Читать книгу Dr. Dad To The Rescue - Jodi O'Donnell, Jodi O'Donnell - Страница 11

Chapter One

Dallas, Texas, present day

There came a time in every little boy’s life, Holden supposed, when he was forced to accept the inevitable and often painful fact that the ability to fly was reserved for birds, airplanes, comic book heroes—and certain “illusionists” who performed this amazing deed on prime-time television.

How often had Holden himself listened to such tales of disenchantment as he’d set collarbone or leg, stitched a split lip or patched up the odd contusion sustained as a result of some young man’s literal leap of faith?

Telling himself this instance was no different, Holden shot a sidelong glance at his son, who sat next to him in treatment room three at the Brookside Physical Therapy Associates. Sam’s face was pinched and pensive. Stoop-shouldered, the six-year-old cradled his splinted forearm against him as if protecting a newborn.

Somehow, Holden was not convinced.

Too bad the cast had had to come off this morning, just when Sam seemed to be getting used to it But there was still a lot of healing on his broken arm that needed to be done outside of such a protective shell.

“Are you having any pain?” he asked the boy.

Lips thinning, Sam shook his head.

Holden shifted in his seat, stretching an arm along the back of the empty chair on the other side of him. “That’s good. You should have little discomfort, actually. You heard the orthopedist say the X ray showed the bones had realigned perfectly, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached into his suit coat pocket. “You could put on some more of this lotion if your skin itches.”

“I’m okay.”

Holden felt his own mouth crease. He would have asked Sam what was the matter, what he could do for the boy, but he didn’t think Sam would tell him. Ever since Sam’s accident, the gap between father and son had grown, especially after Holden had tried to impress upon him the folly of allowing make-believe to take precedence over common sense.

He simply didn’t know what to do or say or ask next, and had told the grief counselor Sam had been seeing just that. The man had given him the rather simplistic advice that Holden should let Sam make the next move. So far, his son had done nothing.

And so the gap widened, imperceptibly.

Yet what if Sam came to him with a question Holden couldn’t answer, a problem he couldn’t fix?

I’m scared.

And I miss her so much.

With a sigh, Holden dropped his chin and massaged a persistent and painful knot in his jaw muscle. He’d always had a tendency to clench his teeth when under stress, but if he didn’t ease up soon, he’d crack every molar in his mouth.

“dead?”

Holden lifted his head. “Yes?”

“I just wondered if—” Sam was looking at him anxiously. Not often did the boy see him showing any sign of vulnerability. After all he’d been through, Holden made sure of that.

He straightened his spine and asked again, “Yes?”

Sam’s gaze slid away. “If I could, you know, hit the bathroom before the therapist comes in.”

“Oh. Sure. I saw one when we came in. Down the hallway.”

Resisting the urge to offer help, he watched the boy disappear, the door swishing shut behind him. Left alone, Holden let his head fall back against the wall behind him with an oath of self-censure. He really needed to pull himself together, once and for all, for Sam’s sake, if nothing else.

But things had gotten so complicated, so close, lately.

He stared at the recessed spotlights above him and wondered if their brutal illumination, so like the flash-bulb brilliant lighting in the ER, might help him find the distance he usually donned as easily as a stethoscope. At least pondering the subject gave him something to concentrate on, take his mind off of...things.

Like how hard he’d been working. He’d thought leaving the job at County Hospital in Chicago and the daily dose of senseless death would help put his life on a more even footing. Yet even within the less-intensive atmosphere of a private suburban hospital, he continued to feel as if he slogged through a mire as thick as quicksand.

Holden realized the lights had burned hot spots on his retina only after he heard someone say his name. All he could see was a reddened aura surrounding the figure before him.

He closed his eyes, giving them a second to recover.

“Holden McKee?” the still faceless woman repeated. There was something strangely soothing about her voice. Yet rather than calming him, Holden recognized trepidation mingling with the sense of powerlessness he’d been fighting.

“Yes, I’m Holden McKee,” he said blindly, not liking the sensation. “Who are you?”

“I’m here to help your son,” she answered. She had a faint drawl he found rather attractive. “You, too, it would seem. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just temporary. Stupid of me, looking into the light like that—”

A hand rested on his shoulder, delicate as an angel’s touch. The impression was reinforced by the caress on the back of his hand, which felt like nothing so much as a feather.

With a certain urgency, Holden blinked. What finally came into focus was a young woman bending toward him, her face inches from his. He realized where he’d gotten the impression of auras and feather-light touches: she was surrounded by a glorious veil of red-gold hair, wavy and as fluid-looking as molten copper. The ends of its waist-length strands brushed his hand as it lay on his knee.

He got the strongest urge to reach up and rub a lock of it between his fingers to see if it was real. Or to bury his face in that thick curtain of softness—to see if she was real.

She smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I don’t believe in—”

The rest of his thought was lost as he was captured by a pair of fine brown eyes fringed with dark eyelashes so curly they curved right up over her brow bone. They were quite expressive—open and honest and caring. Quite...familiar.

With that realization, the calm Holden sought settled over him, as if now that the moment of reckoning was near, he could face it—wanted to face it—and get it over with, once and for all.

Her eyes darkened with bewilderment. He must be staring like a madman. His gaze faltered, bringing her mouth into his line of vision.

He found himself riveted by those full lips, so close to his. A mere heartbeat away. All it would take was the slightest shift in his position to bridge the gap between them in a kiss. And with that connection, somehow he would know...what?

The moment held, a wrinkle in time. He felt himself at a crossroads, as if he was being given a rare, brief glimpse of two possible paths to take.

Neither way was quite clear. So close, though.

“What did you say your name was?” Holden whispered, so elusive was the moment.

“It’s Edie. Edie Turner.” Her voice held puzzlement. She didn’t know him, obviously. Disappointment mushroomed and spread in him.

The moment began to slip away.

Desperately, Holden riffled through a mental Rolodex for her name. Edie Turner. It struck no chords with him, but then he came into contact with so many people. Patients, colleagues, co-workers—all passed in and out of his life at such a rate they seemed one faceless blur. He had no time to stop and look closely at anyone, as he was doing now.

Close. So close.

Where on earth—and when—would he have known a woman named...Edie?

“You’re late.” The words popped out of Holden’s mouth of their own volition. Much too late, he wanted to add.

At his accusing tone, she straightened in surprise. Her hand dropped away. “Yes, I-I am, I guess. A little. But we still have plenty of time. There’ll be no one else after you.”

Why did her assurance—and the hurt in her eyes—do nothing to soothe his sudden anger? In fact, that look nearly undid him again, especially coming on the heels of a moment when he’d almost felt he could have told this woman anything and she would have understood.

Unsure why he was so irritated, Holden stood and indicated the time on his watch. “My son’s appointment was at four. It’s now twenty after. That’s more than a little late.”

She took a step back. Whatever connection he’d felt between them snapped.

“I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused,” she said, which only rankled him further.

“I just need to know if this is what I should expect when I bring Sam to his appointments. Because I can certainly put that twenty minutes to good use.”

Edie gave the clipboard in her hand a quick glance. “It’s Dr. McKee, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Of course. Well—again—I apologize for the wait, Dr. McKee, but in the interest of providing the best treatment possible to our patients, appointments sometimes do run over.” Though her tone remained polite, she flicked a long lock of that hair behind her shoulder in a telling gesture. “As a health-care professional yourself, I’m sure you understand.”

He raised an eyebrow at such insubordination. Not the wisest move on her part, but then—

“I deserved that, didn’t I?” Holden said.

“You’re the doctor.” She returned his scrutiny steadily. She had spirit, he’d give her that.

Yet there was not a bit of recognition in her eyes for him. The caring warmth he’d spied there had definitely departed—if he’d actually seen it at all.

He shook his head. He really had been working too hard.

Holden massaged the back of his neck. “I’m the one who should apologize, Ms. Turner. I’ve been under a lot of strain, though that’s hardly an excuse. I guess I don’t blame you, getting back a bit of your own from a doctor. We’re the ones who make the world wait for and on us,” he quipped, trying for a lighter tone.

She seemed slightly mollified, enough to return mildly, “I think they call it a God complex, Dr. McKee.”

Again, the words spilled out of his mouth of their own accord. “Not this doctor, Ms. Turner,” he said with grim emphasis. “Because that would mean I believed there’s such a thing as an almighty and healing God. And the fact is, we’re on our own down here.”

There was a muffled sound from behind him. Holden turned to find Sam had returned and stood in the doorway. He looked as if he’d learned there was no Santa Claus. Holden supposed, in a way, the boy had just endured a similar disillusionment.

His heart sank like lead.

“Sam, I—” Holden extended a hand toward the boy, then dropped it—and shut up. Just as before, he couldn’t think of a single thing he could say to make the situation better. He would have given anything to take back his words. That he couldn’t shake his bitterness about the turn their lives had taken was one thing, but his son ought to have some hope to sustain him.

Yet the futility of trying to make sense of such a loss was a strong force in Holden. Not for the first time, he wondered how he was going to raise this child, given his cynical view of life. Maybe that’s what made him feel so world-weary. There were a thousand hurts he could heal, but what was that power if he couldn’t heal the human spirit? Because his was next to lost. The dearth of hope and trust in him seemed so deep a debt, it would take a miracle to replenish it.

Edie had never seen a person look more forsaken, like he’d just lost his best friend.

The little boy stood in the doorway cradling his injured forearm, the faded-to-gray color of his jeans shorts echoed in eyes so like his father’s. He held the support crossed on his chest, fist on his heart, as if he were set to swear an allegiance and waited only for someone to tell him to whom. And if no one did, he’d bolt at any moment.

In that instant, he owned her heart.

All the cautions given her by the clinic supervisor not three hours ago—that she could not be the world’s rescuer and continue to work in health care—flew right out of Edie’s head. How could she not respond to such a silent cry for help?

He was a handsome child, with those enormous eyes and that spiky dark-brown hair begging for a hand to smooth it down. She wondered what his mother was like, and what kept her from being here in her child’s time of need.

Her heart squeezed painfully.

Edie tossed a reproachful glance at his father, whose own eyes—more gray-green than strictly gray—looked as bleak, his face carved from stone. Thank God he’d checked his tongue before completely demoralizing the boy. Even she had flinched at the gloom and doom in his voice. At least he seemed to perceive his blunder, for she saw the doctor’s jaw bulge with the gritting of his teeth.

Reluctant sympathy stirred in her. She’d give him credit for his remorse, even if she had a feeling the damage had already been done, in so many ways.

She’d have to do the best she could with what was left.

“So you’re Sam,” Edie said, bending at the waist so she was on a level with the boy. Her action worked. Sam shifted his gaze from his father to her.

Edie smiled her warmest smile. “I’m Edie Turner, your physical therapist, which means I’m going to see if we can make that arm of yours better so you can get back to playing all your games. Why don’t you hop up here on the table and we’ll take a look at your arm?”

Sam complied, his climb-up made awkward by his continued grip on the white plastic splint. The padded surface sighed as he stoically settled on the edge of the plinth in front of her, sneaker-clad feet dangling. Yet when Edie moved to take a cursory look at his forearm, he recoiled.

She knew immediately to drop her hand. This would take some delicate maneuvering. Perhaps it would be best to get more acquainted first.

Edie pulled a pen from the pocket of her lab coat, flipping to the history portion of Sam’s file. “How’d you injure your arm, Sam?”

“He took a fall from the top of the stairs to the landing,” the doctor interjected from behind her.

Edie turned to find him a few feet away in a rather commanding stance, with fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers, coattail flipped back behind him. He nodded toward Sam. “His injury involved a bone forearm fracture, completely displaced and the fragments overriding, which required closed reduction of Sam’s arm and eight weeks’ immobilization. Because of the nature of the fracture, the orthopedic surgeon decided to err on side of caution and recommended therapy.”

He spoke to her as he would a class of first-year medical students, and with the same patronizing delivery.

Edie stifled a sigh. On the whole, the physicians she knew were a pleasure to work with. Yet despite his assertion to the contrary, Dr. Holden McKee seemed to be in firm possession of a power complex, divine or otherwise. Would it have killed him to drop the doctor-in-charge act and go stand near his son, give him a little moral support?

“So you accidently fell, Sam?” Edie pointedly asked the boy.

“Not ’xactly,” he admitted. “I didn’t fall. I sorta... jumped. I-I was trying to fly. You know, like David Copperfield.”

“Aha. I guess that’s where the landing part comes in. Not so smooth, was it, Sam?”

To her delight, Sam gave one of those deprecating, all-in-a-day’s-hard-play shrugs.

She chuckled. “So I’d say it wasn’t exactly a fall, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess.” He looked at his father over her shoulder. “I mean, no, ma’am. I didn’t fly, I just fell.”

“Oh, please call me Edie, will you?” She drew Sam’s attention back to her with her request. “I want to be really comfortable with you.”

“Okay—Ee-dee,” he said, enunciating each syllable.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. So, how many steps were you aiming to soar over?” Nonchalantly, she reached out and adjusted one of the Velcro straps on the splint. “Five, six...more?”

“Eight,” Sam owned. He threw another glance, this one guilty, over her shoulder.

“Eight!” she exclaimed, cocking her head to the right and into his line of vision. “I bet there must’ve been at least a second or two when you really did feel like you were flaying.”

He blinked at her. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Edie felt encouraged enough to ask, “Think I could have a look at the souvenir of such a feat?”

“Well...okay.”

This time when she reached to remove the molded plastic splint, Sam allowed her to undo the straps and set it aside. His forearm and wrist were pale and somewhat atrophied from their weeks in plaster, yet looked to have healed well, with only a slight thickening still present.

Sam swallowed and averted his gaze. He seemed almost repelled by the sight of his own frailty.

“Why, you’re mending just fine, Sam,” she reassured him.

He squinted one eye. “Really?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, of course. Did you think you wouldn’t?”

He gave another shrug of his small shoulders, but there was nothing devil-may-care about this one. “I-I guess I didn’t know.”

Once more, Edie felt her heartstrings wrench as she realized he’d been protecting his injury not just from her sight. The worry he must have been going through! Apparently he hadn’t felt he could ask his father, the doctor, for an assessment—and an assurance.

The man wasn’t exactly increasing in her estimation.

“Well, you are getting better, champ,” she said. “We just need to keep up the good work that’s already been done.”

With infinite gentleness, Edie took Sam’s forearm in her hands. But even that merest touch made the youngster flinch.

She felt another twist of her heart. He was obviously terrified. “I’m sorry, Sam. Does it feel uncomfortable just touching it?”

“Naturally he’ll have some tenderness, with or without moving his arm, because of the nature of his injury,” his father again broke in, finally stepping around to the other side of the examining table, next to his son. Yet he was as stiff as ever as he placed his hand on the brown leatherette surface next to Sam’s hip, then seemed to recall himself and withdrew it

She began to wonder if anything could penetrate that impassive shell of his.

He cleared his throat. “But it’s important to begin moving the joint at this point so that its range of motion isn’t permanently restricted and full function is recovered as soon as possible.”

Edie wondered if this particular explanation was for her benefit or his six-year-old son’s. All right, this time she’d try acknowledging his input and work with it. “Could that be it, Sam? You know, not the soreness right now, but being kind of scared of how it might cause a little discomfort to move your arm?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“Are you scared what I might do will cause discomfort, Sam?”

Chin tucked, he chewed his lip. Then he nodded. “A-a little.” His voice trembled, the poor little boy.

The doctor made a sound, no doubt gearing up for what was sure to be another of his textbook interpretations of the problem, which would naturally be so helpful to Sam. Quickly, she shot Holden a forestalling glance, hoping this time he’d get the message. Normally, parents didn’t involve themselves in their children’s treatment once the therapist had established a rapport with the child. As a medical professional, Dr. McKee should know better than to interfere with that process, although she had a feeling getting him to give up even a little control to her was going to be an uphill battle.

She saw a muscle spasm pulse in his jaw. He inclined his head ever so slightly, yielding to her judgment For now.

Edie turned her focus back to Sam, whose hunched shoulders had drawn up even more, until he looked like a turtle retreating into its shell.

He would break her heart before this was over, Edie was certain. Something told her what she did in the next few moments would make all the difference in the world to this boy.

“You know, Sam, it’s all right to be scared.” She made her voice very hushed, just between the two of them. “I won’t lie to you and say what we’re going to do won’t feel a little uncomfortable for you, but we won’t do anything you’re not okay with. Deal?”

He didn’t answer.

Oh, what to do with a boy who shut everyone out of his pain! Edie was at a loss for how to proceed, was acutely aware Dr. McKee watched her every move. The words of her supervisor rang in her brain. You can’t let yourself get so emotionally involved, Edie. It’s not good for the patient—your judgment isn’t as clear—and it’s not good for you. You’ll end up losing yourself, burning out.

Yet every cell in her urged her not to hold back, and not just with Sam. Edie didn’t know why, but something told her that by doing so even a little, she would lose a part of herself. If she stifled the emotion, then she stifled her ability to connect.

She’d become like the doctor here.

She found herself wondering again where Sam’s mother was, could not imagine what kept her from being with him—and her husband.

On that thought, Edie laid her palm on Sam’s shoulder—much as she’d done moments earlier with Holden, it occurred to her. But it just seemed the thing to do, both then and now.

And such was the power of a simple touch that the boy responded like his father had. His head came up, chestnut brown hair falling over his forehead, and he peered at her, gaze searching.

“Will you trust me, just a little, Sam?” she murmured.

Dark lashes flickered, as if he were afraid to believe in what she offered. But then, hadn’t he stood there barely ten minutes ago and listened to his father insist upon the futility of believing in anything or anyone? Then to have that point driven home by being forced to admit he shouldn’t have believed he could fly!

How many more hopes and dreams could this child stand to have dashed?

“Will you trust me, Sam?” Edie urged.

His brow furrowed—as if he were afraid not to believe.

You can believe in this, Sam, she telepathed to him. My help, my understanding, my friendship. My allegiance.

Sam nodded. “’Kay. I’ll trust you.”

Relief washed over her. So the damage was repairable at this point.

“I’m glad you’ve put your trust in me, Sam,” she said around the lump in her throat. “I won’t let you down.”

With a smile of confidence, Edie glanced up at Holden.

Eyes hard as granite met hers.

“Is making personal affirmations to patients standard practice at this clinic, Ms. Turner?” he asked in that instructor-tostudent manner.

Her face grew hot. She couldn’t entirely blame him for that; by making her promise to Sam, she was the one who wasn’t being entirely professional. Yet she couldn’t find it in her to regret doing so. She’d had to follow her instincts.

“Do you think it better to tip the scale on the other end of the spectrum, Dr. McKee?” she asked, with that same air of them having a friendly debate, her calming hand still upon Sam’s shoulder. “Detach yourself completely from another’s distress when you have the ability to help ease it?”

“Of course not. But we’re not miracle workers. Too much is out of your control, and what is could get yanked out from under you in an instant—”

He broke off, clearly angry at himself for losing some of his control. “All I’m saying is, don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ms. Turner.”

Not to my son. She was well aware of his unspoken addendum, was well aware that Sam listened and might pick up on the tone of their conversation.

“But that’s just it. I haven’t.” She lifted her chin. “I will help Sam to the very best of my ability, Dr. McKee. You may depend on that, too.”

He studied her as skeptically as ever but said no more. Truly, she didn’t want to butt heads with him—especially not in front of Sam—but she had to do what she thought best.

Settling that aim in her mind, Edie turned her complete attention back to the boy. “All right, then! Let’s get an idea of what’s going on with that arm. Can you try and make a fist for me, Sam?”

Though obliging enough, the loose fist Sam curled his fingers into seemed not altogether his best effort. True to form, Dr. McKee was Johnny-on-the-spot with a pithy piece of medical advice. “Simple flexion of the fingers doesn’t significantly demonstrate range of elbow motion and forearm rotation.”

Whether he meant the comment for her enlightenment or Sam’s wasn’t clear. She only saw the boy’s mouth go taut.

She really was losing her patience.

“You know what I just realized?” Edie said. “That this trust thing sort of works both ways. Meaning we need to trust you, Sam, to be the judge of how much you can do. Don’t you agree, Dr. McKee?” She gazed at him innocently.

Holden’s own mouth went rigid as another of those spasms pulsed in his square jaw. “Of course,” he answered.

“Great.” She nodded to Sam. “Just give it your best shot, champ.”

Tongue curled up over his lip, Sam made a fist not much tighter than the last. Regardless, Edie made sure her praise was lavish—and quick. “Very good! Now try touching your pointing finger to your thumb.. .now your middle finger, right...ring finger, then pinkie. There you go!”

The boy’s shoulders relaxed visibly, she noted with satisfaction. “I guess...I guess maybe I will be able to play again. Regular stuff, I mean. Not magic tricks.”

“Well, it is pretty hard learning you’ve got a long way to go to be a master illusionist—or an escape artist, like I wanted to be when I was about your age. I was going to be the next Harry Houdini. Squeeze my fingers, will you, Sam? Hard as you can, but don’t hurt me, okay?”

Sam actually cracked a one-sided smile, even as he earnestly concentrated on complying with her request. The result seemed most promising. He was loosening up, both literally and figuratively. “Playing Harry Hou...who?”

“Harry Houdini. He was a very famous magician who specialized in escaping from things. Yup, I cracked my head a good one trying to escape from a straitjacket while hanging upside down.”

The boy’s eyes rounded. “Really?”

“’Course I didn’t have a real straitjacket, just an old bedsheet I wrapped around myself after I’d shinnied up a tree. Lost my balance before I even got—”

“Ms. Turner.”

Edie glanced up. She’d forgotten Holden was there. “Yes?” The look on his face was impassive no more. Forbidding was more like it. “Sam doesn’t need any more ideas on magic tricks. If you really must continue on that bent, you might encourage him to try some sleight of hand, like making a quarter disappear, which would not only mobilize his arm but keep him occupied with less-dangerous activities.”

Imperceptibly, Sam drew his shoulders up.

That did it, Edie decided. She’d hoped to avoid a confrontation, but it seemed inevitable.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she said.

She left the room and returned a minute later with the perky young woman who was her aide.

“Colleen here is going to put some moist heat on your arm to help loosen it up, okay, Sam?”

She turned to Colleen. “Nothing too intense. Sam’s real good about letting you know what he can stand.”

“Got it,” Colleen said.

Edie smiled politely at Holden, but her words brooked no dissent. “If you’ll come with me, Dr. McKee, I need to consult with you a moment.”

He raised one dark eyebrow. “I welcome the opportunity.”

Oh, yeah, she was in for a fight.

Edie gave Sam a wink of reassurance. “You’ll be fine, champ, I promise.”

He nodded bravely. “Okay, Ee-dee.”

She couldn’t prevent herself from delivering a parting touch in the form of smoothing down that spiky hair. “You know, I kind of like the special way you say my name,” she teased.

Her heart melted at the yearning that sprang to his eyes as a result of her gesture, even as he shied away from it.

“I-I never knew anybody with initials for a name,” he said hesitantly. “What’s ED. short for, anyway?”

The question, so out of the blue, brought her up short.

“But it’s not...that,” she stammered, wondering why she felt as if she was equivocating. “It’s Edie. I don’t think it’s short for anything. My mother told me the name came to her in a dream when she was pregnant.”

For some reason, she found her gaze locking with Holden’s. He was impassive no more-instead she glimpsed a naked yearning in his eyes that was startling. It brought to mind how he’d stared at her before, right after she’d come into the room and found him looking almost...lost. And how it seemed he looked to her to bring him back home.

Edie was held spellbound by the searching in those intense gray-green eyes. They delved miles deeper than Sam’s ever could—almost intimately. Like a man would gaze at...at a lover.

She realized only now how she’d avoided that look before, much in the same way his little boy had recoiled from her and the potential for pain she represented.

With some desperation, Edie pushed such thoughts from her mind so that she might concentrate on helping the one who needed her most at the moment.

But she was not quite so confident as she’d been a minute ago of who that person was as she left the room, Holden McKee only a step behind her.