Good Medicine (6 page)

Because I'm thinking about the blue-eyed doctor.
The answer surprised him. He hadn't been consciously thinking about her, but she was definitely there, just under the surface, distracting him.

His body had reacted to her today. He'd tried to pretend it hadn't, because he liked to believe he was in control of himself, his thoughts, his responses.

He'd been celibate for a long time—by choice. Several attractive women in the village had made it plain they'd welcome him in their bed. And he'd been tempted. It would be a lie to say he hadn't.

But he wanted someone to share his ideas with, a woman he could trust enough to open up to, dream with, laugh with—and, yeah, take to his bed. He was strong and healthy, with a hale and hearty libido. He was also solitary, preferring to watch people rather than engage with them. It wasn't a trait that endeared him to women when the lovemaking was over, and there hadn't been many who intrigued him enough to risk sharing more than sex with them.

The problem was there were no secrets on this island. Everyone would know before noon who he'd bedded. Not that there was anything wrong with that, either. But as a healer, he had a certain status. He wasn't obliged to embrace celibacy, except during the periods of purification necessary for certain ceremonies. But there was a personal moral code he felt obliged to sustain.

“And now you're laughing at me, Grandmother,” he whispered. He could almost see Sandrine in the corner of the room, as she used to be, sitting in the rocking chair she'd given him long ago. “You're right, I'm a stuffed shirt. I take myself way too seriously. You always told me I needed to laugh at myself more.”

“Love more, too. The opposite of man is woman, and we all need to know our opposite and embrace it. You will only find the other half of yourself in another person, Grandson. It's the only way we ever really see ourselves.”

He turned and looked directly at the chair.

“Help me, Grandmother.” He wasn't sure what he meant, exactly. He only knew that he suddenly felt vulnerable.

But Sandrine wasn't there.

He had to escape outside. He saved his document and got to his feet, grabbing his jacket from the wooden peg by the door.

Outside, the woods were alive with night sounds. Silas stood and listened, separating them, naming them. Owl. Coyote. The scurrying of a small animal, maybe a marmot. The twittering of birds, settling in for the night. The faint scent of skunk, somewhere off to the west. The tang of the evergreens, the salt of the sea.

He'd deliberately built in the bush so he wouldn't have to see any lights at night except the moon and stars. Looking up, he watched as the clouds opened up to reveal Venus and Orion.

There was only a sliver of moon, and a cloud obscured it after a moment, but it was enough. The vastness of the night sky put everything into proportion, as it always did. The world was very small compared to the universe and there were more worlds than this one.

His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he made his way effortlessly and silently along the path. Usually he went down to the water, but tonight he headed to the village.

There'd been an AA meeting at the school, and it was just breaking up as Silas drifted past. He heard Lily's distinctive belly laugh, and Sam saying something about the coffee being too strong.

“Strip the rust right outta your pipes,” he rasped. “Hey, there. How's it goin' Silas?”

The healer nodded to them but didn't stop to talk. His long stride carried him up the slight incline to the medical center. There was a soft light coming from the treatment area, where Louie was resting. The living quarters at the back were dark, the screened window to the bedroom open as far as it would go.

He imagined her sleeping there, curled under the blankets. It must have been an exhausting day for her. Silently, he walked around the building, bending over to hush a dog that came loping out of nowhere. Pausing a moment outside her bedroom window, he imagined he could hear her breathing softly, in and out.

Going in the front door of the center, Silas headed for the room where Louie slept deeply. Roberta was lying on a cot close beside her husband's bed. Her eyes
opened and she started to get up, but Silas waved her back down again and made a sign for silence.

He stood beside Louie and put a hand gently on the top of the man's bandaged leg. Closing his eyes, he hummed softly, a healing prayer, one of the first Grandmother Sandrine had ever taught him.

Louie slept on, and Roberta nodded her thanks.

Silas left as quietly as he'd come.

S
ILAS HEADED DOWN
to the water. Just out of reach of the incoming tide, he stopped and crouched down on his haunches.

He felt disturbed. This woman wasn't for him. The culture she came from was the same one that had almost destroyed him. Tonight he needed to remember that, as much as he usually needed to forget it. He wanted her, but he could control his desire.

The ebb and flow of the water slowly quieted his mind, and after a while it felt as if his blood were flowing in rhythm with the ocean's current. He began to hum, a monotonous deep thrumming in his chest, clearing away the emotions that swirled in his bloodstream like fireflies. The sound centered him, connected him to the earth and water, the wind and sky, and at last a measure of peace touched the place where his hunger raged.

J
ORDAN WOKE TO THE SOUND
of crows waging a territorial war outside her bedroom. Her bedside clock said
6:00 a.m., and the thin curtain covering her open window did little to keep out the light and cool, fresh air.

There was no confusion about where she was; ever since her intern days she'd come out of deep sleep fully alert. This morning, her first thought was for her patient. Surely she'd have been awakened during the night if anything had gone wrong, but she wanted to check for herself, right now.

In under ten minutes, she was showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Shivering, she pulled on a hoodie. Her kitchen was chilly, the fire long burned out. The food on the counter and the dishes in the sink made the room look like the day after a party, deserted and lonely. She made her way through the connecting door.

“He slept like a baby,” Roberta reported with a smile, coming out of the bathroom. “He woke up just once and I gave him a drink of water. I checked the bandage—it's clean and dry. That stuff dripping into his arm's going down, though. Christina said she'd come by and change it if you didn't wake up by seven.”

Louie was still sleeping, but he woke when Jordan said his name. Rolling the sheet aside, she removed the bandage to check her handiwork. The wound was pink and healthy looking, with far less seepage than she'd expected. Miraculously, it was already beginning to heal.

“I've seldom seen a wound heal this fast,” she told Louie and Roberta. “You must be incredibly healthy, Louie. I'll put on a fresh dressing and, if it continues to improve this way, we can soon do away with the IV drip.”

“And then I can go home,” Louie said with a wide grin.

“Not for a few days. You'll have to be able to make it to the bathroom on your own first. You can't expect Roberta to empty bedpans.”

“You got that right.” Roberta rolled her eyes at Jordan. “Yuck. Mind if I go make some coffee?”

“You'll have to light the stove first.” Jordan added an automatic coffeepot to the list of things she was going to order from Tofino. “Maybe you could teach me how, while you're at it.”

“Glad to.” Roberta led the way into Jordan's kitchen. “This here's a damper, you gotta make sure it's open before you start or you'll smoke yourself out. You've got some kindling—that's a good start. And paper.” Popping crumpled newspaper into the stove, she laid thin strips of alder on top.

“Matches.” She lit one from a tin container hanging on the wall. The paper flared and the kindling caught. “Then you just add wood, starting with small stuff and moving up to logs. When it gets going good, you move the damper a little this way—” she demonstrated “—so all the heat doesn't go up the chimney. Easy as anything.”

“Yeah, about as easy as brain surgery.” Jordan groaned.

Roberta laughed, emptying last night's dregs from the enamel coffeepot, deftly filling it with water and measuring out spoonfuls of coffee from a tin. Lifting the stove lid, she added more wood. “You never cooked on a woodstove?”

“I never cooked much on any sort of stove.”

“Then I'll fix you some breakfast.”

“You don't have to do that. There's cereal in the cupboard, and juice.”

“No bother.” Roberta had found a black iron skillet, and eggs from the fridge. “Louie'll want eggs, if I know him. And you oughta have something hot under your belt, it's gonna be a busy day. You might not get a chance to eat again for a while. Everybody's been savin' up their bellyaches because they knew you were comin'.”

It was a prophetic statement.

When her cell rang late that afternoon, Jordan glanced at her watch and couldn't believe the time. It was past five, and there were still six people waiting to see her. She'd already treated eighteen. Roberta had been absolutely right, everyone had been saving up their ailments—but more out of curiosity than real need. In any case, the day had passed in a blur.

“Hello?”

“Hey, squirt, how's it going out there in the boonies?”

“Toby.”
A wave of love and loneliness swept through Jordan when she heard her brother's deep, gruff voice. “Oh, damn! I said I'd call you as soon as I got here, didn't I? I'm so sorry. Things got a little hairy here.”

“No sweat, I just wanted to make sure you got there safe and you're getting settled okay.”

“I did and I am. Hold on one minute, it's not too private here.”

She went to the open door, motioned at the phone
and held up a finger signifying a moment's delay to her next patient.

The elderly woman nodded and smiled. Everyone else nodded, as well, and Jordan shoved the door closed. Leaning against it, she shut her eyes and visualized Toby's ruggedly handsome features, his slate-blue eyes two shades darker than her own, his tall, thin, deceptively strong body.

“Everyone's so friendly,” she said into the phone. “The entire village seems to be cooking for me—pies, cookies, even a roast. They've made me very welcome.”

“Home cooking, huh? Got a spare room?”

“Absolutely.” She knew he was teasing, but she jumped at the chance to see him. “When can I expect you?”

“Maybe when this yacht gets done,” he said with a sigh. “I need a holiday. The stress is getting to me.”

“Are you feeling okay?” The last time they'd talked, Toby had mentioned migraines and sore muscles. “More headaches?”

“Mostly a pain in the ass. The owner's got more money than patience, and he keeps changing his damned mind. So I'm grinding my teeth and putting in long hours. But once I get the bulkheads in, he's going to have to take it the way it is, no more changes.”

“And then you'll come?”

“I'll try. You didn't really say much the last time we talked, except that you were leaving Vancouver—and Garry. I'm worried about you. Did you leave St. Joe's because of him? The asshole's not giving you a hard
time, is he?” When she didn't answer, Toby cleared his throat apologetically. “I guess it's no surprise that I never liked the guy.”

“No surprise, no.” Toby had only met Garry once, and there'd been raised hackles on both sides. Garry had made it plain he had no use for Jordan's brother. And Toby, bless his heart, had simply never mentioned her husband.

She was going to have to lie a little—either that, or Toby might pay Garry a visit. Her brother was a physical man.

“He wasn't exactly thrilled that I was leaving the marriage, but no. No real hassles, and I've got a good lawyer.”

She hadn't told Toby why she was leaving Garry, and she wasn't about to now. She couldn't handle any more conflict in her life.

“He's a bully, you watch out for him. You need anything, you let me know right away, okay?”

“I will. And I'll phone you next time.”

“Great. You think you're going to like it there in Ahousaht? I looked it up on the Net—it sounds pretty isolated to me.”

“It is isolated. It's too soon to say for sure how well I'll adapt, but I'm committed for a year, so I'll give it my best shot.”

“They're lucky to have you.”

“I'm grateful for the job.” She was, too. She'd felt like her old self today, listening to lungs and tapping backs and examining kids' ears.

“I miss you, Toby.”

“Me, too. I love you, kid. By the way, I heard from Dad last week. He's moved into a care facility and he's got a phone now. You want the number?”

Suddenly the tenderness between them was gone, and Jordan resented the loss. But it wasn't Toby's fault. It was her father's.

“Nope. I don't really have anything to say to him.”

Toby sighed, deep and long. “He's getting old, Jordan.”

“Mike made his choices a long time ago.”

“He's old and sick, Jordan. And he's lonely.”

“I'll keep on sending you money for anything he needs—as long as he never knows it's from me. But he's just going to have to learn to live with loneliness. The same way you and I did.” Her voice was hard. “He's got the advantage there—he's an adult, with choices.”

She'd been four when their mother died; Toby six. After a scant month of trying to care for them on his own, Mike—a logger—put them in foster care. At first, attempts were made to keep them in the same foster home. But by the time Jordan started school, she and her adored big brother had been moved twice, and visits between them arranged by the social workers petered out.

It hadn't taken long for Mike to drop contact with his children altogether. The only stability in Jordan's life during those years was school, and she'd compensated by excelling academically.

Toby quit school early and ended up in serious trou
ble. She'd been lucky enough to eventually find wealthy foster parents who helped pay her way through university.

And yet it was Toby who now said, “Life's too short to carry grudges, Jordan.”

“It's not a grudge, Toby.” She'd convinced herself of that. “It's simply a case of indifference. I really don't have any feelings for him. He wasn't there when I graduated, not high school, not university, not when I became a full-fledged physician. I gave up on him, the way he gave up on us.”

“God knows I hated him myself for years.” Toby's voice was subdued, the earlier lightness gone. “But all that did was sap my energy. And when he turned up, he was so damned old and sad. I just don't have it in me to hate him anymore.”

“I don't hate him. But I don't want anything to do with him.” And she didn't want to talk about it anymore, either. “I really should go, Toby. I've got a lineup of people still waiting to see me, and there's some sort of meeting tonight I have to attend. I'll give you a call in a couple of days and tell you how it's going, promise.”

“Sure, squirt. I've got to get back to work myself. Talk to you soon. Love you.”

“Love you too, Toby.”

She hung up, feeling bereft. Toby sounded tired, and she had a sizeable knot in her stomach from talking about her father. Why did her brother have to spoil every conversation by bringing up Mike? Didn't she have enough to cope with, being married to a drug ad
dict? She'd convinced herself long ago that she'd made peace with the past, moved beyond the powerful emotions Mike used to arouse in her. Trembling a little as she opened the door, it took effort to force a smile as she called her next patient.

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS
flew by.

Jordan was accustomed to the orderly pattern of hospital timetables, shifts on and then scheduled time off. But here there wasn't the same division between work and leisure. Sometimes the clinic was empty for hours, and other times there weren't enough chairs.

The Nuu-chah-nulth people were nothing like the patients she'd treated at St. Joe's. Here, no one ever seemed to mind waiting for her. They talked softly with one another, drank the coffee and tea Christina made, ate the homemade cookies that appeared in a steady stream, and seemed grateful when at last their turn came.

She soon learned that she was never really off duty. If someone had a medical problem outside of clinic office hours, they simply came and knocked at the door of her apartment. Jordan began to suspect that it wasn't always a medical emergency that brought the visitors—their problems were often very minor, ranging from sore toes to toothache to a pain in one shoulder.

Christina confirmed her suspicions. “They're curious about you,” she told Jordan. “That's why they come to your place.”

“But they don't ask me questions or say anything.”
Jordan shook her head, puzzled. “Yesterday an elderly man came over late in the afternoon. He said he had an aching in his legs and wrists, so I suggested an herbal remedy for arthritis and that he should come to the clinic for tests. Then he just sat in my kitchen for forty-five minutes without saying anything. I tried asking him questions, but finally I just sat there, pouring tea and feeling like a dweeb.”

“It's our way,” Christina said. “Particularly with the elders. They like to listen to what people don't say, to the silences between the words. It's a mark of respect.”

“I need to learn so much more about your culture,” Jordan admitted. “I read the books you suggested, but they focused on the history.”

“History is what we're trying to get back to, because life worked for us back then. But it ain't easy. The world has changed so much. Listening to the stories our elders tell is the best way for you to learn. There's a dinner at the community hall Saturday night, lots of food and conversation. You should come, everybody will be there.”

“What time?” She saw the look on Christina's face and laughed. “Just give me a ballpark figure.”

Christina shrugged. “Come when it suits you.”

“You're a big help.”

“Probably around six-thirty or seven would be good.”

“Thanks, I'll be there.”

“My brother Silas has written a lot of articles about our ways. He'd be a good person to talk to. He understands both cultures. See, his father's white. Silas lived
with him in Vancouver from when he was little until about six years ago.”