Where are you?”

“Following the ambulance.”

“I’ll get to the hospital as soon as I can, but I’ve got a full patient load this afternoon. I’ll call you if I hear any news.”

“Thanks.”

There was a brief pause.

“How are
you
doing?”

His quiet, caring question took her off guard. “I’m not the one who fell.”

“Accidents are traumatic on everyone.”

At the warmth in his voice, Marci blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes. “It was scary. And I didn’t like feeling helpless.” A tremor ran through her words, and she clamped her lips together. She was
not
going to get emotional, even if she was touched by his unexpected concern. It wasn’t in keeping with the strong, independent image she cultivated.

Adopting a bravado she didn’t feel, she hardened her tone. “But, hey, I’m a tough chick. You don’t have to worry about me.”

In the few beats of silence that followed, Marci got the distinct impression she hadn’t fooled Christopher.

“Okay. Hang in there. We’ll get him through this. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead, and Marci dropped the phone back into her lap, mulling over his last comment.
We’ll
get him through this, he’d said. Like they’d work together to cope with whatever lay ahead. As partners.

That
we
had a nice sound to it, she reflected wistfully.

Christopher swung into the hospital parking lot and propped his bike against the back wall of the E.R. He’d hated to leave in the middle of office hours. It would put him way behind and aggravate waiting patients. But the news he’d received ten minutes ago had warranted a quick trip to the hospital.

Pushing through the staff entrance, he saw the senior doctor on duty getting ready to enter an examining room.

“Jack.”

The fiftyish man with salt-and-pepper hair turned at the summons, waiting as Christopher joined him.

“Where’s Henry?”

“Room three. He’s being prepped.”

“I’ll make a quick stop there first. I also want to take a look at the CT scan. Is David here?” David Clark was a good surgeon, and Christopher was comfortable putting Henry in his hands.

“He’s on his way.”

With a curt nod, Christopher strode toward room three. Two nurses were with Henry, but they edged aside to allow him to move in close.

Christopher’s stomach knotted as he assessed Henry. In the two years he’d known him, the man had become like a second grandfather. Other than the bout with pneumonia, he’d always been healthy.

But he didn’t look healthy now. His color was bad, and deep crevices lined his face. Under the sheet, his thin frame seemed barely there.

As if sensing his presence, Henry opened his eyes.

“Hey, Christopher.”

“Hello, Henry. I hear you had a fall.”

“Yep. They gave me the bad news.”

“You okay with the plan?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. But this is what I’d recommend.”

“That’s what they told me. So I said go ahead.” He reached out a hand, and Christopher took his gnarled fingers. “Thanks for coming, Christopher. Sorry for the bother.”

His throat tightened. “It’s no bother, Henry. Marci’s here, too.”

“I know. They told me. Go find her and tell her to go home. No sense wasting time at a hospital unless you get hauled here like I did.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I called your daughter, too.”

Henry made a face. “I bet she threw a hissy fit.”

“Not quite.” But close, Christopher admitted. He’d had to
listen to a rant about stubborn old men who refused to listen to reason. More than once during the tirade he’d had to bite his tongue. “She’s coming down tomorrow.”

Henry sighed. “Better batten down the hatches.” Pulling his hand free of Christopher’s, he waved him toward the door. “Go see that little lady in the waiting room. And tell her not to worry about me. If it’s my time, it’s my time. I’m ready. Besides, there’s no sense fretting over spilled milk. Or foolish old men.”

“It isn’t your time. Not if we have anything to say about it. And we’ll talk about the foolish part later.” He took Henry’s hand again and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “God be with you, my friend.”

Exiting the examining room, he commandeered one of the E.R. computers and pulled up Henry’s CT scan.

As he studied it, the senior doctor joined him. “What do you think?”

“Same thing you do. Grade two, borderline three.” Christopher pointed to the abdominal cavity. “We may need to transfuse.”

“Agreed. We’re keeping a close eye on blood count and pressure.”

With a nod, Christopher stood. “A friend of Henry’s is in the waiting room. I’ll brief her before I head back to the office. Call me with any updates, okay?”

“Sure.”

Striding through the E.R. intake area, Christopher stepped into the large waiting room. A number of people were lounging in the chairs, reading magazines or newspapers, and they all looked up when he entered. He didn’t see Marci.

Only after he moved farther into the irregularly shaped room did he spot her. She was staring out a window in the far corner, arms crossed tight over her chest, posture rigid, her distress almost palpable. She might try to present a tough front
to the world, but he’d caught enough candid glimpses of her to know that beneath that veneer she had a tender, caring heart. This unguarded moment confirmed his conclusion.

As he closed the distance between them, the movement caught her attention, and she turned. Her complexion went a shade paler, and her eyes widened in alarm.

“What are you doing here? Is Henry…” Her voice choked.

“No.” He took her arm and eased her into a chair, fighting off a sudden urge to pull her into a hug that was part comfort and part something much more. Clearing his throat, he retrieved his hand. “I came over between patients.”

“Why?” She searched his eyes. “It’s more than a cracked rib, isn’t it?”

“Yes. His ribs are fine. But he has a lacerated spleen. And some internal bleeding.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, then opened them.

“I had a feeling it was bad. What happens now?”

“If Henry was younger, we might take a conservative approach and see if the spleen would heal on its own. But that treatment option hasn’t been very successful in patients over fifty-five. So we’re going to remove it.”

“What’s the downside of that?”

“Short-term, the typical risks of any surgery. Long-term, greater susceptibility to infections.”

Marci frowned and clasped her hands in her lap. “How long will the surgery take?”

“Two or three hours. Henry said I should tell you to go home.”

“Forget it.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”