Intensive Caring

by Bobby Hutchinson

  “If I’ve got it, I’ll have to leave, Portia.”

  Voicing what he’d decided—that made it real for Nelson, and he could feel the yank in his guts that said he wouldn’t want to go on living without the woman next to him. The stakes had changed. His worst fear wasn’t getting sick; it was losing Portia.

  She was crouched on the bed, staring at him. “So you’ll walk out if the lab results are positive? You’ll leave me because of something that won’t happen for years? You’ll put me on hold and wait for some scientific test to determine how we spend the rest of our lives?”

  She was trembling. He reached out a hand to smooth her arm and she knocked it away.

  “You don’t get it, Nelson. This is my life, right here, right now. I told you that you don’t have the damn disease. It really pisses me off that you don’t trust me.”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t get it. I’m trying to protect you. What the hell’s wrong with you? I don’t intend to ever be your patient, Portia. I want to be your husband, your lover. When I know I have time, we’ll take the next step. Until then—”

  She was out of bed in a flash and pulling on her clothes. “Forget until then. Get out, Nelson. Now. I don’t feel like living in a vacuum for the next six or eight weeks or however long it takes. I’d rather be alone than on probation.”

  Dear Reader,

  The seed for Intensive Caring began with the old question “How would we live our lives if we knew we had only a short time left?” Wouldn’t our passion for life inevitably be intensified under such pressure? I believe the quality of joy in our lives is determined by how we spend our moments. I believe, as well, that there are rare individuals who can teach us the power of now, if only we have the sense to stop and listen.

  Forming new relationships and being pushed to expand personal boundaries is what every romance is about, and as I wrote this one, I was reminded that none of us ever knows how long we have, how many days or months or years are left in our future to make the most of those new opportunities. Living in each moment is a tremendous challenge, because it involves enormous trust. I know, because it’s a pledge I make each morning and all too often forget before noon. Those few times I’ve succeeded for an entire day have taught me that when we make a concerted effort to live in the now, we begin to experience life and love and relationships in a new way. And sometimes, when we’re able to let go of our own plans, we find the universe rewards us, leading us on paths that we’d never on our own dare to dream possible.

  I also want to illustrate that caring extends beyond the circle of a lover, or a parent or a friend. There is only one of us here; we are all brothers. Love has a power beyond our comprehension. All we have to learn is to give and receive it—unconditionally.

  Thank you so much for reading my books.

  With love,

  Bobby

  Intensive Caring

  Bobby Hutchinson

  This book is for my sons, Dan, Dave and Rob Jackart. My pride in them, my love for them, is intensive and unlimited.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Thank you, as always, to Patricia Gibson. Every writer needs a muse, and you’re mine, dear friend.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE SEPTEMBER HEAT was breaking records for Vancouver, but self-confessed adrenaline junkie Nelson Gregory didn’t even notice the sweat that soaked his body.

  He was garbed in a protective electric-blue jumpsuit and strapped into an open-topped Ferrari. The acrid smell of car exhaust filled his nostrils, and streams of perspiration trickled down his neck inside the full-face helmet he also had on. Around him, race cars revved their engines to an ear-splitting scream, but Nelson barely heard them.

  His gloved hands rested on the steering wheel, as the motor of his sleek and powerful Molson Indy race car thrummed its cadence matching that of the adrenaline pumping through his veins. His stomach churned and his jaw tensed as he squinted through his visor. He was waiting for the green light that in any instant would begin the race.

  He’d spent the past six years honing his skills and his body to qualify for this two-hour war between his car, fondly labeled the Phoenix, and those of the other competitors in the Vancouver Indy Lights Championship Race. Heading into this meet, Nelson stood atop the drivers’ standings, and he intended to win, despite his unfortunate position at the starting line.

  Beneath the deafening roar from the sleek, powerful cars around him, Nelson cursed his head mechanic, Mario Lambotti.

  The poor qualifying time Nelson had posted in the trials the day before meant that his start position was as bad as it could get—third to last on the starting grid. He blamed Mario for the ignominious placement.

  “I need more down force,” he’d insisted to Lambotti during a pit stop at the time trials the previous day. “The setup’s all wrong,” he’d said desperately. “Pay attention to the wings.”

  “We’re doing our best,” Lambotti had drawled. Nelson, though, had seen the sneer on his face. Lambotti wanted him to fail.

  “It’s you, Gregory. You’re not driving the course right,” the mechanic had accused.

  But the issue wasn’t driving, Nelson knew. It was Corinna, the sultry blonde Lambotti worshiped, who’d drunkenly declared her passion for Nelson at a party the night before the time trials. Nelson had done his best to downplay the incident, but Corinna hadn’t left him much room to maneuver. She’d wound herself around him like a python, trailing her lips along his jaw, pressing her lush breasts and agile pelvis against him, and over her shoulder, Nelson had seen the frozen expression on Lambotti’s face.

  He should have confronted Lambotti then and there, but he’d wanted to avoid a punching match with the hot-blooded Italian. Nelson had refused to believe that his head mechanic would let personal feelings interfere with the business of racing. He’d been wrong.

  Now Nelson tightened his fists on the wheel as he envisioned what he’d like to do to Lambotti’s handsome features for sabotaging him in the most important race he’d ever been in—and over a woman.

  Green.

  Thought evaporated. Nelson brought his foot down hard on the gas pedal. The powerful car leaped ahead, accelerating to almost two hundred miles an hour within the first few minutes.

  Nelson was at one with his machine, calculating his position, increasing speed, anticipating the steely ninety-degree right-hander that would come up in a moment. He concentrated on overtaking as many cars as he could before the turn.

  A tiny voice warned that he was driving over his head, that at this speed he had no room for even a minuscule error. He ignored it.

  As he powered his car into the tight turn, he calculated his distance from the retaining wall—and felt a thump as a car behind clipped his rear wheel.

  His Ferrari swerved. He careered toward the wall, fighting with everything he had in him to regain control, aware all the while that it was hopeless—he was losing the battle.

  In the final instant before he crashed, he knew that he was about to die, and even through the terror, he recognized that a weary part of him was grateful.

  It would put an end to the waiting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CHURCH WAS ALREADY crowded whe
n Dr. Portia Bailey stepped through the huge oak doors, out of the afternoon heat and into air-conditioned coolness.

  The organ was playing softly, and the silver coffin, blanketed with roses, rested at the front, just beneath the altar.

  Portia felt the knot in her chest pull tighter as a black-suited usher found her a seat in a crowded pew near the back. The smells of roses and incense filled her nostrils. The sorrow hanging over the congregation fell on her shoulders like a dark, heavy cloak, weighing her down, making it difficult to breathe.

  The service began.

  “Saying goodbye to a loved one is always painful,” the elderly pastor intoned in a sonorous voice. “Betty Hegard was a beautiful young woman, and that makes our farewell to her on this lovely autumn day even more painful, because we can’t help but think that Betty should have enjoyed many more sunny days in her life.”

  The words were like arrows shot straight into Portia’s heart. Betty had been her patient, but the girl had also considered Portia her friend.

  Betty’s untimely death had raised both personal and professional issues in Portia’s life. Just yesterday afternoon, the review board at St. Joseph’s Medical Center, where Portia was completing her residency, had looked into Betty’s death and concluded that Portia had made a serious error of judgment in treating the young woman.

  As an asthmatic, Betty had relied on highly addictive steroids to control her condition. Portia had suggested that Betty address some emotional components of the condition and try to cut down on medication. Instead of cutting down, Betty had stopped using the inhalers entirely. She died of a massive heart attack, a common side effect of stopping steroids too quickly.

  The hospital review board would take no disciplinary action, but it had severely reprimanded Portia for giving a patient the wrong advice.

  Choking back tears now, she sat through the service. When it was over, she joined the subdued mourners as they filed slowly out of the church into the brilliant sunlight.

  “You. Dr. Bailey. How dare you show your face at my daughter’s funeral?”

  The angry words came from behind Portia, startling her. She jerked around to face Betty’s mother. The short, heavy woman, her eyes swollen from crying, rushed over, her plump, florid face twisted into a grimace of what felt to Portia like absolute hatred.

  For one awful moment, Portia thought Mrs. Hegard was about to assault her, but she stopped a few inches away and shook her finger under Portia’s nose.

  “You killed my daughter. You have no right to come to her funeral,” Mrs. Hegard raged. She burst into hysterical tears. “Get her out of here,” she howled. “I never want to see her again.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “She’s the reason my Betty’s dead. Telling my darling girl not to take her medication… What kind of doctor does a thing like that?”

  Portia, shocked speechless by the attack, stood frozen for one long, horrified moment. Then, knowing every eye was on her, she turned with what dignity she could muster and walked down the crowded street toward the car park. Her legs felt like sponges. Her face was burning. Her hands shook violently as she tried to unlock her car. It wasn’t until she managed finally to crawl into the driver’s seat and slam the door that she realized she was murmuring over and over in a monotone voice that didn’t even sound like her, “I didn’t tell her to stop. I didn’t. I didn’t.”

  Near panic made her entire body tremble.

  She drew on will and a relaxation technique to control it—a pattern of breathing that she’d learned from a fellow intern years before—and at last she was able to insert the key into the ignition, start the motor, pay the car park attendant and drive to St. Joseph’s Medical Center.

  Portia pulled into the employees’ parking lot behind St. Joe’s and hurried through the labyrinthine passageways that led to the emergency room, praying that she’d be too busy for the next twelve hours to think about Mrs. Hegard’s hurtful accusations, or Betty’s untimely death.

  She was late for her shift, but Joanne Mathews had promised to cover for her. Joanne was her mentor, her closest friend. For an instant, Portia imagined throwing herself into the older woman’s arms and giving in to a flood of agonizing tears. But of course she wouldn’t. She couldn’t, not at work. Professional conduct forbade such behavior.

  She pushed through the doors to the ER and grabbed a set of green scrubs from a metal laundry cart before she headed into the women’s locker room. There she quickly took off the tailored gray dress, panty hose and heels she’d worn for the funeral. She donned the scrubs and a pair of comfortable flats, noting that her hands were still trembling a little.

  In the employees’ lounge, Olivia Jenkins, the cheerful new ER nurse, was boiling water in the microwave for a cup of tea to go with her tuna sandwich.

  “Hey, Doc Bailey, how’s it goin’?”

  Olivia’s smile was impossible to resist. It lit up her otherwise plain features and demanded a response.

  “Great,” Portia lied, forcing a smile in return. “What’s shaking out there?”

  “Same old crowd.” Olivia grinned. “Some of our weekend regulars have been in. Other than that it hasn’t been too busy yet, which makes me think it’s the calm before the hurricane. Doc Mathews is in three with a motor vehicle accident from the Indy race. One of the drivers smacked into a retaining wall. He was the only one injured. The Emergency Response Team brought him in about forty minutes ago.”

  Portia vaguely remembered having heard about the accident on the car radio as she’d driven to the hospital from the funeral, but she’d been too distracted to pay much attention.

  “Is he local or from out of town?” She knew the Indy had brought cars and drivers from all over the world to Vancouver, but beyond that, the race was a mystery.

  “Local guy. No immediate relatives, though. Three of his crew are in the waiting room. He didn’t want us to call anybody else. Like some tea? I can easily heat up another cupful.”

  “No, thanks,” Portia said. “I’ve gotta hustle. I’m late.” She hurried out, automatically gauging the activity in the ER.

  Just as Olivia had indicated, this afternoon there was a definite lull in the usual frantic pace. An intern was chatting with the triage nurse, and Portia greeted them as she made her way to the desk to check in.

  Only two of the examination cubicles were in use. No one was bellowing for attention, and the waiting area, too often overflowing with anxious relatives, was empty except for the three young men from the race. They were easy to identify—all were wearing brightly colored coveralls with the Indy logo.

  Portia made her way to trauma room three to let Joanne know she was back and to see if she could be of assistance with the MVA—motor vehicle accident—but a glance told her that here, too, things were under control. The medical team surrounding the bed were focused, but their intensity wasn’t extreme. Obviously the critical stage was over with.

  “Hi, Portia.” Joanne Mathews left the patient’s side and came over to the door. “How’d it go?” she asked, her voice pitched low, her green eyes showing her concern.

  She knew Portia had attended Betty’s funeral. Joanne had been wonderfully supportive during the crisis surrounding Betty’s death.

  “Not good. I’ll fill you in later.” Portia swallowed hard at the painful memory. “Thanks for covering for me. What’s the status here?”

  “Nelson Gregory, thirty-six, race car driver. Hit a wall. Jammed his feet against the floorboards. Fractured heels on both feet. Fractured right fibula. Dislocated hip. Extensive bruising to the chest and abdomen. No internal bleeding. Possible spinal damage—the initial X rays were nonconfirmatory. Because of the pain and the spasms he’s experiencing, we’ll do a bone scan in a day or two. What do you think?”

  The first thing Portia thought was that after Betty died she’d promised herself never again to use the special ability she had to diagnose a patient.

  But she couldn’t explain that to Joanne now. Her friend was asking her for a favor, and sh
e couldn’t refuse.

  She looked past Joanne at the strong torso of the man on the table. He was naked except for a sheet over his groin. He was obviously an athlete. Beneath the tubes and medical paraphernalia that surrounded him, he had a lean, well-muscled and well-toned body. His face and arms were deeply tanned; his thick, curly black hair was now wet with sweat. He wore a breathing mask, and a collar to protect his spine. He was conscious.

  The room was small, and Portia allowed herself to become viscerally aware of the pain and fear he was experiencing. She scanned him, noting the injuries that Joanne had mentioned. They showed up clearly as breaks in the swirl of colors surrounding him. Portia looked for the disruption in his aura that would tell her his spinal cord was damaged.

  It wasn’t there.

  “He has no serious injury to the spine that I can see,” she told Joanne in a definite tone. “He’s probably just got whiplash.”

  She’d spoken quietly, yet she intuitively knew the patient had heard her. Because of the cervical collar, he couldn’t move his head, but his blue eyes darted frantically, searching for her.

  Portia moved closer so she could meet his gaze. She smiled down at him. “Just try to relax now, Mr. Gregory. It’ll make your breathing easier. Your injuries are painful, but you’re going to come through this absolutely intact.” She grinned at him and winked. “Trust me.” She moved back to allow the trauma team to do their job.

  “No spinal injury—that’s a big relief.”

  Joanne didn’t ask how Portia knew. Neither did she question her certainty. They’d worked together for four years, and Joanne had witnessed the accuracy of Portia’s unique and unorthodox diagnostic methods innumerable times. Joanne trusted Portia’s conclusions even though she didn’t fully understand how Portia arrived at them. For that unquestioning trust, Portia was profoundly grateful. Particularly today. If ever she’d needed reassurance, it was now.