A Heartbeat Away

by Harry Kraus

  “Are you calling me from a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine,” Tori said. “I’ll text you my address. How about two in the afternoon?”

  Tori listened to flipping pages. “Okay, two is fine. Oh, this is just fascinating! I look forward to talking to you.”

  “See you Thursday.” Tori closed her phone. The psychiatrist seemed a bit too enthusiastic. “Fascinating,” Tori muttered.

  I hope she’s as interested in finding the truth as she is in exploring an interesting medical phenomenon. I’ll probably end up as the subject in a journal article.

  She walked around the house sipping the coffee Phin had made, feeling a bit uneasy, wishing she had an agenda.

  Now that she was sufficiently recovered and felt good enough to work, she missed it with an ache the size of Texas. Surgery was her life, her identity. It had given her purpose, but more than that, surgery had been her platform, an excuse to allow others to orbit around her.

  But now, she wasn’t the center of anyone’s orbit.

  And she wanted to be.

  She waited until noon to call Phin, hoping to catch him on a lunch break.

  He picked up after two rings. “Hello.”

  “Hey. It’s me.”

  He didn’t respond right away. “Oh, hey.”

  Not so enthusiastic. Tori frowned and clutched at the edge of her shirt at the collar. “I found your Bible. It was on the couch.”

  “Oh, sorry about that. Can I stop by after work to pick it up?”

  “Sure. Why don’t I fix dinner? I owe you for helping me out.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I know, silly. I want to.”

  “Uh, okay, sure.” He cleared his throat. “I finished my report about your counseling. I’ve sent it to your chairman.”

  “Thanks.” She paused, then added, “I think.”

  “No, it’s all good.”

  “Are you sure you’re not biased?”

  He chuckled, but it didn’t sound natural. “Biased? Me?”

  She didn’t know how to respond.

  Phin added, “I wouldn’t ask him about it until at least the end of the week. I recommended they let you start whenever Dr. Parrish releases you.”

  “Good. Maybe he’ll let me start soon. I could go stir-crazy around here. I—”

  “Tori, there’s something you ought to know.”

  His voice was somber. She felt a shortening in her breath as if someone tightened a lasso over her chest. “What is it?”

  “I heard Steve Brown was offered the surgical oncology chair.”

  She huffed. “That was my job! I’ve been standing in line for that job for six years.” She paced around the island. “Evans didn’t even interview me for the job after I asked for an interview.”

  “You fainted in his office.”

  “Yeah, well, that should have impressed him.”

  Phin sighed into the phone. “Listen, I just don’t want you to get hurt. Evans doesn’t really need you back right now.”

  “So what? You think I should give up?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Tori paused after taking another lap around the island. “You didn’t give me an answer. About dinner.”

  “Wow, Tori, you don’t need to—”

  “Phin, what’s going on? I thought something good was happening between us. Then last night, you acted like I had something contagious.”

  “Something good is happening. It’s just …” His voice trailed off.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make it easier on you. I’m making dinner. You’re welcome. Or not. Six-thirty.”

  She snapped her phone closed with more force than she’d intended.

  She felt the tears beginning to well up. This was so unfair! Her life seemed to pack trouble on trouble like a snowball rolling downhill. First her health, then her job, then the mystery and terror of new memories, and now the news that she wasn’t even needed back at the hospital.

  She wandered into the foyer where she stared into a full-length mirror. She loved that mirror. She’d found it at an antique shop, so the glass had minor irregularities, but nothing that distorted the image. She’d painted the bulky frame a rich gold-leaf satin. In her old life, she stopped for a final inspection before leaving the house each morning at six.

  She’d hoped that Phin would help her make sense of all her misery, or at least slow the rolling snowball. At first, she’d thought he might be bringing a little healing to her heart. Instead, she felt like he’d just given the snowball a shove. Attaboy, Phin, just pack on more snow.

  She frowned at her reflection. No makeup. She lifted her hair and let it fall again. Flat.

  No wonder Phin put on the brakes last night.

  She thought about dinner. Candlelight?

  No, that would be too much.

  She unbuttoned the upper buttons on her pajama top. Her sternal scar was far from mature, slightly raised and pink, like a kindergarten child had smashed a worm of Silly Putty to accentuate her cleavage. Oh, that’s sexy. No wonder my social worker didn’t want to steal second base.

  She gathered her robe up under her chin and tried to remember if she had anything remotely sexy that wasn’t cut so low it would reveal her scar.

  She pouched her lips toward the mirror, remembering how Phin had kissed her in the car.

  You acted like you wanted me.

  Until last night.

  She sighed. I’m calling my hairdresser. If he runs from me tonight, it won’t be because I scared him away with my appearance.

  23

  Christian Mitchell, MD, placed a cool washcloth on the forehead of his bald little chemotherapy patient, Brian Phillips, and resumed his vigil holding the boy’s hand. On the nightstand were Brian’s favorite things, including a baseball signed by Baltimore Oriole great Cal Ripkin Jr.

  “Baltimore plays Atlanta tonight,” Christian said. “We should be able to pick up the game on MASN.”

  Brian nodded but didn’t speak or open his eyes.

  Christian looked up as his resident walked in. Toby Henson, a West Point grad who was letting the government pick up the tab for his education in exchange for future service, shook his head and said, “There you are. The phlebotomist can’t get blood on the Yarborough kid. I need you to do a femoral stick.”

  “Okay.”

  Henson stared at him. “Now?”

  Christian squeezed the hand of his little patient. “I’ll be back after a while and check on you again.”

  “Don’t leave,” he whispered.

  “Sorry, sport. I’ll be back soon.”

  In the hallway, Henson turned and pointed at Christian’s chest. “I can’t have you sitting here all day holding hands with the patients while there’s work to be done.”

  “I finished all my admissions. Dr. Smith knew where I was.”

  He leaned forward. “And what is it with you? Your eyes are wet.” He shook his head. “You can’t expect to be able to help these kids if you get so attached.”

  “Brian was having a bad day, that’s all. His mother had to leave for a few hours, and I had—”

  “Get a spine, Mitchell. If you really want to help kids with cancer, you can’t be crying over each one.”

  “Empathy can be helpful. When the patients know I care, they respect my recommendations.”

  “Yeah, well, if you let your emotions get involved, you’ll never be able to be objective. And that’s your job,” he said, pointing again at Christian’s chest. “You let these kids get under your skin and you’ll never sleep at night. Bad things happen, Mitchell. Kids with cancer die every day.”

  “And maybe they should die with someone holding their hand.”
<
br />   “Let a nurse do that. You’ve got to make the hard decisions to use chemotherapy to give them a chance.”

  “But I—”

  “No arguments from you. Now get to the ICU and draw that blood. And don’t cry about causing your patient a little pain.” Henson sighed. “What is it with you? First I find you praying for a patient; now I find you holding hands and getting tearful. If you want to pass this internship, you’d better start acting like a real doctor.”

  Chris nodded and held his tongue.

  I am.

  That afternoon, Tori carefully prepared Caribbean chicken with pear and cranberry chutney, using a rub of allspice, fennel, and cloves. At six, she’d just begun to fry chicken breasts in fresh ginger and chopped onion when the doorbell rang.

  She checked her appearance in the foyer mirror and smiled. She’d found the perfect little black dress, one that covered her sternal scar and contained a side slit just high enough to keep things interesting. She wore a single pearl necklace, positioned so that the pearl fell right at her suprasternal notch. Not extravagant. Just right in a classy sort of way.

  She took a deep breath and opened the front door.

  Charlotte stood between two suitcases, obviously surprised at Tori’s appearance. “Well, well, aren’t we fancy?”

  Tori stepped forward. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Obviously.” She held up her hands. “I brought your stuff.” She lifted the bags and entered. “Something smells wonderful.”

  “I’m planning a little dinner.”

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Jarrod coming over?”

  Tori shook her head. “No.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to share the news with Charlotte until she knew there was news to share. Tori needed to figure things out a bit first.

  Charlotte barged her way forward, following her nose to the kitchen. “Wow. What smells so good?”

  Tori shrugged and turned the burner down to low. “Caribbean chicken. I got the recipe online.”

  “Since when do you cook?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Since now.”

  “You could have told me you were moving out.”

  “I didn’t think you’d approve.”

  “I don’t.” Charlotte looked around. “But obviously you’re doing okay.” Charlotte dabbed the end of her index finger into a small bowl of chutney and returned it to her mouth. “Mmm. Maybe I was cramping your style.”

  “It’s not that. I just needed for things to get more normal.”

  “This is normal?”

  “Not exactly. But here I’m in control.” She put her hands on her hips. “Regaining control is an important part of recovery.” She lifted the lid off the frying chicken. “I really need to pay attention to this.”

  Charlotte waved her hand in the air. “I’ll get out of your hair, then. Do I need to camp down the street to find out who’s coming to dinner?”

  “Phin.”

  “Your counselor?”

  “It’s not what you think. He’s a friend.”

  Charlotte stomped toward the front door. “I’m your friend and you don’t dress that way for me.”

  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Be careful, Tori. You’re going through a stressful time. Don’t—”

  Tori held up her hand. “I’m a big girl,” she said, shooing Charlotte toward the door. “I need to work.”

  She watched Charlotte crossing the lawn and Phin arriving at the same time. Charlotte gave an exaggerated wave with an even more exaggerated grin. Tori stayed at the front door and opened it a moment later.

  Phin stood there like a model out of an L.L.Bean catalog. He held a bottle of wine. “Wow,” he said, looking at Tori.

  Good start. She smiled and took the bottle. “Come in.”

  “I hope that’s okay. I wasn’t sure what you were fixing.”

  “It will be perfect.”

  He followed her to the kitchen.

  She watched as he inspected the table.

  “Tori, you didn’t need to do all of this. Really, I just needed to pick up my Bible.”

  “Oh, and for that you bring me a bottle of wine?”

  “You mentioned dinner. I just thought …”

  She turned the chicken and looked back at him. “I’m glad you decided to come. I thought you would.”

  He shifted his weight back and forth. “Look, I guess we should talk about this—”

  She stepped toward him and placed her index finger against his lips. “Not now. Let’s have dinner first. Then talk.” She pointed toward a drawer in the island. “I have a corkscrew around here somewhere. Why don’t you open the wine?”

  Phin worked on the bottle. Tori walked into the other room and came back holding his Bible.

  “Can I ask you a few things?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  She opened the worn Bible. She smiled slyly. “I liked seeing the things you underlined.”

  “Those are meant for me.”

  “I know.” She paused, hoping he was okay with it. “That’s why I liked seeing them.” She pointed to a verse he’d underlined. “This bit about not leaning on your own understanding—does that mean Christians just blindly trust and put their brains in neutral?”

  “No. I’ve chosen to believe the claims of Christ because I’ve examined the proof and I think they’re true. But I haven’t abandoned my mind.” He hesitated. “I underlined that after my wife died. Her death wasn’t something I could understand. Why would God allow my wife to be taken from me?” He took the book from her hand. “So I just had to hold onto the things I believed, like ‘God loves me.’ I just had to believe he knew best.”

  Tori turned around. “I want to know more about the proof,” she said. “But right now, I think this chicken is ready. Let’s eat.”

  During dinner, they talked about their trip to Baltimore and Tori’s upcoming interview with the psychiatrist. They talked about hobbies, Phin’s work with Habitat for Humanity, and Phin’s church. They talked about everything … except their relationship. That’s the way Tori had planned it. She didn’t want Phin to feel anything but at ease.

  After eating, they retired with their wine glasses to a couch in the den. Tori didn’t wait for Phin to speak. She took their glasses and set them on a coffee table. Then, she positioned herself so that she faced him on the couch. She stroked his cheek with her hand and leaned forward until her lips touched his.

  She felt her breathing quicken. The kiss was heaven, tenderness wrapped in softness, wrapped in longing. But soon Phin put his hands on her shoulders and gently held her away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I … I,” he said, twisting away. “It’s just that I can’t.”

  “But we’re just beginning to click. You understand me. I thought we were ready to take—”

  “It’s not right. I can’t do this.” He disentangled himself from her arms and stood. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to lead you on.”

  “Phin, talk to me. You don’t like me in that way?”

  “No. Yes, I mean, no, it’s not that.” He shook his head. “Missy.”

  Your wife. “She’s gone, Phin.”

  He stuttered. “I should go.”

  “No, we should talk,” she said. “What did I do? Did I move too fast? We can go at your pace.” She touched his hand. “Tell me about Missy.”

  “I … I—” He shook his head.

  “Have I misread you? Have I completely lost my ability to read men?”

  “It’s not you.”

  He walked toward the door. When he reached the front foyer, he turned. “Dinner was great. Thanks.”

  She couldn’t quite believe he was leaving just like that. For a moment, she watched. S
tunned. But then, just as he closed the door, she called his name. “Phin.”

  He paused.

  “Take this,” she said, reaching into the kitchen. “Your Bible. I wouldn’t want to give you an excuse to come back.”

  She dropped the book into his hands, slammed the door after him, and began to cry.

  24

  Thursday morning, psychiatrist Mary Jaworski sat on the leather couch in Tori’s den and smiled. “I don’t want you to feel anxious about this.”

  Tori studied the petite woman in front of her. Her long, straight hair was streaked with gray. Not highlighted, streaked. Mary didn’t seem the type to care. She wore a denim wraparound skirt, a plaid blouse, and one of those yellow “Live Strong” wristbands that indicated she’d donated money for a cancer cure. Her eyelashes and complexion weren’t completely inadequate, but Mary hadn’t used an ounce of effort to augment her natural strengths. Her build was slight and the knuckles on her hand seemed too prominent. On top of everything else, her smile revealed a set of clear braces, the kind that are supposed to be invisible but capture your attention and make you look even closer to see what’s wrong.

  “I’d like to start with some general questions. Later, if we conclude that it will help, I’ll do the trance induction. I’ll need to videotape it all, just in case the captain needs it for evidence.”

  “Will I remember what I reveal under hypnosis?”

  Dr. Jaworski pushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ears. “You may not. If there are important discoveries, you and I can watch the video at a later time when we can process it together.

  “I’d like to talk about your background. Childhood, education, that sort of thing.”

  Tori reclined in her favorite leather chair with her feet on the matching ottoman. “Is that really necessary? What I really want to know is the meaning of the transplanted terrors.”

  “I need to know about your own past, so that I can distinguish between the two. If you’ve got memories from two different lives, I need to know yours first.” She paused and smoothed the denim skirt over her legs. “I’ve done some reading about transplanted cellular memories. This is really a fascinating area. If what you tell me can be documented, I’d say we have a reportable case.”