A Heartbeat Away (4 page)

5

A kiss.

Just a kiss.

In the end, that's all it took to nudge God from the top spot in Christian Mitchell's heart.

It's not like it came as a surprise. He'd thought about it,
dreamed
about it for weeks. One ride home from school had turned into two, then a lift back to school, and then a regular pattern. Who wanted to ride the bus when Emily Greene was offering curbside service in her convertible?

The progression just seemed so natural.

He went from hearing “Can you help me with this chemistry homework?” to “Stay for dinner” in a short week.

Laughter. Shared feelings. Walks along the Chesapeake Bay, during which the backs of their hands would just happen to brush.

His mother's questions were brushed aside.

“Is she a Christian?”

“Mom! They go to church. Her dad's an elder at First Baptist.”

“Does she know about your love of Africa?”

“She loves Africa too. They sponsor a child from Kenya. She wants to visit him.”

His mom would just turn away and stay quiet, continuing to wash the supper dishes.

It all unfolded in the strawberry patch. Carolyn Greene, Emily's mother, had invited Christian to pick a basket of strawberries to take home. It was Saturday, and the sun was straight overhead, baking the Eastern Shore. Emily and Christian picked and ate their way along, stooping over the low rows of strawberries until their baskets were brimming with ripe fruit.

Christian sat on the straw between rows and looked at Emily. Sticky with sweat and with her T-shirt clinging in all the right places, she did her best exaggerated pitch windup and fired a strawberry, catching him by surprise right on his forehead. Moist red strawberry flesh stuck to his left eyebrow.

Emily exploded in laughter and sat down on the straw beside him.

“Here,” she said, still giggling. She wiped strawberry from his forehead with her index finger and quickly dropped her finger between her red lips and sucked the juice with a noisy smack. Then she moistened her finger with her tongue and wiped it across his face, cleaning his eyebrow of crimson juice. Leaning closer, she laid her finger against his lips. Without thinking, he closed his lips around it, tasting the strawberry on her skin.

She pulled her finger away but let it trail across his chin. He leaned forward.
Go ninety percent
, he reminded himself.

It was good advice. She went the extra ten.

Her lips were spongy, warm, and tasted of strawberry and sweat. He knew only what he'd seen on TV since their furlough had started, but kissing Emily seemed easy.

And heavenly.

“I'm falling for you, Christian Mitchell,” she whispered.

“And why would you do that?”

She giggled and shrugged. “What's that phrase you always use? I think it's a God thing.”

Tori dreamed the smell of sweat and whiskey, the sound of a woman's cry and the
thump-thump-smack
of physical assault, and the sight of a bare bulb hanging at the end of a dim hallway.

He's in there.

Someday I'll make him pay.

A man with a bay-windowed belly yells in her face, spraying spittle from teeth rotting from meth.

She retreats. A stairway is on her right.
If I can just make it.…

A shove.

Falling.

Searing pain in my left ankle.

My foot isn't supposed to face that way.

Tori startled awake and wiggled her ankle. She sighed and struggled to sit up.
Just a dream.

She pushed an IV pole toward the bathroom. Once there, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Light-brown hair in need of shampoo curled in a tangle beside pale cheeks.

I'm a ghost. Maybe I can get Charlotte to bring my mascara.

She gently touched the pink scar that began at the lowest point of her neck and dived into the front of her hospital gown.

She toweled beads of sweat from her brow.
What's happening to me? How can a nightmare seem so real when I know it's just a dream?

She pulled down the front of her gown.
Will I ever get to wear a low-cut top again?
She sighed.
Not without feeling self-conscious.

“Knock, knock.” It was Jarrod's baritone voice.

“In here.” She washed her face and stepped back into her room. “Hey you.” She smiled. “On rounds again?”

“Touché. No.” He seemed to be staring at her scar.

She gathered her gown beneath her chin and sat in the recliner chair beside her bed.

“I'm on my own time.” He hesitated.

She let the silence hang between them, not minding the quiet.

“I'll get right to it,” he said, clearing his throat. “I know you need a place to live. I want you to come to my place. I have an in-law suite. It's all yours.”

She studied him for a moment. He kept smoothing his white coat against his leg. “I don't think so, Jarrod. Things aren't like they used to be.”

“But I want them to be. I screwed up, Tori. I should have been around. Let's start over.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Start over by me moving in? That hardly seems appropriate. What about your new girlfriend?” She paused. “This hospital has ears, you know.”

He looked down. “Didn't work. Way too emo for me.” He sighed. “You know I don't do touchy-feely.”

“I know. And I'm honored. I'm glad you want a new start. That feels good to me.”

He appeared startled. “That feels good?”

“Sure.”

“I'll prepare the room.”

“I'm not moving in, Jarrod.
That
doesn't feel right. In fact, that makes me feel …” Her voice trailed off until she found the right word. When she said it, the surprise of it made her laugh. “Guilty.”

“Wow,” he said. “You?”

She looked into space, nodding. “Yep.”

“What's happened to you?”

“I don't know. I just know that I'm not ready for such a leap.” She reached for his hand. “You're a kind man,” she said. “And I think it would be nice getting to know you better.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “But let's not start by complicating the issue.”

“I'm not exactly suggesting that we move in together. It was more of a spare-room offer.”

“Right. I know how long that would last. One late night. The stress of work piles up. You need a break. I rub your back … well, you know the progression. And I'm not ready for that.”

He stood up. “I don't get it. The old Dr. Taylor would have cut right through the feelings to see that this is an efficient, practical solution to your problem. You need a place. I have a spare room. I'm a doctor. I can look after you while you recover. It's perfect.”

“Perfect, except it just doesn't feel right.” She put her hand over her heart. “But the fact that you're concerned about me is touching.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. It was a nurse from the cath lab, a cheery woman in green scrubs and a white coat. “I'm here to take you for your biopsy.”

“Oh, joy,” Tori moaned, looking over at a man she wanted to love. “Gotta run.”

The nurse assisted her into a wheelchair. As Tori was about to be wheeled into the hall, she motioned for Jarrod. When he leaned down, she whispered a question. “Fresh start?”

He nodded. “Agreed.”

In the angiography suite, Tori slid slowly onto the cold radiography table. She looked up into the face of her cardiologist, Dr. Eric Samuelson. “I don't want any sedation.”

“I'll just slip you a little Versed. I want you to relax.”

“No!” She held up her hand. “Really, I don't want to sleep.”

Dr. Samuelson leaned forward and touched her hand, concern on his young face. “Tori, relax.”

“It's just that being awake is better than sleep.”

“Are you okay?”

She shook her head. “Nightmares. Every time I doze off.” She hesitated, biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Her admission was tantamount to admitting weakness, something she'd never have done before her transplant. “Please.”

A scrub nurse had set a sterile field up a few feet away. Now, as she pushed the table forward, she mumbled under her breath. “Not so mighty now, are we?”

The cardiologist cast a stern glance in her direction.

“It's all right,” Tori said. “I see my reputation precedes me.” She took a deep breath, trying to control emotions that threatened to take over. “Please just talk me through it.”

Eric Samuelson nodded. “Sure.”

She watched, alert.

“I'm going to touch your upper thigh. Cold. It's the prep solution.” A minute later, Tori found herself beneath a tent of sterile paper sheets. “You'll feel a sting and burn in your groin. Numbing medicine,” he said mechanically. “You may feel a little pressure here.”

The angiogram to image her heart caused fire to spread inside her from her chest downward.

Fire. I remember a fire.

That's crazy. I've never been in a fire.

Or have I? I'm just remembering my dream.

“Your new heart looks great,” he said. “We're going to do a biopsy. You shouldn't feel a thing.”

Tori fought back tears, not from the good news, but because the nightmares that haunted her nights had just crept into daylight.

6

Dr. Parrish looked at Tori over half-glasses. “You'll have to keep your leg straight for the next few hours. We don't want to see any bleeding from your catheterization stick site.”

Tori nodded.

Evidently, she wasn't very good at hiding her new anxiety. “What's wrong?” Dr. Parrish asked.

“Did Dr. Evans tell you he put me on administrative leave?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, I know I've been hard on some of the nurses—”

He held his hand up. “You don't need to apologize to me. We need someone like you who will hold the staff's feet to the fire. I know you're a good surgeon.” He paused. “I know who I'd see if I had cancer.”

She took a deep breath. “Thanks,” she whispered. “Listen, there's something else.” She fought to find the right words. “Dr. Evans is requiring me to get a counselor to deal with anger issues.” She held up her fingers and gestured quotation marks around “anger.”

“I take it you're not crazy about the idea.”

“That's an understatement.”

He sighed. “I'll leave that to Dr. Evans. It won't affect my respect for you.”

“The thing is, I'm here now. If I have to do this, I want to get started. Can you make a referral?”

“Why don't I have Phin MacGrath drop in?”

“The team social worker? I've met him.”

He nodded. “He has a master's in counseling. He's familiar with the emotional issues that transplant patients deal with. I think he'd be perfect.”

“Okay.”

Dr. Parrish touched a stack of envelopes on Tori's bedside stand. “Wow, it looks like you get the prize for the most mail.”

“Well-wishers,” she said. “Seems at least my patients appreciate me. I'm averaging about twenty cards a day. Who'd-a-thunk-it?” She smiled. “I heard the nurses whispering about it. I don't think they can stand it.”

He chuckled. “We should know something about your biopsy in a few days. For now, I'm keeping your antirejection regimen the same.”

“I hope I can get off the steroids. I think I'm already looking fat.”

“You? Not a chance.” He stepped to the door. “Rest. You can't get up for two more hours. Take a nap.”

She found herself wincing. What would once have been an afternoon luxury had become a minefield—one she wasn't sure she could cross without tripping a memory explosion.

Two hours later, Tori's discomfort had far more to do with the fact that her bladder was stressing and she still wasn't allowed up than from her postsurgery pain.

As a nurse finished taking vitals, Tori pleaded. “I need to get up to the bathroom.”

The nurse looked at her watch. “Another fifteen minutes. Can I get you a bedpan?”

Tori sighed and shook her head. “I think I can wait.”

But as soon as the nurse disappeared, Tori tenderly palpated the site of her recent femoral artery stick, the crease in front of her right hip.
No swelling. It should be safe.

She gently rolled to the side and swung her feet over the bed to the floor. Slowly, she took a few steps toward the bathroom, padding on cat feet. Unfortunately, the movement intensified a need for speed. She realized quickly that her IV bag was still hanging on a pole by her bed. She groaned and turned to get her IV.
I need to hurry!

In her haste, she knocked a plastic water pitcher to the floor. She grabbed the IV pole and slid it along with her, dragging a stripe of spilled water as a path to her goal where she eased herself down on the cold seat.

Made it. Sweet relief. And all without my nurse.

The trip back to her bed wasn't as stealthy. She slipped on the slick floor, sending a searing pain through her right groin. Tori tried to stop her slide to the floor by hanging onto the IV pole, but the pole was top-heavy and tipped. With a loud crash, the IV pole clattered to the floor, bouncing once on her side table and scattering her cards, a vase of flowers, and her phone. She ended up on her back, with a second ripping pain in her chest and the sensation of wetness on her leg.
Water?
She touched her thigh and examined her fingers.
Blood!

Her door swung open, heralding the entrance of her nurse—a thirtysomething female with red hair—and an aide, an adolescent male with a face struggling with acne.

The nurse barked at the aide. “Throw me that towel!”

She threw Tori's gown back to expose her upper legs and pressed the towel down over a bleeding purple swelling.

“I told you not to get up!” Her teeth were bared, lips pulled back in a snarl.

Tori couldn't speak. The pain in her chest was nearly unbearable.

The nurse went on. “I should have known. You're above the orders. You know best, don't you,
Dr. Taylor
?”

Tori struggled for breath. “I … had … to … go,” she whispered.

The nurse looked at the aide. “I want you to stat page the vascular surgery resident on call. If I can't get this bleeding stopped, she's going to need surgery.”

The aide stepped toward the door.

“Bring me some sterile dressings!”

Tori felt warm fluid running down her leg. The nurse wasn't holding efficient direct pressure, and Tori was still losing blood. Tori placed her hand over the nurse's. “Here,” she said. “The artery is more medial. Push here.”

“Still need to be in charge, don't you?”

Tori's first impulse was to correct her, but as she began, she halted. “The femoral artery runs—” She took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “Could you cover me up?”

“You don't get it, do you? You could bleed out.”

“I'm cold. Others can see me,” she grunted. “The door is open.”

The nurse didn't make a move to cover Tori. “It feels different being a patient, doesn't it?”

Tori reached out to touch the nurse's hand. She wanted to apologize. Instead, the nurse pulled away.

“Don't touch me! Your hand is bloody.”

“I … I must have offended you.”

“Oh, that's rich.” The nurse appeared to be sweating. “What nurse haven't you offended, Dr. Taylor?”

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Tori winced with pain. “I heard the nurses talking at the beginning of the shift. You must have gotten the short straw.”

The nurse didn't respond. Evidently, she didn't expect Tori's honesty.

A minute later, a breathless vascular-surgery intern arrived. Dr. Ron Marsh had served on Tori's team the month she fell ill.

Tori struggled to cover her privates with her hand. “Hi, Ron,” she said. “I slipped getting back to bed. I'm two hours postcardiac cath via a right femoral artery stick. I think I opened the artery again when I fell.”

Ron quickly pulled on a pair of latex gloves and grabbed a sheet from the bed. He spread the sheet over Tori, leaving only her right groin uncovered. “Here,” he said, nudging the nurse aside. “On three, take your hand away and let me put my fingers over her wound. I need to see.” He paused. “One, two … three!”

The duo switched positions. “Hmm,” he said.

“What do you see?”

“Most of the bleeding is under the skin. I think we can get this to stop without surgery, but you're going to have to live with a significant hematoma.”

“I need heart biopsies each week for two more weeks,” Tori said.

The intern frowned. “Then they'll probably have to use the other side or else use your arm.”

“I'm worried about my sternal closure too,” she said. “I may have ripped something.”

“I can look if you want.”

She nodded.

This time, the nurse cooperated and wrapped the sheet around to cover Tori's breasts while pulling up her gown to expose her sternal scar. Dr. Marsh leaned forward, still holding pressure over the hematoma. “It looks okay.”

The intern looked at the nurse. “I'll need you to get some help to move her back to bed.”

“Oh no, we're not moving her. It will increase her chances of bleeding.” She shook her head. “Not on my shift. She stays on the floor.”

“But it's wet and cold. Get that hard plastic transfer board and we'll log roll her onto it while I hold pressure.”

“Not a good idea. I say hold pressure on the floor.”

“But we need to do this for an hour.”

“Not my problem.” The nurse stood up and pushed past the young nurse's aide, who was wide-eyed and peering over Dr. Marsh's shoulder. “I've got charting to do.” With that, she disappeared.

Dr. Marsh mumbled, calling her colorful names under his breath.

“Don't,” Tori said. “I've not made many friends among the nursing staff. Now I'm paying for it.”

“It's still not right.” He flipped open his cell phone. “I'll call my team. We can get you back to bed without Nurse Coldhearted.”

“Don't call her that. It's my fault.” Tori couldn't help it. Tears began pouring down her cheeks.

“Dr. Taylor?” The intern's eyes were wide.

“Ever heard of the Golden Rule?”

“Sure,” he said. “I went to Sunday school.”

“Good,” she said. “I didn't. So you should know better. This is what you get when you don't use it.”

That evening, Phin MacGrath pushed open Tori's door.

She looked up. “You're keeping late hours.”

He shrugged. “Gotta love the life of the single hospital social worker, eh?”

Her stomach tightened. Was Phin here for a counseling session?

Phin had changed from his hospital attire. He wore faded blue jeans and a print shirt opened to the third button. He read her anxious face. “Look, I stopped in late because I thought we'd be less likely to be interrupted. Dr. Parrish told me your dilemma. You're being forced into counseling.” He chuckled. “My favorite situation.”

“Seems the board has handed down an ultimatum. Get counseling or find a new job.” She paused. “I'll be honest. I don't want to talk. I've never been much for bearing my feelings. I've handled my own problems all my life.”

“Fair enough.” He leaned back. “Let's not talk about feelings. Why don't you just tell me about what you want.”

His approach disarmed her. His smile didn't hurt either. “Wh-what I want?”

“Sure. Tell me about your goals.”

She shrugged. “That's easy. I want to get back to work, return to oncology surgery. I want to make a difference in the lives of my patients.”

“But something has come up. There's an obstacle blocking your goal.” He held up his hands. “This.” He paused. “You need to work some things out before you can get back to the job you love.”

She nodded, sighing.

“Do you want to talk about your anger?”

“I'm not angry.”

“Look, I've been around here long enough to have heard the stories.”

“The stories aren't necessarily true. I'm hard on the nurses. That part is true. But I don't discipline them in anger.”

“You call them names.”

“
Stupid
isn't a name. It's an adjective. And in most cases, an accurate one.”

“So in your mind, anger is not an issue.”

“Now we're communicating.”

“Maybe we should talk about perfectionism, driven behaviors.”

“Tell me something, Phin. If you were seeing a surgeon because you had cancer, wouldn't you want that surgeon to be perfect and to drive her team to be perfect?”

“I suppose.”

“So I don't see a real problem.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

She softened. “Okay, look, I'm pretty frustrated with myself right now.”

He waited silently for her to continue.

“On the one hand, I know I haven't been sensitive to the nurses' feelings.” She hesitated, searching his face for understanding. When he nodded, she continued. “This is new territory for me. While I know there have been times when the nurses should have been better, I know I've offended them when I come down on them.” She touched her head. “I feel like I'm on a roller coaster. I still feel like things should be done according to the highest standard, but—” She stopped. “I think I've stepped on a whole lot of toes in the process.” She sighed. “The nurses here don't even want to get me as an assignment. That tells me a lot.”

“This sounds like progress.”

She tried to smile. “Maybe.”

“We work as a team here. So anything the team has discussed about you, I've been privy to.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And just what does the team say?”

“Dr. Samuelson told me about your nightmares.”

She stayed quiet.

“Can you talk about that?”

“Okay,” she said, suddenly aware that her voice was tightening. She studied the social worker's handsome face.
I can do this.
“It's weird. I've never had such vivid dreams. I'm hesitant to even call them dreams. They seem so real. I wake up with the feeling that I've tapped an old memory.”

“Something bad in your past.”

“That's just it. Sure, I had some knocks growing up. My dad was killed in Iraq, and my mom died of breast cancer when I was a teen. But nothing ever like the stuff that haunts my nights.”

“Tell me.”

“Fire. Voices crying for help. A man's voice. A mean man.”

“How do you know he's mean?”

She looked away. “I just know. It's like it happened to me.” She took a deep breath. “He pushed me down the stairs.”

“Wow.” He sat quietly.

The silence between them was comfortable. She had to resist reaching out to brush his callused hands. “The last time I awoke from a nightmare, I had the distinct knowledge that someone wanted me dead.” She studied his expression.

“What else?”

“A woman. Blonde. Green eyes. A tattoo of two hearts on her left shoulder. She gave me a number to remember.” She reached for one of her cards on the side table. “Got a pen?” She wrote it in block letters, just like the number that had been handed to her in the dream. “It was like this. 3. 1. 6. Just like that. I don't write in block letters, but that's what the note looked like.”