Meant for Each Other

by Ginna Gray

  The arrangement worked to everyone’s advantage, but it also gave Julia the leverage she needed to have her way. Leah didn’t think she would actually remove Quinton from her care, but she didn’t dare call her bluff. In ten months Quinton would turn eighteen, and would no longer be under his parents’ authority. Until then, she would have to keep on biting her tongue.

  The arrival of Dr. Sweeney pushed the gloomy thoughts right out of her mind. Leah turned away from the window, her heart pounding. “Is it over? Is Quinton all right?”

  Dr. Sweeney took her hands and patted them. Fear tightened her chest when she noticed how weary and serious he looked. “Oh, Lord, is something wrong?”

  “Now, now, Leah. Don’t upset yourself.” He smiled kindly and squeezed her hands. “The procedure went off perfectly, and your brother is doing as well as can be expected at this point.”

  “What does that mean?” Peter asked.

  “Your son is a very sick young man. Going into the procedure he was as weak and as near death as anyone comes, and he survived. We can’t expect him to rebound instantly. It could take days, possibly even weeks, before we know for certain that his body has accepted the foreign marrow. Even if the transplant is successful, it will take a long time for him to recover, and spontaneous rejection sometimes occurs without warning weeks down the road.”

  “But I thought this would be a cure. Now you’re saying he could still die, even with the transplant?”

  “There’s always that chance in these cases, Mrs. Albright. I explained that to you. However, at this point, your son is holding his own. What I’m telling you now is, he has a long and difficult recovery ahead of him, but with the proper care and a little luck I think he will make it.”

  “I hope you’re right, Doctor.” Peter put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and drew her to him as she began to weep. “Dear God, I hope you’re right.”

  Blindly, Leah reached for her father’s free hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry, Dad. He’ll make it.

  “He has to make it,” Leah insisted to herself.

  Chapter Four

  “Dr. McCall! Just where do you think you’re going?”

  Mike grimaced and stopped in his tracks. Damn. Did the woman have eyes in the back of her head? Gertrude Zankowski was a superb head nurse, and in a crisis there was no one he would rather have on his team. However, she ran her floor with an iron hand and a bark that would put a marine drill instructor to shame.

  Mike turned and gave her his most charming smile. “I’m just getting some air.”

  She arched on eyebrow. “At six-thirty in the morning? Dr. Sweeney’s instructions were for you to have forty-eight hours of bed rest. It’s been only twenty-three by my count.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Gert, have a heart. I’m sick of that bed. Besides, I feel fine. My part in the procedure was minor. So where’s the harm in going for a little stroll? Hmm? It’s not as though I’m going back to work.”

  “Humph. I wouldn’t put it past you to make your rounds in your pajamas and robe, even though two perfectly good doctors are covering for you.” She shook an admonishing finger at him. “I know you, Dr. McCall. You’re so involved with your patients you don’t trust anyone else to look after them.”

  “Hey, it’s not a crime to care about your patients, you know.”

  “No, it isn’t. Actually, caring is an admirable quality. One of many that I admire about you.”

  Mike’s grin returned. “Why, Gert, I didn’t know you cared.”

  “However,” she continued, ignoring the comment, “at the moment you are a patient on my floor, and as long as you are, you will follow your doctor’s orders. So don’t think you can pull a fast one on me.”

  “Me? Now, would I do that to my favorite nurse?”

  “In a New York second. And you can knock off the Irish charm, Doctor. It won’t work on me.”

  Giving in, Mike sighed and ran his hand through his rumpled hair. “Look, to tell you the truth, I was just going to peek in on Dr. Albright’s brother. See how he’s coming along. I’ve sorta got a vested interest in the kid, you know.”

  “Is that wise, Doctor? It’s usually best to maintain donor anonymity.”

  “Hey, I just want to check on the kid is all. I’m not going to tell him I’m his donor. C’mon, Gert, give me a break.”

  Arms crossed under her ample bosom, Nurse Zankowski pursed her lips and studied him through narrowed eyes. “I suppose if I don’t, you’ll just sneak out when I’m not looking, won’t you?”

  Mike grinned. “You got it.”

  She shook her head and scowled, but he could tell she was weakening. “Oh, very well. I’ll let you go on one condition.

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to use a wheelchair.”

  “Ah, Gert, I don’t need—”

  “You either use a chair or I’ll call the orderlies and have them stuff you back in that bed. Those are your only choices, Doctor.”

  Mike muttered about dictatorial women, but when Gert had one of her nurses bring a wheelchair over he complied. “Satisfied?” he demanded, shooting her a sulky look when he was seated.

  “Yes. And be back here in twenty minutes.”

  “Tyrant.” Giving her one last annoyed look, he jabbed the controls and sent the wheelchair whirring down the hall at top speed.

  Like his uncle Reilly, his father’s twin, Mike could never stay angry for long. By the time he reached the glass-walled ICU cubicle where Quinton was being monitored, his annoyance had faded. When he looked through the glass at the youth in the plastic bubble, it disappeared completely. He felt like a jerk for complaining at all, when this boy was the one who had it rough.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite kiddie doctor.”

  Mike turned the wheelchair and winked at the ICU nurse. “’Morning, Alice. How’s it going?”

  Alice Perkins was an attractive brunette in her early thirties. They had gone out a few times, shortly after Mike had come to St. Francis Hospital. She was funny and sweet and they’d had a good time together, but it hadn’t taken long for them both to realize that the spark just wasn’t there. They had, however, remained good friends.

  “Aside from my aching feet, not bad. How about you? You feeling okay after getting your bones sucked out?”

  “Jeez, Alice, your bedside manner could use some work. But to answer your question, I feel fine.”

  “Good. So, did you come to see the kid?”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d find out how he was doing.”

  “So far he’s holding his own.” Alice shook her head. “I’m worried about Dr. Albright, though. She hasn’t left his side since the surgery. Look at her. She’s wiped out.”

  Mike maneuvered the wheelchair closer to the glass wall. The boy was sleeping. Curled up in a chair next to the bed, so was Leah.

  Alice was right; she looked exhausted.

  The nurse came to stand beside Mike. “If she wasn’t a doctor on staff she wouldn’t have been allowed to stay in there all night. You ask me, it was a mistake.”

  “Someone ought to persuade her to go home and get some rest,” Mike murmured.

  “You want to give it a shot?”

  “Me? Oh, no. I don’t think so. I doubt she’d listen to me.”

  “Well, it’s going to take someone with more clout than I have. Lord knows, I’ve tried.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I’ll give Dr. Sweeney a call when I get back to my room.”

  “Thanks, Mike. I was hoping you’d say that. I didn’t feel it was my place.”

  Another nurse walked into ICU, and Alice gave Mike’s shoulder a pat. “Look, my shift is over in a few minutes and I have to go brief Susan on the patients before I leave, but if you want to go in and get a closer look at the boy, feel free.”

  “No, I don’t want to disturb them. Anyway, I just came by to see how the kid was doing.”

  That had truly been Mike’s intention, but for the rest of the day he couldn’t stop thinking
about Leah and her brother. He kept picturing her curled up in that chair beside the boy’s bed, her clothes rumpled, her hair mussed. Her mouth had been bare of lipstick, the rest of her makeup had all but faded away, and her face had been etched with fatigue. Still, she had looked beautiful.

  Finally, Mike couldn’t stand it any longer. Curiosity about this younger brother who elicited so much devotion from the reserved and seemingly unemotional Dr. Leah Albright drew him back to ICU that evening.

  Nurse Zankowski had completed her shift and gone, but she had left instructions, and despite his protests, Mike once again found himself in a wheelchair.

  A self-satisfied smile curved his mouth when he arrived in ICU and found Leah gone. Apparently, his call to Dr. Sweeney had produced results.

  The boy was still sleeping. Wanting a closer look, Mike eased the wheelchair inside the cubicle and stopped beside the end of the bed.

  Poor kid. He looked like hell. Chemo had left him bald, and he was too thin. Even so, it was easy to see that in good health he would be a big, strapping teenager. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and the dark circles around his sunken eyes and the sharpness of his nose and cheekbones gave him the look of a cadaver.

  Of course, his condition was not surprising. Cancer was not Mike’s field of expertise, but he knew the drill with transplant patients. Before the procedure, the doctors had deliberately destroyed what little was left of the boy’s poorly functioning immune system with immunosuppression therapy in order to reduce the risk of his body rejecting the new marrow. Unavoidably, the aggressive treatment brought the already ailing patient almost to the point of death. It was a closer brush than most would ever know, one Mike was not sure that he himself would have the courage to face.

  Mike studied the boy for some resemblance to his sister, but he could find none. Leah had finely molded features that gave her a delicate appearance. Her brother’s were sharply etched and strong, almost craggy. He would be a handsome kid if he was healthy, Mike thought.

  The muted beeps drew Mike’s attention to the monitors above the bed, to which the boy was connected by a mass of wires. At least his vital signs were stable, Mike mused. Unable to resist, he took the chart from the pocket in side of the plastic bubble and studied the notations made by the doctors and nurses.

  So far, so good. Despite the kid’s appearance, he was progressing as well as anyone could expect at this point. No sign of rejection. No fever. Even a slight reduction in white cells. “Way to go, champ,” Mike murmured. “Keep it up, and you’ll be kicking butt on the football field this time next year.”

  “Who...who are you?”

  Mike looked up and found himself the focus of a pair of eyes so blue that not even illness or the distortion of the plastic bubble could dim their vividness. Instantly, he revised his earlier opinion; those eyes were exactly like Leah’s.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Mike hooked the chart back in place. Leaning into the chair, he smiled at the boy. “I’m Dr. Mike McCall. I’m on staff here.”

  “Yeah? Why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “Actually, I’m not on your case. I’m a pediatrician. But I know your sister, and since I had some time on my hands, I thought I’d stop in and see how you were doing.”

  Quinton looked him over. “You been sick or something?”

  “Who me? Nah, I’m as healthy as a horse.”

  “Then why’re you in pajamas? Why do you need a wheelchair?”

  “Ah, I see. I’ve, uh, I’ve just gone through a minor surgical procedure, that’s all. Actually, I would have gone home yesterday if not for a head nurse who’s descended from Attila the Hun.”

  Quinton’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I’ve had a couple like that.”

  “You mean Nurse Perkins and Nurse Stafford. Trust me, kid, together they couldn’t hold a candle to Top Sergeant Zankowski. The woman’s a dictator.”

  Quinton stared at Mike. “This surgical procedure you had—it wouldn’t happen to have been a bone marrow harvest, would it?”

  The question caught Mike by surprise. All he could do for a moment was gape. “I, uh...”

  “You were my donor, weren’t you?”

  “What makes you think that?” Mike asked, stalling.

  “You’re here in the hospital. In a wheelchair. You’ve just had a procedure done, but you’re healthy, so it must not have been for you. Even though you’re not one of my doctors you were curious about my condition. It all fits.”

  The kid was bright; he’d give him that Mike considered lying, but only for a moment. He believed in being honest with kids. If you wanted someone to trust you, you had to be straight with them.

  For several moments he met Quinton’s probing gaze while he mulled over the situation. He couldn’t think of any valid reason to withhold the information from the boy. Usually, both the donor’s and the patient’s identity were kept confidential to protect the privacy of both parties. But what the heck. From the beginning Mike had known who would be getting his marrow. It seemed only fair that Quinton know who had given it to him, particularly since it was obvious that the boy wanted to.

  As for himself, Mike had no problem with that. If knowing made the kid feel they were somehow connected, even if he wanted to pursue a friendship, where was the harm? Actually, he kinda liked the kid. He was courageous and tenacious—a real fighter.

  But it was more than that, Mike realized. He couldn’t pinpoint why, but he felt strangely drawn to Quinton.

  Probably because he’s Leah’s brother, he decided finally.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you got me, pal. It was my marrow.”

  “I thought so. Look, I, uh...I wanta thank you. I really appreciate what you did.”

  “Hey, kid, no problem. It wasn’t a big thing for me. It wasn’t particularly painful or even complicated. They harvested a little marrow and now all I have to do is rest for a couple of days while my body replaces it, and I’ll be as good as new. You’re the one who’s got a long fight ahead.”

  “Maybe. Still, you didn’t have to do it.”

  Mike shrugged. “We were a damned near perfect match and it was no hardship for me. I figured, why not? Besides, I’m a doctor. It’s my job to save lives if I can.”

  “Yeah. My sister is like that.” Though his voice was weak, there was a smile in it, and a touch of pride. “She’ll work herself into the ground and do whatever it takes to save one of her patients.”

  “Yes, I know. Dr. Albright is an excellent doctor. I often refer patients to her.”

  “No kidding? Hey, that’s great.”

  A huge yawn overtook the boy, and his eyes begin to droop. Mike smiled and started backing the wheelchair away from the bed. “Look, I’d better go and let you rest.”

  “Okay. Will you come back again sometime?”

  “Sure. I’ll stop by after my rounds tomorrow. How’s that?”

  “That’ll be...neat,” Quinton mumbled as his eyes fluttered shut.

  Mike guided the wheelchair out the door, but in the corridor he stopped and poked his head back inside. “Hey, kid!”

  Quinton blinked and tried to focus. “Y-yeah?”

  “Remember. That’s my marrow you’ve got. You take good care of it, you hear?”

  A ghost of a smile twitched Quinton’s mouth. “Sure thing, Doc.”

  During the following week, each evening after his rounds, Mike dropped by Quinton’s room for a short visit. As luck would have it, after nearly six weeks of dealing with major illnesses and crisis situations, suddenly his practice consisted of nothing more serious than routine checkups and a few normal childhood maladies such as head colds or cuts. All week, the only patients Mike had in the hospital were a tonsillectomy and a three-year-old scheduled for X rays to check out a chronic bladder problem. By five or so each evening he was finished and free to stop by Quinton’s room.

  During those visits, Mike learned a lot about the boy. Quinton liked baseball and football, card games, video and boar
d games, cars and girls, not necessarily in that order. That the boy and his sister were close came as no surprise to Mike. What did surprise him was learning that Quinton lived with Leah.

  In one conversation, the boy had casually mentioned that his parents traveled so much they spent more time away than at home. Apparently, Leah had always been the one to look after him.

  Mike thought it a bit strange, even sad. When you were a teenager, sometimes you thought your parents were a royal pain, but he couldn’t imagine not having them around when you were growing up. His dad had always been there for him, and, for the past sixteen years, so had Tess.

  Another thing he discovered about Quinton, which was a big plus in the kid’s favor, was that he thought Mike’s jokes were hilarious. Every evening he had two or three new ones for the boy.

  “Knock, knock.”

  A grin split Quinton’s face when he looked and saw Mike standing in the doorway a week after their first meeting. “Who’s there?”

  “Goose.”

  “Goose who?”

  “Goose who’s knocking at your door.”

  Quinton groaned and rolled his eyes.

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?” the boy asked again in a long-suffering voice that didn’t fool Mike for a minute.

  “Jewel.”

  “Jewel who?”

  “Jewel remember me when you see my face.” Smothering a giggle, Quinton shook his head. “Aw, Mike, how do you come up with those corny things?”

  “Wait, there’s more. Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam who?”

  “Sam person who knocked last time.”

  This time Quinton gave up and laughed. “Man, I’ll bet the little kids you treat think you’re a riot.”

  “Whaddaya mean, think? My kids know I’m funny. I’ll have you know I’ve been called the Jeff Foxworthy of the pediatrics floor.”

  “I’ll bet. What’s that you got under your arm?”