Hearts Afire

by Marta Perry

  Terry wanted to turn around a half-dozen times during the drive to Jake’s condo and take him straight back to the E.R. If he were anyone else, she’d have continued to try and get him to see a doctor. But Jake was the doc, and whatever was going on, it was obviously familiar to him. Supposedly he knew how to handle it. Still, she wasn’t about to leave him alone until she was sure he’d be all right, whether he liked it or not.

  Not was most probably the answer to that. Well, she’d deal with it when the time came.

  The address he’d given her was in a condo development down near the river—town houses, for the most part, that had been sold to young families and a few single young professionals. She frowned, weaving her way through the older residential streets that surrounded it. Funny that she hadn’t even thought about where Jake lived. She only associated him with the hospital and the clinic.

  She glanced at him. He’d surprised her by managing to walk out of the hospital without hanging on to her, but how was she going to get him into the house? He leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed, his skin clammy and gray.

  “We’re almost there. What number did you say it was?”

  He roused himself to open his eyes. “It’s 1142. In the next block, the end unit on the right.”

  The buildings had brick facing on the lower level with white siding on the second floors. Jake’s door was a glossy burgundy, and rosebushes, still putting out a few blossoms, flanked a front porch just large enough for two wicker chairs. The geraniums in hanging pots surprised her—she wouldn’t have expected him to take an interest in plant care. But maybe the condos had a gardener to deal with such chores.

  She mentally measured the distance from curb to front door. “Is there a way to get closer? A back entrance?” She was used to hauling limp bodies, but moving Jake without help would be a chore.

  “No.” He sat up straighter. “I can manage. Just let me off here.”

  “Right. And watch you collapse on the sidewalk.”

  She slid out of the car, shaking her head. Was it just Jake? No, probably her brothers would be just as irritated at showing weakness in front of her.

  She reached the passenger door as he opened it. As she suspected, he had an unpleasant surprise when he tried to get out. It took a couple of uncomfortable, sweating moments before he was standing on the walk, leaning on her, both of them breathing hard.

  She took a firm grip on his arm, slung across her shoulder, and gripped his waist with her other arm. “Okay. Let’s just take it slow.”

  “Don’t have to talk to me as if I’m one of your patients,” he muttered.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She piloted him toward the door, his weight seeming to get heavier with each step. “But I am used to dealing with people who don’t know what’s good for them.”

  His only response to that was a grunt. He was probably trying as hard as she was just to stay upright.

  Finally they reached the porch. She gave a sigh of relief and propped him against one of the chairs. “Key?”

  He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a key ring. “I can do—” The keys slid through his fingers and bounced, jingling, on the brick porch.

  “Please,” she said. “You can’t even hold them, let alone get the key in the lock. If any of your neighbors are watching, they’re probably sure you’re drunk.”

  His mouth twitched, as if in the beginning of a smile. “‘Good people, we are not drunk, as you might suppose,’” he quoted.

  It startled her to hear Peter’s words on the day of Pentecost coming from Jake’s mouth. She wouldn’t have supposed he knew the Bible that well.

  That was certainly a sanctimonious thought. Sorry, Father.

  “Well, it’s not nine o’clock in the morning, either.” She swung the door open. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  She piloted him in, spotted a comfortable-looking black leather sofa, and steered him to it. He slid onto it and tilted his head back, breathing heavily. Worry edged along her nerves. Was she doing the right thing by not calling Harriet?

  “Tell me where your meds are, and I’ll get them,” she said abruptly, hating the feeling of being kept in the dark, the possibility of making a mistake because of his stubbornness.

  He shook his head slowly, rolling it back and forth against the leather. “I can manage. You can leave—”

  “No way. Look, Jake, I’ve only gone along with you this far because you’re a doctor and I hope you know what you’re doing. But either you let me give you the meds right now, or I’m calling Dr. Getz.”

  His glare was a feeble effort, and he must have realized that. He closed his eyes. “Upstairs medicine cabinet. Chloroquinine.”

  Chloroquinine. So that was it. Malaria. He’d obviously contracted it in Africa and was having a relapse.

  She frowned. “I don’t know much about malaria, but isn’t there a drug that prevents relapses?”

  He nodded. “But only if you’re fortunate enough to tolerate it. Are you going?”

  “Right.”

  She went quickly up the staircase, running her hand along the satiny finish of the railing. The stairway was lined with framed color photos of African scenes, obviously personal to Jake. She shot a quick glance across what she could see of the living area. No family pictures. His relationship, or lack of one, with his family wasn’t any of her business.

  The bathroom was black-and-white tile with an Art Deco feel. She glanced quickly through the shelves of the medicine cabinet. The chloroquinine was the only prescription med there. She grabbed it, filled the bathroom cup with water and hurried back down, mind busy with the implications of Jake’s illness.

  He didn’t want anyone to know, that much was clear. Did that mean he hadn’t told anyone from the hospital when they’d hired him?

  When she reached Jake, he’d slid down to a lying position on the sofa, head against the wide arm. She slipped her hand under his head to lift it, seeing the muscles of his neck work as he swallowed the pill.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “You can—”

  “If you tell me to leave again, I might hit you,” she warned.

  The ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. “I’m too weak to fight back.”

  “I’ll get a blanket and pillow for you.” She straightened, but as she did, he caught her hand. His felt hot and dry. “What is it? Do you want something else?”

  He shook his head slowly, as if even that took an effort. “Just thinking,” he murmured. “If you wanted something to use against me, you have it now.”

  “Why, for goodness’ sake? You’re sick. That’s not criminal. Unless you didn’t tell them when they hired you—” She hated to think that.

  “Not that.” His voice faded to a whisper. “Just failure. Failure.” He slid into sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  “Thanks, Seth. And tell Mom thanks, too.” Terry kept her voice low as she closed the door of Jake’s condo behind her brother.

  She probably didn’t need to be so careful. Jake had been asleep for three solid hours, and he didn’t look as if anything short of a thunderclap would disturb him.

  Her mother had sent Seth over to deliver a couple of quarts of homemade chicken soup—her remedy for everything from the sniffles to a broken heart. She hadn’t told Mom what was wrong with Jake, but surely chicken soup couldn’t hurt.

  She paused on her way to the kitchen to put her hand on Jake’s forehead. She didn’t need a thermometer to tell her he was still burning with fever. So how long did she take responsibility for him without calling in another doctor?

  She could call Harriet. They were friends—surely she could ask for advice, couldn’t she?

  But she knew the answer to that. Jake didn’t want Harriet to know. He’d made that very clear.

  Please, Father, guide me. I’m not sure what to do, and I don’t want to make a mistake.

  That seemed to be her theme song for the past few years. I don’t want to make a mistake.

  Trying
to push away the sensation of helplessness, she took the soup to the kitchen. After a moment’s hesitation, she rummaged through the cabinets until she found a saucepan and dumped a quart of chicken soup into it. Maybe by the time it had heated, Jake would be stirring.

  She put the soup on low and went back to the living room, drawn to check on him again, even though it seemed unlikely that anything would have changed in the past three minutes. She settled into the overstuffed leather chair opposite the couch, studying Jake’s face.

  Pale, with the faintest dark stubble beginning to show. The sharp lines of his features seemed less aggressive in sleep, his mouth softer. His head turned a little, as if he searched for a cooler spot on the pillow.

  But even as she thought that, a shiver went through him. She got up quickly, grabbing the extra blanket she’d found in the linen closet. Chills and fever. She’d spent a few minutes on Jake’s computer, trying to become an instant expert on malaria. He had the fever, now he was going to battle the chills.

  She tucked the blanket around him. “It’s okay, Jake. I know you’re cold.”

  His eyes struggled to open, so dark the blue was almost midnight. He frowned at her, as if trying to identify who she was and why she was here.

  “Terry. What—” The words were interrupted by a spasm of chills that set his teeth chattering.

  “It’s okay,” she said again. “You took your pills about two hours ago, and you’ve been asleep. Is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable?”

  A shudder shook him. “Another blanket.”

  “Right.” She ran up the stairs, pulled the comforter off his bed, and hurried back down again. Lord, please let me be doing the right thing.

  She tossed the comforter over him, tucking it around his body. He nodded, as if to thank her.

  “My mother sent over some chicken soup. I have it warm on the stove. Do you think you could eat some?”

  Weak as he was, he managed a glare. “You told her.”

  “Just that you’re sick, not what the problem is. She always figures chicken soup couldn’t hurt. How about it?”

  He nodded. “Worth a try.” The words were interrupted by another round of teeth-rattling chills.

  It hurt to watch him. She hurried out to the kitchen and ladled soup into a mug. It might be easier for him to sip it than to try and use a spoon, and he probably wouldn’t let her feed him. Everyone said doctors were the worst patients.

  She knelt next to him and held the mug to his lips. “Just try a sip,” she coaxed.

  He managed to get a few mouthfuls down before the next chill hit. Was it wishful thinking, or were the chills a little less violent?

  “Better now,” he murmured. His eyes closed, his lashes dark against his pallor.

  “That’s quite a souvenir you brought back from Africa.” She set the mug on the lamp table, close at hand. “Does this happen often?”

  A frown set three sharp vertical lines between his brows. “I thought I’d had the last episode.” His eyes snapped open. “Dr. Getz knows about it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  There wasn’t much she could say in answer to that, since she had been wondering. “But you don’t want anyone else to know.”

  “I don’t want to give the rumor factory any fresh ammunition. My position at the hospital is precarious enough already.” His mouth set stubbornly.

  At least he wasn’t shaking any longer. She offered him the mug. He took it and downed about half of it before slumping back against the pillows again, exhausted.

  “You know your business best, I guess. But I think most people would find your work in Africa impressive, especially when it came at such a price.”

  He focused on her, frowning. “You mean the malaria?”

  “Well, that, too. But I was thinking about giving up your residency, the plans you’d made for your future—”

  His mouth twisted. “You and Getz, you’re the same. Attributing noble motives to me. Believe me, it wasn’t all that noble. I went to the mission field because no one else wanted me.”

  She could only stare at him. “But your residency—”

  “I was allowed to resign, allowed to cover it up with talk of health problems.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  His head moved restlessly again. “The truth was that after Meredith’s death I couldn’t cope. I started second-guessing myself. I was no good to anyone. If I hadn’t resigned, they’d have dropped me from the program.” He bit the words off as if they tasted vile.

  “I’m sorry.” Jake always seemed so sure of himself. She’d have expected him to ignore everyone else’s opinion, but maybe his own sense of guilt had whispered that they were right. “If you didn’t want to go to the mission, surely there were other options. Your father must have so many connections.”

  His jaw clenched. “Connections? Yes, he has those. But he wouldn’t use them. He wouldn’t even recommend me when people he knew called him, thinking they’d give me a chance because I was his son.”

  “I don’t understand. Surely he wanted to help you.” Her parents would sacrifice anything to help one of their own.

  “I’d failed. That reflected on him.” He said the words evenly, but she could hear the pain he suppressed. “I didn’t have what it took, letting myself get emotionally involved, showing weakness. He cut me off, as if he’d never had a son.”

  She tried to absorb it, to understand it, but she couldn’t. She could never understand someone who’d behave that way to his own child.

  “I’m sorry.” Her hand closed over his, feeling the tension that gripped him. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You want to make it better?” A faint thread of mockery traced the words. “No one can make this better. All I can do is make it on my own. That’s why I went to Somalia. Because they’d take me, and because I knew I’d be so busy there that I wouldn’t have time to think.”

  “You did good work there. No matter why you went, you can’t lose sight of the good you did.”

  He nodded slowly, meeting her gaze, his very serious. “In the midst of all that pain and turmoil, I met people who carried their own center of peace with them. It was a life-changing experience to work with them. For the first time, I took my focus off myself and turned my life over to God.”

  “I’m glad,” she said simply, her throat tight with unshed tears.

  His head moved restlessly on the pillow. “I thought I was doing what God wanted, but then the malaria hit, and they sent me home. Is that what God had planned for me, Terry? If you have an answer, give it to me, because I don’t understand.”

  “If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t struggle every day with my own doubts and fears. But I know one thing—God has the answers for you. You have to stop telling yourself you failed. Malaria is an illness, not a personal weakness.”

  He shook his head. His eyes closed, as if he’d talked himself into exhaustion. She stayed where she was, kneeling next to him, holding his hand, as he drifted into sleep.

  He needs so much to do good work, Father. Please, let him see that he’s punishing himself unnecessarily. Let him find his path.

  Because if he didn’t—she didn’t want to think about what might become of Jake if he lost this position. So she’d keep his secret, and she’d do her best to help him.

  And if her own heart got bruised in the process? Well, she’d just have to deal with that as best she could.

  Jake struggled awake. Why was he on the sofa? He shoved away the blankets that muffled him, and memory came flooding back. He put his hand to his head, feeling the perspiration that streaked his hair.

  Another relapse, just when he’d thought he was past all that. He gritted his teeth and pushed to an upright position. He was as weak as a newborn kitten, but at least the fever was gone. By morning, he’d be able to go back to work as if nothing had happened.

  China clinked in the kitchen, reminding him that he had bigger problems than going back to work in the
morning. Terry. He hadn’t dreamed it. Terry had brought him home, had stayed with him. He had a hazy memory of her strong, capable hands tucking blankets around him.

  He’d depended on her. Worse, he’d talked to her, spilling out things he’d never told a living soul. He’d trusted her with his future.

  Terry was trustworthy. The thought had a feel of bedrock truth about it. Still, how reliable was his judgment? He’d certainly made a string of mistakes when it came to dealing with the emotional side of his life.

  He heard her light step, and Terry came quickly through the doorway to the kitchen. She checked a moment at the sight of him sitting up and then came toward him.

  “You may live after all.” Her palm was cool against his forehead. “The fever’s gone.”

  “That seems to be the pattern.” He tried to keep his tone light. “Headache, fever, chills and eventually I sleep it off.”

  She eyed him critically. “But you still look as if a light breeze would knock you over. Could you manage some soup and toast?”

  “You don’t need to nurse me, Terry. I’m over the worst of it.” And he didn’t want to depend on her any longer. The longer she stayed, the greater the risk he’d do or say something he’d regret.

  Her smile flashed, lighting her face. “I’m a paramedic, remember? You just get emergency care from me.”

  “No TLC?” Keep it light. They were colleagues, nothing more.

  “No, but my mother would never forgive me if I left without feeding you again. That’s her answer to life’s problems—lots of love and a good meal.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good recipe to me.” He leaned back, knowing if he tried to get up he’d fall on his face. “Okay, soup and toast, but only if you have some, too.” He glanced toward the window. Dark outside, and Terry had turned on the lamps. “You must have missed your supper.”

  “No problem.” She turned back to the kitchen. “You get used to eating at odd times when you work shifts.”