by Nicole Deese
My brain was in search of some sort of reply that didn’t leave me sounding like a complete moron. “That’s so . . .” Incredible? Amazing? Unreal?
“Insane,” he volunteered.
“Not at all what I was thinking.”
He leaned back and rested his weight against his palms and stretched out his legs. “It’s the truth . . . and part of the reason why I left it all behind.”
“What do you mean you left it all behind? You became a doctor.”
“Yes, but not the kind I thought I’d be. I was all about chasing the big fellowships and subspecialties, lured by prestige and salary and reputation . . .” A self-deprecating laugh and then, “Thankfully, God has a way of trumping our plans with his timing.”
I chose to ignore the last part of his statement. God’s timing wasn’t exactly my favorite subject matter. “So, what happened, what changed your course?”
“Rex.” One word, yet there was something profound in the way he spoke it. Like he was sharing the coordinates to a secret treasure. “He was a patient of mine during my third year of residency.” He paused, cleared his throat. “He didn’t just change my career track; he taught me how to live—how to partner my passions with my profession.”
The back of my throat tingled, but I didn’t dare interrupt. Whatever Patrick wanted to share, I wanted to hear.
“Rex Porter was ninety-two when he died of kidney failure—he’d gone blind and nearly deaf, but his mind was still razor sharp.” Patrick was looking off in the distance now, visualizing something I wished I could see, too. “He was a renowned photojournalist, had traveled everywhere, met thousands of people, and had a profound faith in God. And he kept this . . . this travel journal full of notes and pictures and randomness.” Patrick held his hands in the shape of a book. “Most of the pages were so beat up it was hard to turn them; a few had even been taped back together. Every week he asked me to flip to a new page—remind him of his adventures. And then we’d talk.”
I pressed my hand to my chest.
“So I did. I read a page and then the next week I’d read him another one. Stories of his adventures—the highlights, the low points, the absolutely insane risks he took to document a story. All of it was in there.” He paused and blinked me back into focus. “He gave me the journal a month before he passed, and by the end of that year, I registered with a reputable locum tenens agency and went on my first short-term assignment to New Zealand. I was hooked after that.”
“Locum tenens?”
“Yes, it literally means ‘placeholder.’ The agency specializes in contracting physicians for short-term projects worldwide. It’s allowed me complete autonomy over my schedule. Been with them for three years now. I choose which assignments to accept and which to pass. The flexibility has not only allowed me time to explore and travel, but also to partner with some amazing nonprofit organizations during natural disasters and epidemic outbreaks, too.”
“Plus, it gave you the ability to help your father out when he was needed back in Scotland.”
Despite Patrick’s impressive resume, I hadn’t detected a trace of arrogance in his voice or on his face. Instead I’d heard humility and gratitude. “Exactly.”
I did a rough calculation, adding up all the figures he’d thrown out over the course of our conversation. If my math was correct, then Patrick registered with the locum tenens agency at age twenty-seven, which would make him thirty. Only one year older than me. While I’d burrowed away in my small town, Patrick had traveled the world.
Without a doubt, he’d experienced more life than any person I knew.
“Wow.” I released a slow breath at the realization.
“Sometimes it takes seeing the world through someone else’s eyes to realize where you fit inside it, you know?”
Not at all. But I nodded anyway.
My mind wandered as I searched the trees beyond the pavilion—recalled the promise I’d made to my daughter to live without fear. How might my life be different if I could conquer the very things that held me back: the panic that kept me up at night, the worry that never let me go? I wondered how different my life would be if I approached it with the same zest and zeal that Patrick did.
“You have a very pensive-slash-panicked look on your face right now. Like I just threw down an organic chemistry quiz and gave you three minutes to complete it.”
I cleared my throat and rubbed my palms on my thighs. “Oh . . . sorry. Just thinking.”
His eyebrows rose in a silent would-you-like-to-share-your-thoughts-with-the-class? look.
I wouldn’t. “Um . . . it’s just that I admire that.”
“What?”
“Your attitude about life.” I studied a bluebird that swooped through the pavilion before returning to the skies beyond. “I wish bravery could be taught.”
Wait—did I just say that out loud?
Patrick shifted, his elbows planted firmly against his knees. “Who says it can’t be?”
My honesty trance was suddenly cured. “I didn’t actually mean that.”
“Sounded to me like you did.”
“Well . . .” I gave a stiff shrug. It wasn’t like I could blame the slip on my habit of blurting without thinking. He was smarter than that. I wasn’t a blurter, although I wasn’t usually much of a sharer either.
“What does living brave look like to you?” he asked.
“Probably something very different than what it looks like to you.”
He pointed at me. “There you go with the comparisons again.”
Something told me that even the most skilled diversion tactic couldn’t get me out of answering him. “I guess it would look like . . . trying new things, changing up my routine, stepping out of my comfort zone a bit more.” Keeping the promise I made to my daughter.
“Then let’s do it.”
“Let’s?” I repeated the word, certain he’d meant to say something very different than the contraction that meant he and me—as in he and I together.
“Sure. I happen to run the best Camp Courage around.”
I stared at him, unblinking.
“I’m kidding.”
My nerves uncoiled. “Oh.”
“But only about the camp part.” He hopped off the table and stepped toward me. “Here’s how I see it, Willa. Fear is learned the same way bravery is learned. Over time.”
My heartbeat stuttered against my rib cage. “Okay . . .”
“So if you want to be braver . . . then you have to take some chances. Learn by experience.”
“Okay?”
“So what if I could help you? Give you a few of the life tips Rex gave to me.”
Everything about him now seemed serious. There was no laughter in his voice or teasing in his eyes. So why did I keep waiting for him to pull the rug out from under me. Tell me this was nothing more than a prank arranged by my meddling brother. Only I knew it wasn’t. Weston hated my phobias even more than I did.
“Why would you do that?” I asked.
“Are you always so untrusting?”
Before I could fully register the impact of his candor, he lifted his palm apologetically. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me?”
“Yes.” This entire day was like some kind of backward reality show.
“Okay.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I mean, yes . . . I’m always this untrusting.”
He considered me then for several silent seconds. “What if I gave you a timeline? I leave for a job in the Pacific Islands in twelve weeks.”
His meaning went without further need of explanation. Somehow he’d figured me out. In order for me to accept his offer, I’d require a finish date, and he’d just given me one.
Twelve weeks. The span of a single season.
“And before you ask me what I’m hoping to get out of this,” he continued, “it’s simple. I get the satisfaction of passing on the wisdom of a legacy. A man who meant as much to me as my own father does. That’s more than worth it for
me.”
I bit the inside of my cheeks and then repeated—out loud—what he was suggesting. Just in case one of us was missing something. “You want to show me what you learned from Rex and his journal? Help me learn to live bravely?”
A single nod and another shuffle forward. “If you’re willing.”
Patrick stood smack-dab in the center of the chasm between our picnic tables.
My heartbeat quickened, a booming bass inside my ears. “But how will this even work? You’re at the clinic full-time and—”
“I’m resourceful.” Patrick’s lopsided grin made my stomach flip.
That he was.
I wrung my hands, the pad of my thumb pushing against the two healed puncture wounds on my palm, and weighed the risks.
He dipped his chin to catch my eye again. “What do you say, Willa?”
I slid my feet off the bench but didn’t leave the safety of the table. “I say okay.”
“I think you can do a lot better than ‘okay.’”
“Were you hoping for a blood oath?”
“Not quite,” he said with a laugh. “Just a commitment.”
I pictured my daughter’s face and replayed my empty vow for the thousandth time. “Mommy will be braver . . . I promise.”
It was time to keep my promise.
One deep breath, two quick strides, and three thunderous heartbeats later, I extended my hand.
“I’m committed.”
Chapter Ten
For some, second-guessing a decision might take the better part of a year. Others, a few weeks. For me, it only took a weekend.
To further amplify my apprehension, I hadn’t seen or heard from Patrick since our handshake two days ago.
Maybe he had forgotten about the whole thing. Or maybe he made deals with lots of pitiable females in picnic pavilions. Whatever the case, Patrick was a physician, not a psychologist.
Not a magician.
Scribbles about courage from some old travel journal could not eradicate my fear, just like they couldn’t eradicate the past.
I pulled open the glass door into the lobby of Parker Fitness with the plan to leave a message for Patrick as soon as I got through the Monday morning pile of pink sign-up sheets. Only there was more than a stack of paper sitting on my desk. There was a girl. A girl with short spiky blue hair, a black leather jacket, and a well-used pair of combat boots. My eyes scanned the exposed skin at her neck in search of a skull and crossbones. Shockingly, it wasn’t there.
“You Willa?” The girl smacked on a wad of pink gum.
“Yes, and you are . . . ?”
“Alex.” Her focus on me was brief. She was too busy transforming a mound of paper clips into a motorcycle. “Syd said you’d train me.”
Syd? I couldn’t imagine anyone referring to Sydney Parker by a nickname. Especially a new employee.
“She did?” She told me she was hiring some new staff members, but given how Sydney had expressed her dissatisfaction over the “college-age newbies” from her last hiring—and firing—I couldn’t quite grasp how Alex fit into Sydney’s high standard of professionalism. The girl didn’t look old enough to hold a full-time job, let alone work with the public.
I took a cautious step toward the staircase. “Well, maybe I’ll go double-check with Sydney on what exactly she’d like me to—”
“She’s not here.”
I stopped midstride. “What do you mean she’s not here?” Sydney was always here, before I clocked in and after I clocked out. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Sydney slept in her office.
“She dropped me off and then left. Told me you’d be here to help out soon enough.” She pointed to the second floor. “Along with the other gym rat employees.”
The other gym rat employees. As if I were one of them. Truth be told, I hadn’t worked out in a decade. Worse than that, I had no plans to start. “Okay, then. First, let’s get you a Parker Fitness T-shirt, and then I’ll give you a quick tour before the morning classes let out.”
She hopped off my desk and gave me a mini salute. “Lead on.”
Alex followed me into the locker room, her black boots beating against the concrete floor. Maybe Alex was hired off a phone interview? It was the only explanation I could muster.
“Will a small work okay?” I stood on my tiptoes, reaching toward the back of the storage closet.
“Large.”
I rocked back on my heels and glanced at her again. The only way this girl would fit into a size large was if she put it over her leather jacket, and even then she would need to stuff it. My fingers skimmed over the piles of shirts, hesitating on the smalls and grabbing a medium. “Here. Why don’t you try a medium. They run pretty big.”
“Fine.”
Fuchsia shirt in hand, I pivoted to face her when something she’d said earlier looped through my brain. “Wait—did you say Sydney dropped you off here?”
“Yep.” Alex swung her leg and rested her boot on one of the locker room benches. Several dirt clods crumbled to the cement floor. “She’s got a nice rig.”
What is happening here? Sydney wasn’t known for her philanthropy. She fired the majority of people she hired without thought to their needs or life circumstances. Every decision was calculated and motivated by business success.
I tried not to show the confusion churning inside me. Sure, this girl wore cargo pants and biker boots. Sure, she had a bleeding heart tattoo on her right forearm. Sure, she had Kool-Aid-blue hair. But none of that meant she was incompetent or that she wouldn’t be a loyal employee. Maybe Sydney had made a decision with her heart and not her—
Alex yanked the T-shirt from my hand, her mouth a grim line. “Let me put you out of your misery. She’s my half.”
Alex tugged the T-shirt over a black tank top.
I stared at her. “Your half?”
“Sister. Syd’s my uptight half sister and I’m stuck here in this uptight joint because our mom’s in jail.”
Not only was Sydney a no-show for the rest of the day, but the employee scheduled to work the desk during the evening shift called in sick.
After I’d spent an hour looking for a replacement, my only viable option—outside of leaving the front desk to Alex—was to ask someone to pick Savannah up from school. Thankfully, Weston’s work hours were almost identical to Savannah’s school hours.
I stood in the break room, waiting for his text to come through.
WESTON: No prob, I can pick Vannie up. U still helping with auction tonight?
ME: Thanks. Yes. Does that still work for you and Georgia? Pls call if anything comes up.
Savannah’s teacher had asked if I’d be willing to help out at the school’s biggest annual fund-raiser. I couldn’t possibly say no, although trusting Savannah to Weston’s care for the evening would prove interesting. At least I knew Georgia would make sure she ate more than cookies and ice cream for dinner.
WESTON: Stop worrying. She’ll be fine.
My fingers hovered over the text screen, itching to ask him for Patrick’s number. But even if he gave it to me, what would I say to him?
Before I could slide my phone back into my pocket, it vibrated again—this time with a text from one of the more responsible employees. Toby would be here at five to cover the desk, which was exactly when I needed to leave for the benefit. Thank goodness.
I reached for a bottle of water in the mini fridge. Though in truth, water wouldn’t offer me the kind of strength needed to get through the rest of the day with Alex. The girl had to be the least customer-service-oriented person on the planet. I’d spent the majority of the morning keeping her from insulting clients.
As I rounded the corner, I saw that the lobby had swelled with arrivals and departures. Even though I couldn’t have been away from the desk for longer than ten minutes, Alex was in another confrontation.
“You haven’t paid. That’s why your ID card isn’t working,” she said to Preston Wilkerson, a high school senior who came to the gym eve
ry day after school to lift weights.
“I’m on auto draft.” Preston said, staring at the bleeding heart tattoo on Alex’s right arm. “I paid.”
Alex slid his card away from the computer with a single finger. “Sorry. No pay, no pass.”
Preston’s cheeks were a blossom of red.
I quickened my steps. “Actually, we had a bit of a glitch in the system update last night. You can go on up, Preston. I’ll adjust your account manually.”
His eyes flicked from Alex back to me. “Okay. Thanks, Willa.”
Hiking his gym bag higher onto his shoulder, he walked away without another word.
Alex crossed her arms over her chest. “I hate jocks. They think they can have anything they want—whenever they want it.”
“Well, he’s a member of this gym,” I said, keeping my tone light. “It’s our job to solve member issues as they arise.”
“Fine.” She slumped back into the chair, and it bumped against the wall.
Volunteering at the auction tonight was starting to look better and better.
Two more hours to go.
“Oh, I forgot.” Alex used the heels of her boots to walk the chair closer to me, stopping just shy of my toes. “Your boyfriend called. He sounds hot.”
The quick twist of my neck released a loud popping sound. “What did you say?”
“Your boyfriend. He. Sounds. Hot.” She pushed a yellow phone memo toward me.
Scribbled on the piece of paper was a time and a place: 6:00. Lenox Elementary.
I held it up. “Who’s it from?”
“Figured you would know your boyfriend’s name. Didn’t think I needed to write it down for you”—she held out her arms as if to indicate the room—“unless that’s another rule I’m supposed to remember. This place has more rules than a military academy.”