Читать книгу Temporary Doctor, Surprise Father - Lynne Marshall - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

IF JANUARY Ashworth saw one more couple making out, she’d scream. Was it mating season or something? The young ortho tech and his nurse girlfriend were wrapped so close together it was hard to figure out where one left off and the other began. On the drive into work she’d seen two teenagers at a bus stop with their hands all over each other—she’d almost beeped her horn to break them up—and now this. And why, at one month shy of thirty, did she feel so old?

Running late, she pulled into a free spot and parked. After grabbing the pile of mail from the front seat, which she’d picked up on her way out of her house, she slammed the car door. Jan turned to see if the racket had fazed the lovebirds as they continued to lock lips. It hadn’t. Wasn’t there a rule about necking in the Los Angeles Mercy Hospital employee parking lot?

Jan shook her head, adjusted her glasses and, in the hope of getting the vision of lust out of her mind, glanced toward the afternoon sun. It only made her sneeze. Not even that got their attention. When had she last been kissed so passionately? Refusing to go there, she shook her head again and wiped her itching nose with a tissue.

Five minutes later, after zipping her name badge through the time-clock machine, she headed toward the emergency department while sorting through her mail. The newspaper said there’d be a full moon tonight, and it was Friday on top of that. Between the old ER tale of the full moon bringing out the medical crazies and the guaranteed usual Friday-night crowd, she knew it would be extra-busy tonight. And if her continued sneezing and watery eyes were any indication, a cold was brewing.

Things were not looking good…until she spied one special letter in the pile of mail. She recognized the address and got a warm, achy feeling in her heart, then promptly slipped it inside her scrub pocket to savor later.

Carmen Estrada, the no-nonsense ER charge nurse, waved her over the second her crepe-soled shoes hit the threshold. “Jan! I wanted to clue you in on a decision Dr. Riordan has made and already implemented.” The tall, middle-aged woman gave her a once-over. “Have you been crying? Your nose is red.”

“Sneezing.” Jan slipped an oversized nondescript-color OR gown over her loose scrubs as she studied the unnatural black hair of her supervisor. “So what’s up?” She nodded and listened distractedly.

“We’ll be accommodating a National Guard medic over the next month. He’s gearing up for another tour of duty and needs a quickie skills refresher course. He’ll be working under the umbrella of Dr. Riordan’s license and the agreement the hospital made with the National Guard. Any stitches, broken bones, chest tubes, intubations, gunshot wounds—you catch my drift—make sure the medic gets first dibs.”

Still distracted, rather than tying the straps of the OR gown, Jan stuffed them in her pocket with the letter. “What about the interns and residents? Aren’t they going to gripe?”

“Sure they are, but Gavin doesn’t give a patootie about that. He wants the medic to get first dibs.”

Jan inhaled and held her breath. She and Carmen exchanged knowing looks. No need to protest, the king of the ER had spoken. Once Gavin Riordan made up his mind about anything, it became emergency department law.

“Whatever,” Jan finally said on an exhalation.

Carmen used her high forehead as if it was a beacon light and nodded toward Dr. Riordan’s open office. A tall, fit-looking man in a police uniform with sculpted arms and a nearly shaved head was shaking hands with Dr. Riordan. Surprising and unwanted humming vibrated over the nerve endings in her spine. What was it about a man in a uniform?

The hair rose on the back of Jan’s neck as she went on alert. There was something about that profile, the line of his shoulders, his stance that put her on edge. “I thought you said he’s with the National Guard. That guy’s a cop.”

“He’s on the LAPD SWAT team, is a Special Forces trained medic, and also is on the National Guard, so I’m told.”

“Impressive. How can he work here and on the force at the same time?”

“He’s coming in on his days off and after hours.”

Some sixth sense sent a rush of blood from her suddenly pounding heart, making her cheeks get hot. She forced herself to act nonchalant. “Sounds pretty dedicated.”

“From what Gavin says, the guy’s proved himself through several tours of duty and is gearing up for another.”

At three-quarter view, a sharp brow line, deep-set, appraising eyes and a straight profile began to fill in the blanks on the missing person’s report in her head. Though his hair was closely cropped, the stubble looked dark. Almost black. Just like…

“Hmm. So when does he start?”

“Right now.”

With her eyes darting around the ED for places to hide—not that she was positive she knew him or anything, mostly it was an eerie feeling the mysterious cop dragged out of her—Jan made an about-face, planning to slink away and skulk in the background for the rest of her shift.

“Jan?” Gavin called her name, and any hope of keeping a low profile trickled away.

She adjusted her glasses and attempted to swallow a wad of cotton wedged in her throat as she went on guard, hoping the man wouldn’t recognize her, and turned. “Yes?”

Gavin swaggered across the room, steering along the newest addition to the ED. “This is Officer Beck Braxton.”

After a mini-implosion in her chest—it was him!—Jan nodded a cautious greeting and worked to conceal the unnerving reaction fizzing through her body. She didn’t offer to shake his hand. She couldn’t. Beck gave her a stealthy once-over, his mouth thinning into a polite straight line.

“He’s a highly trained field medic and needs to update his trauma skills. You’ve got your PA license, haven’t you, Beck?”

Beck shook his head. “Actually, I never got round to it before I joined SWAT.” So Beck had been a military field medic who was now a police officer on the special weapons and tactics team. Who would ever have thought?

“That’s a shame because, from what I’ve heard, you’ve got the knack.” Gavin shifted back to Jan. “I’ve already told him what a great nurse you are.” In a subversively charming way, Gavin smiled. He wasn’t kidding anyone, least of all her. He was merely blowing smoke up her stethoscope to soften her up before he dropped the bomb. “You’ll be assisting him tonight.”

Gulp. She fought back a cough. No way could she work with him.

“Wherever he goes, whatever he needs, you see to it he gets it. I’ve seen Beck work. He doesn’t need me breathing down his neck unless something big comes in.”

Dark brown hair, pale skin, lips ripe for kissing, hazel eyes that could make a girl do something she’d never planned—a face she’d never thought she’d see again.

Her mind drifted back to the couple in the parking lot. The last time she’d been swept off her feet by a kiss had been with Beck. A quick memory popped into her head of how her knees had buckled the first time he’d kissed her, and how he’d had to hold her up by backing her against the lockers in the school hallway. Standing before her was something much more disturbing than the high-school version. Beck had grown into a mature and dangerously attractive man, though he didn’t act as though he knew it.

Her stomach backflipped and stuck the landing with a quick punch of pain.

“Got it?” Gavin challenged.

Jan prayed that thirteen years, a name change, and an extreme make-over might throw Beck off her trail. No longer January Stewart, the popular high-school prom queen, now she was a once-divorced, radically toned-down version of her former self. Everything about her was different, from her last name to bobbed dark blond hair instead of long brash platinum waves cupping her waist. She wore glasses now instead of contacts, and had gained a handful of strategically placed pounds. He really shouldn’t recognize her. Should he?

“Got it,” she mumbled, wiping her nose with a tissue to disguise her face, her voice sounding gravelly from her tickling throat.

“Thanks,” Beck said. “And it’s nice to meet you.” Something flickered in his eyes when he reached for and shook her other hand. Recalling how his eye color could change from day to day depending on what he wore, she quickly looked away before her warming cheeks became too obvious, but not before she’d already noticed they were gray-blue today. His hand felt calloused, as if he was no stranger to hard work. That made sense for the street tough kid who’d always longed for adventure. Legions of awakening nerve endings marched up from her hand to her arm and fanned out across her shoulders.

A fond memory of how secure she’d once felt holding his hand flashed into her mind. She loosened her grip and let her hand slip free, anything to stop the reaction, but her mind refused to shut down.

Never in a million years would she ever have guessed he’d become a police officer. He’d done everything in his power to act like an outlaw in his teens, always getting into fights and not caring what anyone, including teachers, had to say.

Her lips tickled at the edges with the absurdity. But he’d never have dreamed she’d become a nurse, either. “Most likely to be a movie star.” Wasn’t that what her high-school annual had predicted for her? Heck, they’d even inserted a pair of sunglasses over one of her rare candid pictures with the caption, “Bright future. Must wear shades.”

Carmen strode around the ER desk and plopped a clipboard in Gavin’s hand. “Full moon’s apparently already rising. We’ve got a level-one trauma in transit. A gunshot wound. ETA five minutes,” she said with her usual aplomb.

Grateful for the distraction, Jan went on alert.

“Is this gang related?” Dr. Riordan asked.

“Not sure, but he fits the age range and the neighborhood.”

“Notify Security and lock down the ED waiting room just in case.”

“Already have,” Carmen retorted.

Gavin lifted his brows, tilted his head and trained his dark eyes on Beck. “Are you off duty yet?”

“Just about.”

“Then you’d better get changed.”

* * *

Adrenaline pumped through every vein in Beck’s body in the men’s locker room. Wasn’t that what he lived for? The mention of a gunshot wound sent his mind spiraling back to his last tour of duty. Though gunshot wounds had been common, they had been the least of his worries then. What still haunted him were IEDs—improvised explosive devices—and lost body parts and burns, plus the fact you could never easily identify the difference between the enemy and the local allies. To this day he tensed whenever he passed an abandoned car at the side of the road.

Beck forced himself to focus on the job at hand. He’d learned that was all he could ever do. Think of it as another adventure. One more for the file.

Something else butted into his thinking. Why did that nurse seem so familiar? She wasn’t exactly his type, but an odd current had traveled up his arm when they’d shaken hands. She hadn’t looked him in the eyes, and with lightly tinted glasses like those, it had been hard to read her expression. She’d seemed to squirm, and it surprised him. Usually, women reacted much more welcomingly to his touch. He shook his head. He should be focusing on the incoming GSW, yet…there was something very familiar about her.

After stripping and throwing on a pair of thread-worn scrubs, he realized he only had his work boots for shoes. Looking around the room, he spotted some extra-large OR shoe covers and slipped them on over his boots. Tucking in and tying the waistband on his scrubs, he rushed toward Gavin Riordan, the man offering his ER and saving him three weeks’ intensive training in North Carolina. Along with everyone else, he waited at the ambulance entrance for hell to break loose as they all applied personal protective gear.

And there she was again, the nurse, waiting beside Gavin. Her height and oval-shaped face definitely reminded him of his high-school sweetheart. Some sweetheart she’d turned out to be. No sooner had he left for bootcamp then she’d torn his heart out of his chest and stomped on it. Focus, Braxton, focus.

One thing struck him about the ER: it was so much quieter here than in the field. Then, boom, the ambulance entrance doors flew open, and Gavin and the trauma team jumped into action around the gurney.

“Got the call a half hour ago,” the first EMT said.

“It’s a penetrating injury. Gunshot wound to right chest wall with possible pneumothorax,” the second EMT said, while assisting the semi-conscious young patient’s breathing with an ambubag as the team rolled the stretcher down the hall.

Beck remembered the term “the golden hour”, the most important sixty minutes in any trauma patient’s life if he was to survive. Though things might look chaotic, there was, in fact, a planned system by the attending doctor and his team for checking the ABCs—airway, breathing, circulation—and making primary and secondary surveys of the patient.

“No other obvious injuries noted.” The EMT gave them the run-down of vital signs and initial assessment while they made their way down the corridor. “A 16-gauge IV placed in left forearm, infusing normal saline at 150 cc per hr. Pressure dressing applied to point of entry wound.”

Bright motion-activated lighting snapped on the moment they crossed the threshold of the trauma room, illuminating all the gory details. Wine-colored blood covered most of the victim’s clothes. A C-collar had been applied at the scene as he’d fallen out of a truck. They’d attempted to relieve the apparent tension pneumothorax with a needle at the second rib below the collarbone. It may have saved the guy’s life.

On the count of three the team transferred the patient to the larger procedure room bed.

The familiar-looking nurse with the boxy glasses and shy attitude went right to work cutting off the patient’s clothes, using surprising force to rip the shirtsleeves open to speed up the process. Even her mannerisms reminded him of January. But she’d had so much more style than this woman. She had been bubbly and full of life. This woman seemed subdued and almost beaten down. But they called her Jan. Hmm. Could thirteen years change someone that much?

A chaotic dance ensued among two doctors and three nurses. Their hands and bodies worked together, stepping aside, sliding under, reaching over, around, and through to get an airway placed, the patient hooked up to monitors, and a second IV started.

Beck wasn’t sure whether to hold off or jump right in with the team, but followed his gut and helped Jan remove every last stitch of clothing and toss it to the floor. He kicked the wad of clothes at his feet toward the wall to prevent anyone from tripping on it.

Gavin gave instruction that the OR be notified then called out a list of orders, including labs, blood gases, X-rays and two units of blood, while he did what Beck remembered as the primary survey. It was a methodical approach to checking the airway, breathing and circulation. Gavin auscultated the patient’s lungs and mumbled, “Crepitus” then studied the wound more closely. “Luckily for him this bullet nicked a vein and not an artery,” he said, palpating the femoral artery on the same side before he uncovered another gunshot wound lower down the leg.

The patient’s cold, clammy skin made Beck suspect shock.

“Get me a chest tube drain with autotransfusion,” Gavin told the nurse beside him.

Beck knew that meant Gavin suspected hemothorax—blood surrounding the lung instead of air. Beneath the first-aid bandages applied at the scene, a quarter-sized crater erupting with thick dark blood was located in the right upper quadrant and became the center of attention. Until the lungs were stabilized, the second, less threatening gunshot wound could wait.

The overhead monitor alarm beeped rapidly as the initial vital signs registered. The oxygen sats had tanked, BP was 80/40 and the pulse 130. The youth’s heart was working like crazy in an attempt to maintain his body’s circulation, and with a pneumothorax his lungs weren’t getting nearly enough oxygen. If not stopped, it would be a deadly cycle.

“Let’s get that chest tube in now,” Gavin said, searching for and finding Beck. Their eyes met in wordless communication, and Gavin stepped back, allowing Beck to approach the man. Baptism by fire.

Jan magically reappeared and rolled over a tray with all the equipment he’d need. He flashed back to his training, then several tours of duty, and recalled each step of the process of inserting a chest tube. He’d done his share of them in the field. Feeling under a microscope here, with the world watching, he donned sterile gloves and, driven by adrenaline, hoped his hands didn’t shake too noticeably.

After prepping the skin with antiseptic, he draped it with a sterile towel. He palpated the space between the fifth and sixth ribs and reached for the large syringe Jan handed him. He inserted the needle into the bottle of lidocaine she held for him, and administered the local anesthetic, waited briefly then accepted the proffered scalpel and made an incision in the mid-axillary line. She dutifully handed him a sterile package she’d begun to open from the outside, which gave easy access to the inside tubing without contaminating it.

Beck glanced briefly into her eyes just before he took it. For one beat their gazes locked. At close range, her eyes were blue, just like January’s. Damn.

A mini-jolt of adrenaline helped him refocus. Using the rigid guide, he inserted the tube into the pleural cavity and aimed upwards as he slowly advanced it until he felt resistance. He pulled back a tiny bit and clamped the tube. With no sign of blood, the wounded young man had been lucky. Jan connected the tube to an underwater seal before he undid the clamp. A reassuring bubbling sound gave him the confidence to begin suturing the tube in place. Soon, with the trapped air removed and no longer pressing against the lung, the lung could reinflate and the man would be breathing a lot easier.

“OK, let’s get a chest X-ray to check positioning,” Gavin said as he clamped a hand on Beck’s shoulder. “Good job.”

To say Beck wasn’t relieved would be lying, but the knowledge of a job well done admittedly felt good. “Thanks. It’s been a while.”

Jan wrapped adhesive tape around the tube and affixed it to the patient’s chest wall, then Beck looped the chest tube and taped it snugly to the patient’s abdomen before applying the final dressing.

Once Beck stepped back after his part was finished, Gavin took over. He’d located the superficially lodged bullet and removed it, then plopped it into a plastic specimen container held by Jan.

“Fantastical,” she mumbled as she studied the bloody ball of metal while Gavin stabilized the patient and readied him for surgery.

Had she just said fantastical? That was it. The missing link. In the midst of chaos and saving a life, quick memories popped into his mind of the only other person he’d ever heard say “fantastic” that way. If he hadn’t been sure before, he definitely was now.

But this person was nothing like that girl.

Still reeling from the notion that he’d stumbled on his first love, he watched Gavin proceed with a secondary survey head-to-toe assessment for more subtle injuries.

While consciously avoiding any thoughts about his ex-girlfriend, he waited for the chest X-ray films. Beck leaned against the wall and observed the team hovering over the patient, whose vital signs were already improving. He lifted the protective goggles from his eyes where perspiration had started to bead and steam them up, resting the glasses on his forehead. He glanced around the gurney from person to person, with everyone intent on what they were doing. Excellent teamwork.

Beck noticed a second pile of discarded clothing on the floor next to Jan’s feet. He moved to kick it aside and couldn’t help but notice something out of character for the subdued nurse. Completely out of place on her seriously sensible shoes were bright pink satin laces. A telltale sign of who she really was. So she hadn’t dumped all her flash. His gaze traveled up to her face carefully hidden behind dark, thick-framed artsy glasses. He looked more closely. Her eyes were as bright a blue as they had been thirteen years ago.

How had he not recognized her mouth right off? In high school she’d carefully outlined those soft, well-shaped lips with liner before she’d applied the brightest shades of pink he’d ever seen. It had driven him crazy. She was the last person in the world he’d ever expected to run into here.

For a woman who wrapped herself in the loosest scrubs possible, it was hard to imagine her as once dressing like a birthday present in loud patterns over a curvaceous figure. Short skirts had never looked better than over those legs. But today her legs were covered in baggy, faded scrubs, making it impossible to compare. Yet there were those pink satin laces shining up at him. And she had said “fantastical”.

It all added up to one person. January. And he was still as mad as hell at her.

She caught him looking at her and quickly glanced away. Could she tell that he’d just figured out who she was? Years before, she’d trampled over his heart without so much as a backward glance. He’d joined the army intent on seeing the world and had expected her to wait for him. Maybe it had been a lame plan, but it had been the best he could come up with at eighteen. When he’d gotten out of bootcamp, she’d disappeared. When he’d tracked her down, she’d broken up with him. Over the phone!

The skittish nurse shoved something toward him. He jumped back from sorting through memories to the present. She gave him a kit, avoiding his eyes. It was a Foley catheter kit.

“Make yourself useful,” Jan said, jabbing the plastic-covered box at him then quickly turning away.

He glanced at the naked patient lying on the gurney. The young man was in and out of consciousness, and Beck hoped when he catheterized him, for the patient’s sake, he’d be out of it.

As he opened the sterile package and started to set up, he glanced back at Jan, who was completely wrapped up with hanging a unit of blood. She chewed on her lower lip, like she used to whenever she’d concentrated on anything. How had he missed it? All the parts were there, though skewed a bit by time.

Thirteen years had made some major changes to both of them.

Before inserting the catheter, he looked at her one more time. Sure enough, it was January Stewart…the biggest love and the worst heartbreak of his life.

* * *

Jan had managed to avoid Beck after the gunshot-wound patient had been prepped and awaited transfer to surgery. She’d passed him off on a younger nurse who was already captivated by his strikingly handsome looks and who gladly agreed to assist him. As long as Gavin didn’t find out and he got emergency practice, it would make no difference which nurse assisted Beck.

He didn’t react or seem to mind.

Anyhow, there was a group of needy residents with an assortment of patients to keep her busy. And she was.

She’d spent thirteen years putting her life in order. Just because Beck had been her big love in high school it didn’t mean they had anything to reminisce about. Their horrible ending tugged at Jan’s conscience. But now was not the time to relive the past. It couldn’t be changed.

She tamped down the memories and tried not to cringe. Not today. Not when the emergency department was crawling with patients.

Jan escorted her next patient into the last available ER room and handed the young man a gown. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I think I have an infected spider bite, and now it’s spreading.”

He showed her his thigh. She put on a disposable glove and gently touched a red, raised, angry-looking boil. It was warm and definitely infected.

“How long have you had this?”

“About a week now.”

She noticed little pimple-like satellite areas budding around it. “Any fever?”

The patient shook his head no. “But it keeps getting bigger.”

Before she could put the digital thermometer into his mouth, a shadow fell on her.

“Looks like MRSA.”

She glanced over her shoulder and found Beck. Methecillin-resistant staph aureus was a perplexing condition, cropping up in and out of hospitals. How he could make a snap diagnosis like that astounded her. And blurting it out right in front of the patient showed poor judgement.

“I’ll have Dr. Riordan take a look,” she said, dismissing Beck.

“You play team sports?” Beck walked around her and faced the patient.

“I’m on a football team.”

“Anyone else have ‘spider bites’?”

“You know, a couple other guys might, come to think of it. We thought we got ’em on our last away game.”

Beck glanced at Jan. “Trust me, its MRSA. If we don’t treat it properly now, he runs the risk of developing myositis. Rather than wasting time treating with the wrong antibiotic, I’d lance and drain it, get a culture tonight. Save the cost of an expensive antibiotic and a return visit to the ER.”

“We’ll be right back.” Jan strained a smile at the patient, excused herself from the bedside and escorted Beck out of the room by his elbow. “What are you doing?” she said, once in the hall. “The kid hasn’t even been examined by a doctor yet, and you’re already diagnosing and treating him?”

“I’ve been in the military for years and I’ve seen MRSA all over the place. Believe me, it’s a waste of time treating him with antibiotics alone, especially if the staph infection is resistant to it. He’ll just be back in here next week with more of those boils, and they’ll be ten times worse.”

Jan glared at him, until he gave her a sarcastic smile. She hated it when he grinned so smugly like that. Just like the time standing by the lockers in high school after art class when he’d first figured out how much she’d liked him. She spun around and strode down the hall to Dr. Riordan’s office. He’d obviously figured out who she was. Her only line of defense? Avoid him!

“Dr. Riordan, can you do a quick examination of a spider bite?” She glanced down the hall to find Beck already gathering the equipment he’d need to lance and drain the eruption, and her face went angrily hot. She bit back her thoughts and followed Dr. Riordan down to the exam room, hoping he’d put Beck in his place.

After doing a quick assessment and patient interview the doctor said, “Looks like MRSA.”

So much for back-up.

“We can either treat you with broad-spectrum antibiotics, which may or may not help, or we can open and drain the area tonight, stitch you up and send you home. We’ll get culture results in forty-eight hours and make sure you’re on the right antibiotic. Then you can follow up with your primary-care physician next week.”

Jan felt conspired against as she chewed her lower lip and had the patient sign the consent for the procedure. She started to leave the room when Beck rolled his tray of equipment inside.

“Stick around,” he said. “I’ll need your help.”

The exam room took on a red cast as she swallowed her anger and nodded her head, knowing this was a one-man job. As long as he didn’t let on that he knew who she was, she’d play along with his little game, even if it meant her blood pressure getting elevated.

With her throat growing sorer by the minute, and her nasal congestion getting worse, she’d avoid him tomorrow by calling in sick to work.

* * *

Beck finished the last stitch and turned to Jan. “You can take it from here.”

She nodded dutifully, but refused to look at him. He smiled at the patient, who thanked him, then left the room.

It was almost more than he could do not to grab her by the arm and drag her down the hall to some secluded place and tell her exactly how she’d screwed up his life. Oh, but he’d had the last laugh because he’d risen above all the dirt everyone in Atwater had tried to dump on him his whole life. He’d proved wrong everyone who’d said he would never amount to anything. He’d served his country well, seen more countries than most people dreamed about, and now he proudly wore the LAPD badge and served on the elite SWAT team. For someone who’d received the infamous honor in his senior class of being tagged “most likely to wind up in a correctional center” he’d done pretty damn well for himself.

Beck straightened his shoulders and swaggered toward the doctors’ lounge. He needed a drink, but a good strong cup of coffee would have to do instead.

* * *

Jan finally had a chance to take her dinner break around eight p.m. She notified Carmen and headed for the nurses’ lounge. Unable to wait one more second to read the special letter, she dug it out of her pocket and ripped it open. This time every year, as promised, the updated letter arrived.

A shining smile from Meghan Jean greeted her inside the envelope. She’d be twelve and a half now, and in seventh grade. Long dark brown French braids rested on her bony shoulders. A handful of freckles were sprinkled across her nose, a nose very much like Jan’s. But the eyes were definitely placed and shaped like her father’s, except their color was blue…like hers.

Dear January,

We’re reporting in on this year’s progress with our daughter. Meghan has joined the track team and also loves to dance. She scored in the top ten percent for her annual scholastic testing and her teachers want to place her in some gifted classes. It seems that out of the blue she has discovered a love of art, and wants to take painting classes. She continues to be a warm and loving girl with a natural excitement and curiosity for life even though puberty is fast approaching. Meghan absolutely hates wearing braces, but we’ve discovered clear wires and sometimes she likes to have bright blue ones applied just for fun. As you know, she’s quite the ham and keeps Daryl and me laughing. We promised her a Disney World vacation this year and she can barely go to sleep each night from thinking about it.

On another note, something new has cropped up in school. Meghan’s science class is studying genetics and genealogy and she is suddenly bursting with questions about her birth parents. Would it be okay for us to tell her a bit more about you? We understand that you never named the father, but if there is any information whatsoever you can provide, we’d appreciate it.

As always, Daryl and I are so grateful to you for your unselfish act and want you to know we treat our daughter as the precious gift she is. We pray that life is treating you well.

All the best,

The Williams

The last part of the letter went blurry. Had it been an unselfish act? Could giving her daughter away to strangers in an open adoption be considered anything less than an easy way out for a frightened seventeen-year-old? Sure, they had been well screened, willing and anxious to become parents, but they’d solved her “problem” and life had never been the same since.

She glanced again at the school picture, and choked back her tears.

The door flew open behind her. “Apparently only the nurses keep fresh coffee in the pot,” Beck said.

Jan startled, dropping the letter, and the picture went flying through the air to the floor. She scrambled to reach it before Beck could see, but he was just as quick.

She leaned. He knelt. They almost bumped heads. They looked into each other’s eyes. Fear of being found out sent a rocket fueled with adrenaline through her chest. His hand rested on top of hers on the picture on the floor.