Читать книгу The Nurse's Pregnancy Miracle - Ann McIntosh - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

“THIS COUNTRY HAS been so good to me, and it is my pleasure to be able to give back in some small way.”

Crowded around the raised stage at the front of the school auditorium, the assembled doctors, nurse practitioners, RNs, medical and nursing students listened respectfully to Dr. Hamatty’s pep talk.

It was a great turn-out, and Nychelle was cautiously confident that they were fully prepared for the influx of children who, brought by their parents, would soon be streaming in for the pediatric clinic. It had taken months of intense work by all the committee members to pull it together, but with Dr. Hamatty’s connections they had assembled all the equipment and personnel they needed.

She’d been on site the evening before, helping to supervise the setting up of field hospital cubicles and examination tables, and directing the placement of diagnostic machines and dispensary. The Lauderlakes free clinics were famous for their quality of care—a point of pride for Dr. Hamatty, his staff and associates. Even the older, more established doctors turned out to lend their talents when time permitted.

In the middle of the group, Nychelle split her attention between the familiar speech and the conversation scrolling across her phone.

How much longer before you know for sure?

Aliya had added an excited face emoji for emphasis, making Nychelle smile. Anyone meeting her cousin in her guise as a rising young oncology researcher would never guess the depth of Aliya’s silly side.

Already told you, another week and a half. Asking every day isn’t going to speed up the process!

Are you going to cheat?

Nychelle smiled, shaking her head at how well her cousin knew her. The thought of buying one of those early detection pregnancy tests and taking it a couple of days before her next appointment had crossed her mind.

No. It would be like tempting fate.

A quick check found that Dr. Hamatty was at the point where he spoke about coming to the States as a child. His family had been poor, unable to speak proper English, and suffering the effects of the war-torn situation they’d left behind. After telling the story of how he’d got to where he was, he’d wrap it up and they’d all take their places, ready for the deluge of patients. He’d be another five, maybe seven minutes, she estimated.

Just enough time to finish her conversation with Aliya.

Without more than a glance at her phone, she typed her message.

Have you told your mom you won’t be at the gala?

Yes. She’s not amused, but agreed work had to come first.

Pursing her lips, Nychelle replied.

Not surprising at all.

To Dr. Monique Girvan work always came first. There had been a time when Nychelle had resented her mother for rarely being around, for putting her career advancement before everything else, up to and including her children. Now, although it still rankled, she’d learned to accept her mother for who she was.

It didn’t mean her daughter had to walk in her footsteps, though. In fact, if anything, it made Nychelle determined not to. Her children wouldn’t want for love, affection, and understanding.

Dr. Hamatty was getting close to winding up his speech, so Nychelle typed, Okay, almost go time. TTYL, then stuffed her phone into the pocket of her lab coat.

The crowd shifted, and muffled apologies following their movement as people bumped into one another. The nurse standing just in front of Nychelle turned to frown at the source of the disturbance, but her disapproving expression immediately faded and she lifted a hand to smooth her hair.

Following the other woman’s gaze, Nychelle found herself face to face with David Warmington.

As usual his expression was serious, but there was a glint of a smile in his eyes and Nychelle was suddenly breathless, her heart stumbling as she drowned in the bright blue gaze.

He inched a little closer, surrounding her with the clean, fresh scent of utter maleness and, her legs suddenly wobbly, she turned back toward the stage, feigning the greatest of interest in the wrap-up of Dr. Hamatty’s speech.

Keeping her head steadfastly trained forward, she contemplated with some annoyance the fact that the darn man was suddenly everywhere she looked. Over the last week it had felt as though she couldn’t go two steps without seeing him. Worse, she’d found herself paying him far more attention than was warranted.

She had to admit, though, that what she’d seen was surprising, considering her previous assessment of his character. What she’d thought of as smooth charm seemed instead to be simply politeness. He never crossed the line into familiarity, and even seemed to display, on occasion, a touch of shyness.

He was unfailingly courteous, had a sly sense of humor, and he spoke to everyone from the janitorial staff to the senior partners in exactly the same way. Professionally, everyone agreed he was an excellent diagnostician and a thorough, diligent doctor.

Anyone hearing the nurses talk would believe him to be a paragon of every virtue, and Nychelle was beginning to understand why. He knew all their names, and she’d even overheard him asking one of the nurse aides about her son, who’d been ill the week before.

Once you got past his amazing looks, David Warmington seemed to be just a thoroughly nice person—but she knew better than to trust her own assessment of a man’s character. She’d thought the same of Nick, and had been horribly wrong. She just wished she could get her hormones to remember how painful disappointment was, especially when it left you feeling used, so that they’d stop reacting to the man standing at her side.

“And now it’s just about time to open the door and let our patients in.” Dr. Hamatty beamed as he rubbed his hands together in what looked like anticipation. “Have a great, productive day, and on behalf of everyone involved in planning this I once more thank you for giving up your Saturday to help those in need.”

There was a short round of applause as Dr. H. stepped away from the microphone and the clinic committee chairperson stepped forward.

“Any latecomers who haven’t received their instruction packages, please report to the intake table. Everyone else—please go to your assigned cubicle.” She glanced at her watch. “We have fifteen minutes, folks.”

Her smile was slightly strained, and Nychelle felt a pang of sympathy. It was no wonder almost every free clinic had a different coordinator. The stress of getting it all arranged was immense.

Clapping her hands together, like a schoolteacher trying to rally her students, and injecting a strident enthusiasm into her voice, the chairperson concluded, “Let’s do this!”

As the crowd dispersed, Nychelle hesitated. She should acknowledge Dr. Warmington in some way, but was reluctant. Ridiculous as it might be, just thinking of meeting his intent gaze made goose bumps fire down her spine and had her nipples tightening to tingling peaks.

“This is quite some set-up. I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

His words were obviously directed at her, since she was the only one left standing in the immediate vicinity.

Silently admonishing herself to stay cool, Nychelle made the half turn necessary to face him. Thankfully he was taking in the room, his gaze on the dispensary across the gymnasium.

Before she could answer, he continued, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pharmacy at a free clinic.”

Okay, this was a safe topic to talk about, and since she wasn’t skewered by that intense gaze Nychelle relaxed.

“Dr. Hamatty had to work really hard to get a special license for it. Apparently he realized, after the first few clinics he arranged, that it didn’t help the patients if they were given prescriptions they couldn’t afford to fill. All the medications are donated and, with a few exceptions, they’re limited to mostly over-the-counter drugs, so eventually he was allowed to have it.”

Nychelle couldn’t help chuckling softly, before continuing, “Dr. H. has a lot of clout in the medical community, and beyond. It was inconceivable they’d be able to hold out against him forever.”

As though drawn by the sound of her laughter, David looked at her, and immediately she was snared. Really, was it fair for a man to have eyes like that? So gorgeous they made a girl’s heart stop for a second and then had it galloping like an out-of-control horse?

No, Nychelle decided. No, it wasn’t in the slightest bit fair.

David’s lips quirked at the corners and amusement lit his eyes again. “Somehow I’m not surprised. Dr. H. is a powerhouse. I doubt anyone says no to him. Not more than once anyway.” He waved his hand in an abbreviated arc, gesturing to the room at large. “The number of us here is testimony to that.”

Had he wanted to say no? Wasn’t being charitable a part of his nature?

Unaccountably disappointed at the thought, she asked, “You weren’t at the last one? I would have thought you’d be roped in from the start.”

David briefly lifted one shoulder in what she’d come to realize was a characteristic shrug. “I had already committed to going to Los Angeles to finish a course on genetic counseling for oncology patients. Dr. H. knew about it when he hired me, so knew I wouldn’t be at the free clinic. I assured him I’d happily participate going forward.”

He looked down at the information package in his hand. “I should try to find my spot.” Glancing up at the alphabetically arranged banners hanging from the ceiling, he continued, “I’m in D section, cubicle five.”

“I’m just two cubicles down from you, so I can show you where it is.”

“Oh, good.”

He gave her a full, beaming smile, and the breath seized in her throat.

“So I can run to you if I have any questions?”

“Um...” Nychelle swallowed to make sure her voice wasn’t breathy and ridiculous before she attempted to answer. “Somehow I doubt you’ll need my help. I, on the other hand, am glad to know I’m in close proximity to the polyglot doctor.”

Wanting to lighten her emotional response to his smile, she narrowed her eyes, giving him a mock glare.

“You do speak several languages, right? You weren’t just pulling my leg?”

With a touch on her arm, which even through her lab coat caused a burst of heat over her skin, David guided her around to face their section and began to walk. Nychelle fell in beside him, keeping her attention on where she was going rather than looking up at the stunning profile of the man beside her.

“Spanish and Portuguese, French, Italian and some German—enough to get by anyway. A little Arabic and a smattering of Hindi. I can understand a bit of Mandarin, but just the basics. I’ve been told my Cantonese is a disgrace, but once the person I’m talking to stops laughing I can carry on a conversation...”

That last bit was said in such a disgruntled tone Nychelle couldn’t help giggling. “Okay, okay—I believe you.”

“Oh.” David paused abruptly, just before they got to their assigned areas. “I actually sought you out to let you know that Mrs. Cardozo and her baby are in no danger, and she’s been cleared by Dr. Tza to fly back home next week.”

Nychelle was about to ask for more details when the coordinator’s voice boomed through the auditorium. “Ten minutes, people. Ten minutes.”

“Oops, better get going.” Nychelle smiled up at David, was rewarded by an answering grin. Then she asked, “Did Dr. Tza’s office call with the update?”

“No, I called to follow up. See you.”

He strode toward his assigned examination area and warmth flooded Nychelle’s chest. Checking on a patient he’d only seen once and likely wouldn’t see again was beyond his purview, but knowing he’d done so made her unreasonably happy.

Get a grip on yourself. You’re getting as bad as the other nurses!

But the admonishment couldn’t wipe away the smile on her lips.

* * *

“I’m going to suggest going back to your old detergent. The location of the rash seems to indicate contact dermatitis, and the recent change to a different brand of laundry soap seems the obvious culprit.”

As the elderly man and preteen boy David was escorting out paused at the entrance to the examination area David continued. “The hydrocortisone cream will help with the itching, but if you go back to the old detergent and the rash doesn’t clear up in about a month, you’ll need to have him examined again.”

The old man nodded, then held out a gnarled and wrinkled hand to shake.

“Thanks, Doctor.” He shook his head and grumbled, “Darn kids. That new brand is cheaper than the old one. Wouldn’t you know one of them would be allergic?”

But, despite his grousing, he slung his arm around the boy’s shoulders as they walked away, and the youngster looped his own arm around the waist of the man he’d called “Grandpa.” Clearly there was genuine affection between the pair.

It was funny, David mused, how freely people talked about their lives in the short period of time they had with him in this clinic setting. Already today he’d heard myriad stories about difficult circumstances—like Mr. Jones and Tyrell, the pair now making their way to the dispensary. Mr. Jones wasn’t even the boy’s blood relative, but was married to Tyrell’s great-aunt, who’d taken Tyrell and his two sisters in after their mother went to jail. A sad story in a way, and yet a testament to people’s innate goodness.

David could relate to many of the stories of poverty. After all, he’d lived it, and it really wasn’t that long since he’d broken away from the grinding cycle of just trying to survive.

Sometimes it felt as if it were yesterday he’d been patching his shoes with newspaper and wearing clothes donated to the family by charitable organizations. Often he caught himself reverting to type—hesitating to buy something he could definitely afford because the price was still shocking to him on an almost visceral level, or rinsing a jar to save instead of putting it into the recycling. Some habits were definitely harder to break than others when they’d been acquired at a really young age.

About to call for the next patient in line, he glanced toward where Nychelle was working, just in time to see her trying to get his attention. He stayed where he was for a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the sight of her hurrying toward him. Even in a pair of pink scrubs printed with pictures of bunnies and teddy bears under a generic white lab coat, her face bare of makeup except for a slick of lip gloss, Nychelle was beautiful.

The only thing missing was her habitual smile. Instead her mouth was set in a firm line, and noticing that had him moving to meet her in front of the examination area that separated their assigned areas.

“Dr. Warmington, if you’re free I’d appreciate your assistance.”

Her voice was level, without inflection, but David searched her eyes, saw the hint of deep emotion she was trying hard to subdue.

“Of course. What’s the problem?”

“I have a toddler—male, three years old, underweight—with jaundice and an elevated temperature, and a Haitian mother who doesn’t speak much English, so I can’t get an accurate history.”

She turned to lead the way to her area.

“What are you thinking?”

Nychelle sent him a worried glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know how long they’ve been in the country, so until I do I can’t rule out malaria or Hep A—although it would be unusual for a toddler to show symptoms of hepatitis.”

Children that young, he knew, were usually asymptomatic when they contracted Hep A, and quickly recovered without treatment. The real danger would be the chance of the child passing Hepatitis A on to others around him, especially if they were living in less than hygienic conditions.

“Without a history I can’t rule out sickle cell anemia or Gilbert’s syndrome either.”

She paused outside the curtain surrounding her examination area, and David could hear the little boy fussing and the sounds of his mother hushing him without success.

Nychelle shook her head, her frustration patently clear for an instant. “I’m pretty much dead in the water without knowing more.” Then she squeezed his wrist—just a quick, strong clasp of her long fingers—and said, “I’m so glad I have you to call on.”

Then she slipped between the curtains, leaving him there trying to catch his breath and get a grip on his suddenly wayward libido.

Who knew that one little touch could be as effective as a striptease?

Cursing himself, he ruthlessly pushed away all imaginings of what it would be like to have Nychelle Cory’s fingers on other parts of his body, and then followed her through the curtain.

The mother looked harried, and instinctively David held out his arms to the little boy. Big brown eyes widening, the toddler stopped crying and gave David a considering look. Then, after a hiccup, he smiled and tipped forward right into David’s grasp.

As he caught the little boy, and then settled the slight weight against his chest, David took a quick inventory. The little fellow was definitely warm, and the sclera of both eyes had a distinctive yellow tint. Time to figure out what was going on.

So, putting on his most calming smile, he turned to the little boy’s mother. “Bonjour, madame. Puis-je vous poser quelques questions?”