Love's Healing Touch (2 page)

Thank goodness the wreck hadn't happened last week when he'd moved from his apartment to this rental house. Now, for the first time in eight years, he'd be living with his family: his eighteen-year-old brother, who'd just been released from the state foster care system, and their mother, who was getting out of prison where she'd served time for fraud. He wouldn't want the living arrangements any other way, but it was still a big change.

He leaned back and put his feet up on a cardboard box marked Kitchen. He was supposed to take his cousin Francie to the doctor in an hour and the hospital had called and asked him to come in early for his shift. In a few days, he had to meet his mother's bus and get her settled in the house.

But he had no car.

No, he hadn't caused most of these problems, but he couldn't shift them to his much-loved but equally scatterbrained mother or his absentminded and immature younger brother.

He couldn't lean on Francie. She had enough to deal with, what with the baby coming, fixing up her house and finding time to be with her husband. Besides, he owed her big-time. She'd put her life on hold for him, taken the rap for him when he'd been young and almost irredeemably stupid.

No, he couldn't toss this on Francie, which left
him
in charge. Not a prospect that filled him with joy.

When the phone rang again, he picked it up and hoped it wasn't more bad news. "Hey."

"How's it going?" Francie asked.

"Tim wrecked my car."

"How is he?"

"He says he's fine, but I can't take you to the doctor's office. No car."

"I'll pick you up. After you bring me home, you can use my car as long as you need it."

"Francie, should you be driving? Didn't you say your doctor had some concerns?"

"The doctor hasn't told me to stop driving. Besides, if you have my car, I can't drive."

"But…"

Ignoring the interruption, Francie said, "You have to have a car. Brandon will agree with me. If it makes you feel better, you can be my chauffeur, take me anywhere I want to go," she said in her don't-argue voice. "See you in twenty minutes."

After Mike hung up the phone, he went to the window to watch for the cop car bringing Tim home.

When the police arrived, he moved to the front door and held it open for Tim. "Let me look at you," Mike said as his brother sauntered inside, bravado showing in his swagger.

"This time it wasn't my fault." When Tim stumbled a little and put his hand on the wall to steady himself, he lost a lot of his macho attitude. "It really wasn't, Mike."

Tim was tall with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Two years of lifting weights had put some muscle on him. Now he had wide shoulders with an even wider chip perched there.

As he scrutinized Tim, Mike saw several facial lacerations and a couple of bruises beginning to form. "Let me check you out."

"The paramedics cleared me. Why do you have to, Mike? You're not a doctor."

Mike drew in a breath at the painful reminder that no, he wasn't a doctor and wasn't likely to be one. "Just go along with me. Let me practice on you."

Tim shrugged then winced at the pain the movement brought. "Well, okay. If it makes you happy." With a grimace, he pulled the T-shirt over his head.

"How did it happen?" Mike ran his fingers down Tim's ribs, feeling for any knots or abnormalities and watching his brother's reaction.

"I was driving along Guadalupe and this other car didn't even slow down, ran right into the front of your car. The police said it was the other guy's fault. Ouch. What are you doing?"

"Almost through." Mike's hands brushed over a discolored diagonal line across Tim's chest. "Glad you were wearing your seat belt."

"For once." Tim nodded. "Guess I must have been listening to you."

"Also, for once." Mike looked into Tim's eyes. "You look okay, but you're going to be sore. Put some ice on your face."

"Yeah, sure." He limped off.

Mike shook his head and hoped Tim would grow up before he did any real damage to himself or someone else.

"Thanks for loaning me your car." Mike backed Francie's little red Focus out of the drive and turned south. He glanced at his cousin, taking warmth from her smile. Dark curls surrounded her face, a little fuller now in pregnancy.

As he stopped at a light, he noticed the worried frown on her face. "So how's little Ebenezer doing?"

"I wish you wouldn't call the baby that." She laughed, the lovely, happy sound that always made Mike feel great. "A girl named Ebenezer? It would be terrible enough for a boy." She paused before adding in a worried voice, "As I said, I'm having a few physical problems. I'm pretty sure the doctor will tell me to cut down my activities until I deliver."

"What's going on?"

"Unless you're the father or the grandparents of this baby, you don't want to know." Her voice trembled a little.

"Francie, I took a course in genetics, embryology and reproduction my first and only year of medical school."

"Well, then I'd prefer not to tell you. It's kind of personal." She softened the words with a smile. "Anyway, that's why Brandon wanted you to drive me since he couldn't get off today. We're not sure what the doctor's going to say." Tears shimmered in her eyes. "We first-time parents worry a lot."

He signaled and turned on the ramp to Loop 1 or the MoPac as everyone in Travis County called the highway. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I do. And I will." She sighed. "So you might as well drive the car. Brandon or his family will drive me anywhere so I won't need it. If using my car makes you feel guilty, bring me some of Manny's good soup from the diner every week or two."

"Fine with me." He stopped at a light and turned toward her. "Mom's coming home next week. I'll be able to pick her up at the bus station."

"Are you excited to see her after— how long has it been? Seven, eight years?"

"Eight." He considered the question. "Hard to say. I'm excited
and
worried both. The three of us haven't lived together since she left. We'll be crowded in that tiny house." He stepped on the gas as the light changed. "Tim and I have to share the second bedroom. The owner has bunk beds in there." Mike grimaced. "Fortunately, Tim's still enough of a kid to like sleeping in the top bunk."

"Oh, and you're such an old man you couldn't get up there?"

"I don't want to get up there." He turned off on the Thirty-fourth Street exit and drove a block before he said, "There's another reason I'm worried." His hands beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel. "You know how much I love her, but how's Mom going to move on from prison life? She's never worked. What if she wants to forge paintings again?"

"That's hard, Mike." She shook her head. "I don't know. Guess you'll have to lay down the law, which is
not
something this family is good about accepting. I'll pray for you. You might do some praying for yourself."

He nodded. No use telling the woman who'd introduced him to church and helped him develop his faith that prayer had become only habit. It didn't work for him anymore.

Francie folded her hands over the roundness of her stomach and struggled to find a comfortable position. "How's Cynthia?"

"Don't know. Haven't seen her for a while." He signaled for a turn, carefully kept his gaze on the road and refused to meet her eyes. "Not a lot of traffic. We should get to the doctor's office in plenty of time."

"Don't change the subject." She pushed herself around in the seat to look at him. "What happened with Cynthia? I thought you two were made for each other."

"I thought so, too." He clenched his jaw, not wanting to say more, but he knew Francie wouldn't leave him alone until he explained. "When I told her I had to quit medical school to work, that we couldn't get married for two or three years, not until Mom and Tim are on their own, she said she wouldn't wait."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"She wants to marry a doctor, not an orderly who lives with his mother and brother." Her departure had filled him with an emptiness it would take time to fill, so at least he wouldn't hurt every time he thought about her. "I don't blame her."

"You should blame her. She's a shallow ninny."

He didn't feel like it, but he had to laugh.

"Why aren't you angry? You should be furious," she said.

"I thought Christians didn't get angry."

"Well, in some situations, like when your former fiancée is being a shallow ninny, I think it's okay. For a while."

Well, then, yes, he'd been angry when he realized Cynthia hadn't wanted
him.
How could he have misjudged her feelings and character? How could she have fooled him so completely? Maybe he was the idiot for believing she loved him. It would be a long time before he opened himself to that kind of hurt again.

"When did this happen?" she asked.

"About a month ago. When I made the decision for Mom to live with me instead of going to a halfway house, I told Cynthia."

"Well, I'm put out with her. I'd like to talk to that girl, set her straight about what's important in life."

"There's nothing you can do." He shook his head. "But Brandon and little Ebenezer are blessed to have you watching over them."

"I'm the one who's blessed. I have a wonderful husband whose family loves me and this baby coming. I have you and Tim and Aunt Tessie will be home soon. What more could I want?"

Ana Dolores Ramírez— Ana Dolores Ramírez,
M.D.—
tossed a newspaper off the only comfortable chair in the gray, dingy break room and fell into it. After taking a drink of her cold coffee, she leaned back, almost asleep.

What an evening: a terrible accident on I-35, and a fire in a crowded restaurant, all that in addition to the normal everyday emergencies like broken bones, ODs and injuries from gang and domestic violence. Why had she ever thought she wanted to work in an emergency room?

Well, yes, she knew. She loved the excitement, the challenge, the urgency to save people, the fight against death, bringing healing from tumult and despair.

Another reason was the memory of the doctors who had worked so hard to save her leg and the staff in the E.R. who had saved her mother's life.

"It's harder than it looks, isn't it?" Dr. Leslie Harmon, the Director of Emergency Services, entered the lounge.

Ana yawned. "Why are you here so late?"

"I was called in when the cases started to back up. I wanted to come in during a busy stretch on this shift to evaluate how the E.R. staff handles a heavy load."

"How'd we do?"

"Very well." Dr. Harmon rubbed her neck and rotated her shoulders. "I was particularly impressed with one of the CAs. The new guy— dark-haired, handsome kid— seemed really sharp. Who is he?"

Before she could reply, Ana's pager went off. Checking the message, she pulled herself up with a groan. "Not a very long break, but I've got to go." She gulped the last of her coffee and tossed the paper cup in the overflowing trash can as she headed back to the emergency room.

"What's coming in?" Ana pushed through the swinging doors, instantly alert. Paramedics pushed gurneys into the hallway while a clerk wrote the names of the incoming patients on the large white board at the central desk and nurses began to take vitals. Instant activity and a huge increase in the noise level.

"Another traffic accident," the new orderly said.

What
was
his name? She took a peek at his ID tag as she picked up a chart to make notes in. "Thanks, Fuller." As Dr. Harmon had said, he seemed pretty bright. More than just a strong body to lift and position patients. Earlier tonight, he'd recognized the signs of shock and taken quick action, more like a paramedic. He'd also helped with triage, stepping in when he saw how thin the staff was stretched. His assessments hadn't been perfect, but he'd done well enough with those minor cases. After she'd quickly doubled-checked his decisions, she'd been able to concentrate on major traumas.

As the injured were quickly evaluated and moved to treatment rooms, to surgery or to wait in the hall, Ana noticed a boy about six years old standing by one of the gurneys. The woman on the gurney was pale, her eyes closed. Blood stained the bandages the EMTs had applied to her forehead and chest.

When his mother's gurney was pulled into a cubicle, the boy grabbed the side of it and ran to keep up. "Mama," he sobbed.

"Fuller," Ana called.

After he pushed a gurney against the wall, Mike hurried over to where Dr. Ramírez stood next a gurney with a little boy hanging on to it.

"This kid came in with a family from an accident. Please take care of him."

"What? Babysit?" He didn't remember that on the job description. His duties were all medical and nursing.

"We need to keep him away from his mother until we can stabilize her. Find the paramedics. Ask them if he has family here or if there's someone coming to pick him."

"Shouldn't social services— "

"Yes, they should and they usually do take care of the children of our patients, but they're backed up and shorthanded. Can't be here for a couple of hours. I need to treat his mother now. I'd appreciate your handling this."

While Mike watched and wondered what he should do next, she bent her knees to be on the child's level. "My name's Ana. What's your name?"

The child studied her solemnly. "Stevie."

"Well, Stevie, because your mommy was in an accident, we need to patch her up a little. I promise we'll take very good care of her." Gesturing toward Mike, she added, "This young man is going to keep you company while we do that. Okay?"

Then she stood and turned back toward the trauma room.

What was he going to do? Mike gulped as he watched her walk away. Saying "no" wasn't an option. "But, Dr. Ramírez, I don't know anything about children," he protested.

"Do it," she said in the clear, firm voice Mike figured no one ignored. "Please."

He turned and started toward the boy as Dr. Ramírez entered a cubicle.

No one, not even lowly orderlies, ignored Dr. Ramírez's voice when it got that certain tone. For that reason, yes, he was going to look after the boy even though, no, he didn't know anything about children.