Читать книгу Hot Docs On Call: New York City Nights - Tina Beckett, Amalie Berlin - Страница 17

TESSA’S ATTENDING WAVED to her as he walked past the desk where she was reading through some of the newer protocols on melanoma. It seemed research was showing that the depth of the tumor wasn’t always the best predictor of whether or not it would metastasize, rather it depended on the type of melanoma itself. So even very thin tumors could be deadly.

“Do you want to check on your patient this morning?” he called.

“Mr. Phillips?” The elderly gentleman was still recovering from surgery on his broken leg. “Have you gotten the results back on his scan?”

Brian backtracked until he stood in front of her. “I was just going to check the computer to see. We can stop by my office on the way.”

“Sounds good.”

She followed him down the corridor to where some of the staff offices were. Once there, he sat behind his desk and she slid into one of the chairs in front of it. Tapping the keys on his computer, he soon pulled up the file and turned the monitor so they could both look.

Flipping through the different slides, he soon got to one that made Tessa lean forward. “Oh, no.”

Mr. Phillips’s liver had a couple of hot spots on it, as did his lungs. “I see them. We’ll need to talk to the patient and then assemble a treatment team.”

Tessa’s heart contracted. The leg break was now suspect, as well—although it could be coincidental, due to his age. They wouldn’t know for sure without a bone scan. And at almost eighty she wasn’t sure what kind of intervention his body could handle. If they’d caught the cancer earlier…

Memories of her mom’s fight came winging back. It had been a similar case, only her tumor had been deep-seated, roots extending down to the lower levels of the dermis before it had been caught. By then it had been too late. It had spread everywhere.

None of that helped them right now, though. All they could do was come up with a plan.

Brian looked up. “Thoughts? He’s officially your patient.”

And this was where the weight of responsibility became heavy. It was one thing when you worked under someone and they made the final decisions. Tessa was rapidly coming to a time in her career where she would make those choices. As much as she might wish it were different, to have it any other way would be a cop-out. Brian was basically handing this case to her. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she was swamped by indecision. But she’d better snap out of it or she may as well hang up her scrubs right now. So she stiffened her spine.

“I concur with what you just said. His daughter flew in to see him pretty soon after surgery, and she’s got medical power of attorney in the event that anything happens, if I understood her correctly.”

The daughter whose name was Tessa. The memories of Mr. Phillips protecting his modesty seemed bittersweet now.

“Good,” Brian said. “DNR order?”

The tightness in her chest grew. DNR… Do Not Resuscitate. “I don’t know. I was hoping the section was all he’d need.”

“I’ll need you to check on that. Talk to the daughter.”

She knew that Brian didn’t mean to sound brusque. It was part of remaining objective enough to do what was best for the patient. And she should be grateful that he was guiding her through the necessary steps, because right now her head was spinning. She’d lost other patients, especially when she’d done her trauma rotation. But there was something about this one…

Maybe because she and Clay had worked side by side on him—as if by joining forces they could double their healing power. But there was an inferno raging within Mr. Phillips’s body that would take a miracle to put out.

“I’ll talk to her.”

“I was going to go down with you, but the fewer people in the room when he hears the news, the better.” He studied her across the desk. “Are you up to this?”

Was she? This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. And she could probably say the word and Brian would go down in her place and handle everything. She wouldn’t ever have to see Mr. Phillips again. But sometimes caring about a patient meant having to relay difficult news and muddling through it the best you could. And if she was ever going to be able to do this job on her own, she was going to have to take the bad with the good. Walking with the patient, working together to make the very best choices, brought its own rewards—even if that reward was in bringing honor and dignity as they made end-of-life care decisions.

But they weren’t there yet. The team would meet and come to a joint recommendation. That was, depending on what Mr. Phillips wanted to do.

“I’m up to it.” She stood. “I’ll let you know what the feeling is from Mr. Phillips and his daughter.”

“Call me if you need me.” He glanced back at the screen, where those bright spots seemed to glitter an unspoken accusation at her. “And, Tessa, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to see this any more than you did. Sometimes these things just don’t follow any pattern.”

Maybe they did, though, in this case. The tumor hadn’t been all that deep, and she’d gotten down to clean margins. But somehow those cancer cells had ventured outside that dark circle and burrowed deep inside Mr. Phillips’s body. She wondered if Clay knew yet.

Probably not. He was an orthopedist. That’s where his efforts would be concentrated. No need to even contact him with the news. Besides, he could pull the results up just as easily as she could, if he wanted to.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know how things go.” With that, she left his office. About halfway down the hallway she stopped and leaned against the wall, drawing a couple of deep breaths and trying to organize her thoughts. No sooner had she done that and gotten on the elevator that her time with Clay in this same space filled her head and made tears spring to her eyes.

The back-and-forth innuendos and laughter seemed crude now.

You’re being ridiculous. This is part of being a doctor. If you can’t handle it, you’d better get out now.

Someday she would take a patient’s diagnosis in stride, as Brian did. As Clay probably did. But today was not that day. Not with the anniversary of her mother’s death still clinging to her thoughts.

The elevator stopped one floor down and opened, leaving her staring at the glare from the brightly waxed linoleum tiles. It took the elevator doors marching back toward each other to make her reach out to stop them. She stepped off and glanced at the board that listed the patients and room numbers. Mr. Phillips was still in room five, down to the left.

When she arrived she heard laughter coming from inside. Giving a quick knock and forcing a spring to her step to avoid looking like a funeral director, she entered the room.

Someone was sitting in a chair next to the head of the bed, a grin on his face that was as big as Mr. Phillips’s. Two pairs of eyes swung toward her. But it wasn’t the man’s daughter who sat there. It was Clay.

He kept smiling, but a subtle shift took place as his eyes met hers. She made her own lips curl, although it took an enormous force of the will to get those muscles to tighten.

She glanced around the room, hoping his daughter might be there. But she wasn’t. Just Mr. Phillips and Clay.

“What are you two talking about?” she asked. Her voice was light enough, but it had an artificial timbre to it that reminded her of those sweetener packets she used in her coffee.

Mr. Phillips’s eyes crinkled around the corners. “Just comparing notes.”

“Guy notes.” Clay’s gaze never left her face.

He knew. She could see it in the slight movements in the muscle at his cheek, in the firming of his glance.

And it was Clay who provided the opening she needed. “I was telling Mr. Phillips his break is healing just the way we like to see. Do you have news on that spot you removed?” He stood and motioned her to take the chair so she could be closer.

“I do. Do you want your daughter to be here?”

Just like that, the crinkles disappeared, dying a terrible death. “That bad, huh?”

Tessa could have taken the chart and studied it as if there was something important written there and avoided meeting Mr. Phillips’s gaze altogether, but she wouldn’t do that to him. She owed it to him to be direct and honest, without taking away all hope. “Your scan showed some areas that we need to look into.”

“Where?”

“Your liver. Your lungs.”

The man’s breath exited in a soft sigh. “Cancer?”

“We need to do so some more—”

“Tessa.” That single word came from Clay.

Mr. Phillips looked from one to the other. “I’ve been around the block a couple of times. Something’s eventually going to get me. Why not this? I’ve outlived most of my friends. My brothers and sisters. My wife. So just give it to me straight.”

Swallowing, she nodded. “Yes. We’re pretty sure it’s cancer that has spread from your leg. We’re going to get a treatment team together and see what we come up with.”

He looked at her for a minute or two. “You do your talking. But if it doesn’t look like an easy fix, I’m going to have to turn you down. I can’t do that to my daughter and son, and she’s traveled a long way to see me already. At least I’ll have time to say my goodbyes.”

Mr. Phillips’s wife had died almost ten years ago of a massive stroke. She’d been dead before she’d hit the ground.

Tessa wasn’t sure which was worse for those who were left behind. Watching your loved one wither away before your eyes or having them snatched in an instant.

“Do you want me to speak with your daughter?”

“She’ll probably want to talk to you herself, but I’d rather break the news to her.” Mr. Phillips reached out and gave Tessa’s hand a squeeze. “It’s okay, honey. I’ve been ready for a while now.”

She wrapped her fingers around his for a few seconds. “As soon as I know something more, I’ll let you know.”

“I know you will.” Rheumy eyes moistened. “I don’t mind telling you, I miss my wife. I’ll be glad to see her.”

Clay’s hand landed on her shoulder, whether in support of her or Mr. Phillips she had no idea. But she was glad he was there.

“Don’t make your reservations just yet, Mr. Phillips.” If she could will someone’s cancer to go up in a puff of smoke, this would be the person she did it for. But she couldn’t.

“Can I talk to you outside, Dr. Camara?” Clay’s low voice made her nod.

But before she got up… “Is there anything you need? How is your pain level?”

“I think it’s better than yours right now.” Her patient let go of her hand and gave her a smile. “Don’t be sad for me, honey. It’s going to be okay.”

She gave one more nod, unsure she could force another word from her mouth, then stood to her feet, following Clay out of the room.

Once there, he turned to face her. “You okay?”

What was it with male doctors asking her if she was all right? She was a professional, just as they were. Her head went up, along with her temper. “Fine. Why?”

He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t get to you. Especially with some patients.”

“Brian seemed just fine.” Her face felt carved out of stone.

A frown appeared on his face. “You saw him?”

“Um, yes. He’s my attending. We just finished discussing this particular case.”

“That’s not what I meant. Did he mention them?”

“Them who? I don’t understand.” Sadness morphed into confusion.

“You don’t know about the jars.”

She blinked. “Jars?”

Taking her elbow, he led her a few feet away from Mr. Phillips’s door. “It seems some collection jars have been set up at some of the nurses’ stations.”

Okay, now she was getting irritated. “They always put up jars before the festival. The staff contributes to whatever charity the hospital has chosen this year.” It seemed a little weird for him to have pulled her out of a patient’s room to tell her that. Unless he was trying to spare her feelings.

“Yeah, I don’t think these are the kinds of jars they normally have out.”

Glancing across the space, she saw the nurses’ station was empty of personnel, but it did indeed have a jar. In fact, there were a pair of them. That was strange. Why would they need two?

She walked toward the containers and squinted at the writing on the first one. Someone’s name… Her thoughts fell off abruptly.

No, not someone’s name. Her name.

The second jar. Oh, Lord! Clay’s name.

“What’s going on?”

“It appears that news travels around West Manhattan Saints as quickly as it did at my former hospital.” His voice came from behind her. “They’re betting on who’s going to come out ahead during our exhibition match.”

Her head whipped around to look at him. “Our exhibition? But that hasn’t even been announced yet.”

“Oh, it’s been announced, all right. And it looks like there’s no getting out of it at this point. I have a feeling Peter Lloyd isn’t taking any chances. If this is as big a draw as he claims it will be, it’ll be something for him to crow about.”

All Tessa heard was the part about there being “no getting out of it at this point.” Had Clay been trying to think of a way to not go through with the demonstration? She thought he’d resigned himself to it, just as she had. Evidently that wasn’t the case.

“He can’t do that. Besides, what’s the point?”

“It seems he can and he did. All the money is still going to charity. It’s just an internal bet with no actual payout. I’ve even heard talk of the hospital matching the donations of the winner’s jar, although that would have to be approved by the hospital trustees.”

How had he heard all of this when she had known nothing? “Maybe it was Marcos.”

“Possibly, but I would lay odds on Lloyd. And so far it looks like you’re ahead by a long shot. It seems you’ve engendered some loyalty, Dr. Camara.”

She had? That was news to her. She was normally so busy she barely had time to throw a hello here or there. Which explained why she’d missed noticing those jars this morning.

Her sadness over Mr. Phillips was still hovering in the background, but even she could see the humor in this situation. “Well, you know… I think I’ve won every match we’ve ever fought.”

“Because we weren’t actually supposed to be fighting.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

She smiled. “Because I’m not.” Gesturing at the jars, she shrugged. “If this earns more money toward a good cause, then we’ll just have to make sure we really do put on that good show we talked about.”

“Are you saying you’re going to take me down?”

Reaching into her side pocket, she took out a few bills and peeled off a ten. Walking over to the jars, she stuffed it inside the one with her name on it. She turned back to look at him. “Oh, yeah, mister. You are going down.”

Dodge, dodge, dodge…retreat.

When was she going to miss a beat so that he could gain some ground?

Time and time again Tessa had pushed him to the very edge of the circle with no more than a twist of her body. She wasn’t aiming to hit him, since that wasn’t the goal of this match. But she was making him move his feet. And they sure as hell weren’t moving forward.

They were supposed to be putting on a show, but not one that had him stepping backward for the whole fifteen minutes of their exhibition.

Cut yourself some slack.

This was only their first training match. He couldn’t be expected to whip himself back into top form all at once.

Except his top form had never been any match for Tessa’s skill. And she now had those damn jars as incentive to make this a show everyone would remember.

Well, two could play at that game.

Concentrate.

He sidestepped, mentally keeping the circle of people around them in his mind. He didn’t want to go back so quickly that he careened into them—the idea was to stay inside the ring. If something happened the circle would open, but whoever broke it would automatically give up his place. In other words, he would lose.

Okay. He did a quick flip, a few muscles protesting at how much of a slacker he’d become over the past several years. His brain still remembered the moves, but his body was giving him hell over the contortions he was putting it through.

Tessa actually stepped out of the way.

One for me!

Until her foot found the back of his knee.

Dammit!

Down he went. Right onto his back.

He glared up at her, only to find her eyes alight with wicked laughter. She’d done that on purpose.

Just because she could.

And he found he couldn’t stay mad at her. Not with her face all bright and gleeful and happy.

Happy.

He hadn’t seen her like that in… over four years.

“Tessita.” Marcos entered the circle. Unlike Tessa, the man did not look happy. “This is not what we are looking for. It is okay for one of you to defeat the other, but you need to give him more than two minutes. Otherwise those watching will not see the true beauty of our capoeira.”

Ha! True. Two minutes did not constitute a match. Although his body could swear it had been closer to an hour. Marcos said it was okay for one of them to take the other down, but the director and Clay both knew who would be left standing and who would be on the floor when all was said and done. And that person was still grinning at him in that old familiar way—despite Marcos’s chiding words.

Except this time it brought back a not-so-happy memory from days past, when she’d said the words that had ended their relationship. He’d lain flat on his figurative back then, too, while Tessa had stood over him, scowling. He’d do well to keep that in mind.

Clay levered himself to his feet. Lord, he was going to be sore tomorrow.

He waited for Marcos to leave the ring and for the rhythm instruments to again pick up that hypnotic beat. All the other participants had run their matches just as they’d been programmed, entering and exiting the ring like seasoned pros.

And he and Tessa—the last match on the exhibition agenda—were gumming up the works.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She yanked down the hem of her closefitting tank top, her skin gleaming.

This time Clay executed a series of moves that actually had Tessa swerving and doing some tricky maneuvers of her own to avoid him getting too close.

This was more like it. For three minutes they continued like that, the match feeling much more even all of a sudden.

She arched into a backbend and flipped out of it like an expert.

Of course it felt even. Because she was letting him gain the upper hand. Just as Marcos had suggested.

Time and time again she kicked and bowed and spun. Back. Away from him.

“Dammit, Tessa, you’re not even trying.”

She swept by him with another grin. “Because someone told me to keep it going.”

Perfect. She didn’t have to admit to it.

He pushed harder. Entering her space and then exiting it, his leg barely missing her head as he swept past. But Tessa was good at what she did, able to calculate down to the last centimeter how much room she needed to give him in order not to get hit. Because, as Marcos had said, the goal wasn’t to make contact but to show off techniques and the unique dance style, the give and take that went on in the ring. Clay had never seen anything like it in his life. And the real capoeira experts were as ripped and fit as athletes in any other sport. The timing was what made it what it was. Because in some ways it was harder to go at each other knowing you weren’t supposed to strike them, but to sweep past, and over, and under, with barely any room to spare. That took skill and an ability to read your opponent. Something Tessa seemed built to do.

And she could read him.

He only hoped that some of his secrets stayed hidden, even from the great Tessa Camara.

Like how turned on he got by watching her arms and legs move with the grace and strength of a ballerina.

At least when he wasn’t the one fighting her. And even now it was only his concentration that kept him from thinking too hard about her body and how absolutely flexible it was. In more ways than just training in capoeira.

Something hit the small of his back, and he lurched forward. Damn. He hadn’t even seen that coming. And just like that he was once again on the defensive. Because Tessa had evidently decided enough time had gone by that she could really start fighting. And no way could he look down at his watch to see if the requisite fifteen minutes had passed. It probably had, though, because she would be keeping that internal clock ticking, despite gliding around the ring in time with the beat of the instruments.

His left knee gave way so fast that he thought he’d stepped the wrong way. He hadn’t. Tessa had just stepped the right way. Down he went. For the second time that day.

Tessa once again stood over him, her exercise tank molding to her chest with each breath she took. “Sorry, Clay. You weren’t concentrating.”

No kidding.

Marcos clapped his hands. “This is enough for tonight,” he said, his Brazilian accent a little thicker than it had been at the start of the evening. “Much better, Tessa.”

Oh, yeah? And what about him?

As if reading his thoughts, the other man said. “You will improve next time.”

Clay, from his spot on the mat, couldn’t help but chuckle. This was the same old Marcos. Never pampering his students but giving it to them straight, without being ugly. But his attempt at encouragement said it all. He would improve. He needed to improve. And the director would accept nothing less.

Hell, he’d missed this whole scene. More than he wanted to admit.

Tessa reached down to help him up. He started to ignore her hand but something made him grip her palm, making sure to give a quick jerk as he stood so that she was momentarily thrown against him. He stepped back. “Sorry, Tessa. That’s what happens when I forget to concentrate.”

Her face flashed with color immediately because he’d used those same words in more than just a capoeira session. He’d used them once when he’d been so carried away with how she’d made him feel that he’d lost control, coming in a rush before she’d climaxed.

He’d made it up to her minutes later, though, until her eyes had squeezed shut with her own orgasm.

And Clay had said those very words to explain what had happened.

She’d liked it. Liked that she could make him forget everything but what was happening.

Releasing her hand, he gave her a knowing smile. “Shall we call it even?”

Before she could say anything, Marcos was telling the group that he’d made plans for them all to go out to a bar a couple of blocks away to celebrate their first official practice session for the exhibition.

Clay could feign being tired and needing to go home and rest before work the next day, or say that Molly was waiting for him, but she was with his parents. Besides, he wanted to go. He’d missed the camaraderie of this group and how they always seemed to start their sessions as friends and leave the same way, no matter what went on in the ring. Maybe because they left any hard feelings inside that circle. Or maybe because most of them were Brazilian, lapsing into their own language at times. And they always made him feel like an insider—as part of them. Clay had learned bits and pieces of Portuguese during his time with Tessa, especially since her folks spoke it at home—although they’d always made an effort to speak English whenever he’d been around.

In the excited rush of voices that followed Marcos’s announcement he glanced at Tessa and saw a shadow of indecision in her eyes. “Come on, Tess. You owe me a drink or two for the way you manhandled me.”

Her brows went up. “Manhandled? I went easy on you.”

Had she? A shadow passed through his head. Maybe she had tonight, but four years ago? Not a chance. And that should be what he concentrated on, not the memory of those times they’d shared in the ring… and in bed.

If only he could convince his body to cooperate.

He shook his head to rid it of that thought.

Today was a new day. And they could very well go out and enjoy a drink together, dammit, without him turning it into a huge friggin’ deal.

The group headed to the locker rooms to change back into street clothes. Since Tessa was the only woman in the room, she went to Marcos’s office.

Something about how close she and the studio owner seemed to be struck him for the first time.

He looked at Marcos with new eyes. Were they seeing each other outside these sessions? The man wasn’t married, and he certainly seemed to have a soft spot for Tessa, having used the diminutive form of her name quite a bit today. He couldn’t remember if Marcos had done that in the past.

But he was in his late forties.

And that meant what, exactly? Tessa was thirty. Not exactly a May to December romance.

A shard of what could have been jealousy went through him, except it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He and Tessa had been over for a long time. He’d married another woman and had fathered a child, for heaven’s sake. He saw how that had turned out. Failure on a spectacular level. So whatever was going on between Tessa and her trainer was none of his business.

She kissed you.

The inner voice rumbled in his head, reminding him that either he was wrong about his speculation or their relationship was open enough that neither of them cared what the other did.

He couldn’t see Marcos being that nonchalant about it, though. He was a pretty intense man. And no way would Clay have ever allowed any man to touch Tessa without risking a permanently rearranged face when they’d been dating.

Again, those days were over.

He changed quickly and ran his fingers through his hair to put it back in some semblance of order.

Why? It was just Tessa and the old gang. They’d all just been through the same workout.

A few minutes later he was standing beside her as they made their way down the sidewalk. It had been decided it was faster to walk than to try to all pile into cars and meet there. Besides, The Pied Piper was only a couple of blocks away. And the way this group partied, it was probably better that no one would be driving himself home. They’d flag down taxis and return for their vehicles in the morning.

Clay intended to keep his wits about him, though, whatever the others decided to do. A night of drinking could cause problems and not just with his job.

“So is Molly going to come to the exhibition?” Tessa’s question came out of nowhere.

“Probably. She seemed to like the studio a lot. My folks will be taking care of her during the festival, since I’ll be a little occupied.”

She immediately tensed, head coming up, eyes facing straight ahead. “That’s nice. It’s wonderful that they can watch her when her mother can’t.”

Yeah, which was most of the time, since Lizza was normally busy flitting here or there and focusing on her career. The funny thing about that was that Tessa was doing exactly the same thing. Working hard and putting all of her efforts into her job. But it didn’t bother him that she did it.

Why?

Because if Molly had been her daughter, he had no doubt that she would somehow make time for her, just as he did. Sure, his parents cared for her while he was working, but he spent every second he could with her. Tonight was the exception to the rule. He rarely went out to do anything fun anymore because he had responsibilities and he took them seriously.

So did Tessa.

And so did Lizza, in her own way. Except Molly’s mother seemed to check her responsibilities at the door when it came to her own daughter.

His teeth grated against each other.

He glanced at Tessa, and she seemed to have relaxed again, so maybe it was his imagination that she’d suddenly gone all stiff and nonresponsive.

They arrived at the bar to find the capoeira group assembled out front. Marcos waited for the last two stragglers to arrive. “Everyone good with doing his own thing and leaving whenever you want? If you want to share cabs, make those arrangements now before it gets crazy. You can pair up again on the way out.”

One of the players grinned. “My wife is meeting me here, so count me out. I’m not sharing that cab with anyone but her.”

A couple of laughs went through the group at the bald innuendo.

Clay glanced at Tessa. “Are you okay with sharing one?”

“Of course.” She stopped. “Unless you’re staying until the place shuts down.”

“I wasn’t planning to. How about if we leave whenever you’re ready?”

She gave him a pointed look. “If you want to prowl around, though, and find someone else to leave with, just let me know. You can text me.”

“The only person I’m leaving with is you.” He realized how that might have sounded when her face turned pink. But everyone was already moving into the bar and the sounds from inside were leaking out through the open door.

“I guess that’s our cue. Shall we?”

He waited for her to enter, already ruing the thought of sharing a cab with her. Because it made him think of sharing other things. In a much more private and fulfilling venue. That single night of summer madness. The one he couldn’t get out of his head.

A single night, he could probably handle. But any more than that truly would be madness.