He was over this! He was strong, fine, great. So why was he gasping like an asthmatic in a dust storm?
He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees.
He’d probably forgotten to eat again. That was a mistake. There was a bagel left in the cabin, he thought. In a bag on the counter. He’d eat that. That would help.
Right. A bagel. That’ll fix everything.
He half straightened, stumbling Quasimodo-style to the small playground adjacent to his unit. He grabbed at the lamppost that cast a soft light over the swings and teeter-totter, swallowed hard, then forced his ribs to expand and contract.
Garret was gone. It was no one’s fault. But that little boy six months ago, well. Aiden, of all people, should have known to check.
The lights from the windows started to dance in pairs, then triplets. He couldn’t get enough air.
Rough gasps tore raggedly from his throat, littering the serene night air.
In-one-two-three. Out-one-two-three.
Nope. The lights stopped dancing and coalesced into one small pinpoint, disappearing down a long tunnel, far away, like a subway train.
You’re catastrophizing again, called a little voice from way off on the subway train. Mountains, molehills. Tempests, teacups. Crazy eyes, yes, a result of adrenal overload caused by living in the worst-case scenario, of which he had endless templates.
It was entirely possible that he’d pull himself together, get a full night’s sleep, and walk into the office tomorrow morning bright and competent, prepared to become the new emergency physician in the smallest trauma center he’d ever seen. It would be perfect. Bug bites. Food poisoning. Cuts and scrapes.
Yeah. He could do that.
Except that he was going to die first. His heart was exploding. The roar of the ocean pulsated all around him, thump-thump-rushing like blood from an aortic dissection. Just because he hadn’t been having a cardiac event last month didn’t mean he wasn’t having one now.
He pushed his back against the lamppost and slid down until he plopped hard into the dirt. He was fine. He just couldn’t breathe, that’s all. No one died of panic. Of course not. That was silly.
They died of cardiac arrest. Which followed respiratory arrest. Which was happening to him.
Right. Goddamn. Now.
He pushed his head between his knees, hoping to hell that he’d get over this spell before someone came by and found him. He imagined that big friendly dog leaping on him, body-slamming him to the ground, knocking the dead air out and resetting his lungs.
He remembered the woman, Haylee, when she’d fallen into him, her warmth bleeding into his cold flesh, hearing the steady, normal rhythm of her heart, the weight of her slender body like a blanket on a cold night, or a brick on a sheaf of papers, keeping them from flying away in the wind.
Slowly, slowly, the tunnel shortened.
The steel band around his chest loosened and he gulped in desperate lungfuls of cool night air. He was drenched all over again with icy sweat, as if he really had been trapped by the tide, like Haylee, the pretty dog-walker had warned. His limbs quaked and he couldn’t have gotten to his feet for anything, but he could breathe again.
“You all right there, young man?”
Aiden lifted his head with a jerk. A figure stood in the lane beneath a large oak tree, her hair glowing white in the lamplight. Thin, knobby fingers gripped the slack leash attached to an equally small and elderly terrier.
“It’s just, you look a little frayed around the edges,” she added. “I recognize the signs, being a little frayed at times myself. Only you being young and strong, well. Seems a little out of place.”
He got to his feet, keeping his back to the post in case the dizziness returned. It was too late for anonymity anyway, if such a thing was even possible in a small town.
“I’m . . . fine, thank you,” he managed. “It’s been a . . . fraying . . . kind of day.”
“Ah, yes. Those happen, don’t they? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Her gentle smile eased the embarrassment that welled up in him at being caught. “You already have.” He glanced around the deserted play area. “It’s late. Would you like an escort home?”
She hesitated and he realized he’d overstepped. She was right to be cautious. He started to speak, but she interrupted him with a laugh, a crinkly, tinkling sound that danced over the night air. “My name is Elsie. My husband—Anton—and I are in cabin three. You’re the new doctor, I believe, yes? In cabin four?”
He held out his hand. “I see word’s gotten around. Aiden McCall. I’m very pleased to meet you, Elsie.”
Her small bones felt like twigs. The dog eyed him suspiciously and took a couple of steps sideways.
“Be nice,” Elsie said to the dog. “Her name’s Bette Davis. She’ll be fine once she gets to know you. I’ve got apple pie in the cabin. Would you care for a piece?”
A short stand of shrubs blocked his view of the cabins on either side, a factor that had played into his decision to rent here. He wanted privacy, not company. Still, her easy generosity drew him.
“I appreciate the offer, Elsie. But I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Young people, always so busy,” she said with a sigh. “We’ll be off, then. But the offer stands if you find yourself at loose ends another time. I love to bake and pies are my specialty. We’re here year-round and always enjoy meeting the summer people.”
He waved at her. His hands were steadier now, his vision clearer.
“See you, Bette Davis,” he called.
The dog glanced over her shoulder and gave a low woof.
Elsie waved again and disappeared around the corner.
Aiden leaned against the lamppost. Elsie and Anton, he thought. They sounded nice. He hoped they had a dozen pie-loving grandchildren.
He waited a minute or two to let his new friends get a head start, then followed the trail back to his cabin. What would he do if a dozen children suddenly showed up next door?
He’d have to find a new place.
No. He couldn’t keep running. He had to be okay. He was okay.
He could breathe.
Some days, that was the best you could get.
Chapter Two
“Sanctuary Ranch got me out of my own head and taught me I’m stronger than I thought. I learned—literally—to get back on the horse after falling off!”
—CityGirrl412
Aiden walked into Sunset Bay Memorial early the next morning with an extra shot of espresso in his latte, a large box of donuts and an unexpected eagerness to start his new job. He’d awakened rested, to his surprise, which gave him hope that getting out of Portland was what he needed, that when this locum position ended, he’d be ready to return to his old life, running on all cylinders.
He chose to wear a shirt and tie, instead of scrubs, to meet his staff, though he stopped in the doctors’ locker area to stow his keys and wallet. No office for him here, only shared desk space to write his records.
“Doctor McCall, good morning!” He looked up to see a slightly older man coming toward him, his hand outstretched, a welcoming smile on his face. “Will Spencer, chief of staff. Welcome aboard! I see you come bearing gifts. We all know who really runs the trauma room, don’t we?”
“Nurses rule all.” Aiden balanced his take-out mug on the pastry box and shook the man’s hand carefully. “Pleased to meet you. Call me Aiden. Or Mac. I answer to both.”
Will fell into step with him as they made their way to the emergency department. “I was away on vacation during the interview process, so this meeting is long overdue. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”
Aiden knew that wasn’t true. The critical incident stress prompting his leave of absence from the larger hospital had been disclosed to the hiring committee. He’d insisted on it in fact, the broad strokes, if not the fine details, considered it his moral duty. He’d been assured that in this small community hospital, chances of a triggering
event would be small, that he’d be fine, that the information would be kept on a need to know basis.
“How are you finding our little town so far?” Will asked. “Friendly?”
Aiden thought of the pretty dog-walker and his elderly neighbor. “Very. I think I’ll like it here.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll consider staying on. I have a feeling the position may be extended.”
Aiden understood that the doctor he was replacing had just had twins, so he wasn’t surprised to hear it. He knew how tough it was to juggle a trauma specialty with family life.
“I’m sure you’ll want to evaluate my work, first,” he said with a smile. “Good to meet you, Dr. Spencer. Will,” he amended, seeing the other man’s face. “Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it. I’ll check in with you later on today, make sure you don’t have any questions.”
They parted, and Aiden pushed open the doors to his new domain, hoping that Will was right. And that he’d bought the right donuts.
* * *
Nine hours passed before Aiden knew it. The staff he’d met had been mature and competent, showing him the ropes while accepting his authority. He’d stapled the scalp of an overly enthusiastic surfer with a concussion, prescribed antibiotics for a two-year-old with a bladder infection, reduced a dislocated elbow on an eight-year-old who’d taken a bad bounce off a trampoline and treated a hiker with a nasty case of poison oak.
He’d grab a bite to eat, finish his records for the night shift and call the first day done. A success.
His cell phone buzzed. He looked at the screen.
Incoming. MVA, ETA 10 minutes.
Or not. He slipped his phone into his pocket and headed for triage.
“What have we got?”
“Adult female, stable,” said the nurse communicating with the paramedics. “Two children, unknown status. Wait. Two-year-old, stable, five-year-old with possible head injury. They think she swerved to avoid an animal or something, lost control, hit the median.”
Aiden’s chest turned to ice. Highway 101 wound down the Oregon coast from the Columbia River to the California border and was a favorite with tourists, passing through the old growth forests of Oswald West State Park in the north, past Coos Bay and then Sunset Bay in the south, hugging the spectacular shoreline along the way.
It was popular for a reason. But spectacular scenery and winding roads were a bad combination, especially, he imagined, for a single driver with two small children in the backseat.
Two children. Car seat failure?
His lungs tightened in that too-familiar way. He blinked quickly, forcing images out of his head.
Around him, the team quickly assembled and prepared for action. They knew each other, had done this many times, were prepared. All he had to do was swoop in and they would be there to support him. All he had to do was stay on his game.
“Dr. Mac?” asked the nurse.
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
She held out a pair of scrubs. “You might want to change.”
He glanced down at his dress pants and tie. “Right. Thanks.”
A reprieve. He walked on almost steady legs to the washroom and quickly changed. He hung over the sink, staring into his eyes, his arms braced on the counter.
“Focus,” he commanded himself. “Breathe.”
The whoop-whoop of the ambulance sounded outside.
When he stepped out and saw the first gurney, its tiny passenger strapped, the c-collar nearly hiding the small head, he schooled his features not to react. The little boy’s chubby arms flailed as he cried. He was so small.
The older child fought the restraints, wailing, holding her small bloodied hands out in affronted disbelief.
“My babies!” the mother screamed. “What’s happening? Are they okay?”
Janice Abrams, Caucasian female, thirty-one years old. Jessica Abrams, daughter, five years old. Jeremy Abrams, son, two years old.
The words drifted over him, pertinent crash details, vital signs, first aid administered at the scene.
Aiden put his memories aside, into that cubby hole in his brain where they’d be locked away, for just as long as it would take for him to deal with this.
Paramedics fed pertinent bits of data into the room and he responded by rote, going through the motions he’d done a hundred times. A thousand times.
He heard his own voice barking questions and commands, instructing, directing and he marvelled that he could do all that, while being somewhere else entirely in his head, while part of him floated above all this, watching in unsurprised disappointment at the pathetic performance of the great Doctor Mac.
A volcano rumbled inside his chest. He tamped it down. This was supposed to be a quiet town hospital. They weren’t supposed to take critical traumas, they weren’t equipped or staffed. That was what closed the deal for him. Level three, max. That, he could handle.
But he didn’t have a choice. In the thick of things, you didn’t have the luxury of breaking down.
That came later.
It seemed to go on forever, moving from one gurney to the next, to the next, checking, assessing, ordering, dreading.
Then, suddenly, quiet. Calm. He backed away, his hands in the air, trembling, ready to leave, quit, disappear.
But no one seemed to notice. The room hummed with activity but people were smiling. Laughing.
“Whew,” said one of the paramedics, jostling him with his elbow. “That was intense for a bit, wasn’t it?”
Aiden couldn’t speak. His mouth felt like cotton, his throat like sandpaper.
The mother, he realized dimly, wasn’t screaming. She was dozing in a bed, the side rails raised, with her son on her lap and her daughter curled up beside her.
All pink and warm, bruised and bandaged and breathing.
“Those are the good ones, huh, Dr. Mac?”
He nodded numbly. He couldn’t think of a single person’s name, though he’d met them all.
“Good job, Dr. Mac.”
“Yeah.” He wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “Well done, team.”
Someone else began to speak to him, but Aiden pushed his way past. He staggered to the washroom, slammed through the door and braced his arms on the counter.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
“Pull it together,” he muttered.
He opened the cold water faucet and splashed his face liberally. When he opened his eyes, Will Spencer was standing behind him, waiting for the sink.
“Holy shit.” He winced immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Will smiled, rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands. “So I guessed. I heard you had a bit of excitement.”
Aiden rubbed paper towels over his face, then tossed them in the trash. “MVA with a couple of kids. Everyone’s going to be okay, but they get to me.”
Will nodded. “I understand completely. Kids change everything. They hit me harder once I had my own. You have kids?”
It was the question Aiden hated the most, of everything people might ask him. Did he have kids? If he said no, then what was Garret? He was still as real to Aiden as if he was breathing and laughing in the next room, just waiting for his daddy to be finished work, to pick him up and play with him.
But if he said yes, then more questions came. Boy or girl? How many? How old? All the commiseration of parenthood that he was no longer privy too. All the pseudo-complaints about not enough sleep, no time with the spouse, early morning soccer practice, figure skating costs, parent-teacher meetings, on and on and on.
He did and he did not have kids. So he said the thing he’d recently learned to say, something a helpful counselor had suggested, a partial-truth that allowed him to keep within the bounds of normal human interaction.
“I’d like to. How many have you got?”
It sounded so simple, so normal, he had to congratulate himself.
“One of each. Five and seven. It’s great, man. Best thing I ever d
id. I recommend it. But you’ve got to have the right wife, first. I’ve got a lot of friends who are divorced. Raising kids together is rough enough. Raising them separately is even rougher. You married?”
That was the other question he hated. But this one was easier. Finally. They’d lingered way too long, though to be fair, the fault was with him. Michelle had moved on far sooner than he had. He hated her for that.
“Divorced.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Married too young. We grew up.”
“It happens,” said Will. “A bunch of us get together to go golfing from time to time. You interested?”
“Doctors golfing,” he said, smiling. “Who’d have guessed?”
“It’s a cliché for a reason,” said Will. “Think about it. I’ll give you a call. It’s late. You should get some rest.”
“On my way home now. Thanks, Will.”
Aiden waited until the door closed behind Will before bracing himself once more against the counter.
Golfing. Heaven help him. But he needed a social life. Talking to himself wasn’t doing anyone any favors.
* * *
“How’s it going, Honch?”
Olivia Hansen, Head Honcho of Sanctuary Ranch—Honch to most—glanced up from where she was giving the dahlias on the south side of her ranch house a nice morning drink and nodded at the skinny almost-eighteen-year-old heading out to feed the horses.
“Good enough, kid, good enough.”
How was it that the ones who ended up at her place always looked like they needed double rations and a dose of dewormer?
And pants that fit, she added, watching him do that odd hitching walk that seemed to be the only thing keeping them from puddling at his size twelve feet. Why adolescent males were so devout in their belief that the world wanted to see their underwear was beyond her. As far as she was concerned, it was nothing more than a youthful version of plumber-butt.
“It’s the not-so-tighty-whities, I think,” said a voice at her elbow, reading her thoughts as usual. “They ruin the effect. Here. You look like you need it.”
Gayle handed her a steaming mug of coffee and brushed a kiss across her cheek.
Sunset Bay Sanctuary Page 3