Intensive Caring

by Bobby Hutchinson

  “As many reasons as there are for them getting together in the first place. You ever been close to getting married, Portia? With someone besides that cop who canceled your speeding tickets, that is.” His eyes twinkled.

  She groaned. “No secrets with Juliet around.” She paused a moment and then admitted, “There was one man I came close to marrying. We were both in med school at the time. It didn’t work out.”

  “It’s selfish of me, but I’m glad. Married to a doctor, you’d be out at some high-society fund-raiser tonight instead of here with a poor crip who can’t even reach into that cupboard up there and get down a bottle of wine.”

  “I’m such a saint I’ll get the wine down if you say please and tell me which bottle you want.”

  At his direction she found the wineglasses. She sat down beside him on the sofa and he filled them.

  “To an exceptional day,” he said, toasting her. He’d used a remote to turn on music, a soft and relaxing classical selection. “Now, what shall we eat? I’m starving. Those burgers were a long time ago.” He opened a drawer on the table beside the couch and handed her an enormous selection of take-out menus.

  She fanned them out beside her and laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a bachelor who’d never learned to cook.”

  “And to think I ever doubted your psychic powers. Your choice, madam.”

  She studied the menus—there were at least fourteen of them. They decided on Greek—lamb kebobs and salads and roasted vegetables, then phyllo pastry for dessert.

  Nelson called the order in on his cell phone, and then they sipped wine and sat in companionable silence for a time.

  Portia’s mind was centered on Huntington’s. She deliberately scanned him, searching his aura for signs that might indicate the disease was present, if only latently. There was nothing.

  “Why are you looking at me that way? Zit on my nose, something stuck in my teeth?” He gave her a quizzical smile.

  “I’m trying to discern some sign that you have Huntington’s,” she replied. “There’s absolutely nothing that I can detect.”

  His smile faded and she could see his vulnerability in his expression. “Would there be? If it’s something I’m going to develop five or ten years from now, would you be able to tell?”

  She frowned. “I’m not certain, but I think so. It would show up in your energy field. All that I can tell you is that there’s absolutely no sign of it now.”

  “Thanks, Doc. God, talking to you helps.” He reached across and gently touched her shoulder, and then, in an obvious effort to lighten the atmosphere, said, “Ever think of taking up psychiatry? A box of tissues, a couch like this one and you’d be in business.”

  Portia shook her head. “I’d never have the patience. That’s why I love the ER. I can see the problem, treat it and not have to listen to someone’s excuses for not doing what I said to do.”

  “Aah, a dominatrix. I’ve read about women like you, but I’ve never had the courage to really get into the S-and-M thing.”

  “Now’s your chance.” She shot him a tough look. “Wait till you see my leather jumpsuit and my whips.”

  They were still laughing when the buzzer sounded, announcing their food had arrived.

  While they were eating, Nelson asked about the patient with ALS. Even not knowing Cedric’s name, he’d remembered him.

  “He’s out of hospital,” Portia said. “We arranged for home palliative care for him.” She described Gordon Caldwell, the extraordinary nurse who was looking after for Cedric. “He’s a huge man, used to be a logger. He nearly cut his leg off with a power saw, and while he was recuperating, he decided he wanted to be a nurse. He was the oldest in his class, and one of only three men, but he persevered. Now he’s working in palliative care, and he’s wonderful at his job. Quiet, thoughtful and just very kind and understanding. My patient really likes him, and Gordon does everything he can to help.”

  “How long can this guy manage on the street?”

  That was on Portia’s mind a lot these days. “Not too much longer, I’m afraid. He’ll need a wheelchair soon, and from what Gordon tells me, there’s no way my patient can go on living where he is once that happens.”

  Nelson nodded, his expression somber. “Poor bugger,” he said softly.

  Portia knew now why Cedric’s plight had affected Nelson so deeply. Because ALS and Huntington’s were both incurable neurological diseases, Nelson naturally identified with Cedric. “Social services will supply the wheelchair, and when the time comes, we’ll have to somehow convince him that the Palliative Care Unit at the hospital is the only alternative.”

  Nelson didn’t comment.

  A short time later, when she suggested it was time for her to leave, he ordered her a cab, and only then did he take her in his arms and kiss her. In seconds, the kiss got out of control, and she wasn’t certain whether she was relieved or sorry when the cabbie announced his arrival.

  Reluctantly, Portia pulled away. Nelson was a complex, challenging man, and the simmering sexuality about him incited a heated response in her. She’d badly wanted to follow her body’s urgings. His hands were cupping her breasts, and she yearned for them to touch her everywhere.

  As she was going out the door, he said quietly, “You will go out with me again, Portia?”

  Her breath was still uneven from his embrace. “Yes. I will.”

  “Promise?”

  She looked into his eyes and saw a hint of uncertainty that touched her deeply. His vulnerability somehow pierced the barriers she’d erected around her own heart.

  “I promise,” she said softly, and meant it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HE CALLED HER AT WORK the following Wednesday.

  She was busy with a six-month-old baby who’d choked on a banana and she couldn’t take the call, but she promised to return it. When the baby was breathing normally, she ordered an X ray to see if any pieces of banana were blocking the lungs. None was, and she was able to release the child to his relieved parents.

  The staff lounge was deserted, so she flopped on the sofa and dialed the number Jimmy had copied down.

  “Gregory here.” Nelson’s voice was clipped and businesslike.

  “Bailey here,” she responded in the same official tone.

  “Portia.” She could hear his relief and pleasure, and she grinned.

  “Thought I wouldn’t call back, huh?”

  “Something like that. Being turned down so many times before does make a guy a little insecure.”

  “I promised, didn’t I? You’re gonna have to learn to trust me.”

  “Ah, a woman of her word. How about coming grocery shopping with me when you’re done there today?”

  “Grocery shopping?” Portia giggled. “You really know how to sweep a gal off her feet.” She shook her head. “You do think of the most unusual dates, Mr. Gregory.”

  “I work at it. So how about it? What time are you finished?”

  “At four, but I have a date.”

  “I see.” His tone was much cooler. “Well, I guess that’s that, then.”

  “It is, unless you want to come along.”

  There was a long pause. “On your date? Don’t you think he’d mind?”

  Portia was smiling to herself. She enjoyed teasing him. “Oh, no, I’m pretty sure he’d be fine with it. He’s an easygoing guy.”

  She’d promised Cedric she’d meet him in the hospital cafeteria for tea; he had an appointment with the neurologist at three, and she wanted to make certain Cedric kept it. She also wanted to see him away from an examining room. He was on her mind almost as much as Juliet these days.

  “I must be losing my marbles.” Nelson sighed. “Guys get shot for less than this. Where, and what time?”

  “Hospital cafeteria, four-thirty.” That would give her time to have a private chat with Cedric first.

  Portia was waiting when Cedric arrived. It was distressing to see how quickly the disease was advancing; he
used a walker now, and from the unsteadiness of his gait, Portia knew he’d need a wheelchair before long. She helped him get seated under the guise of giving him a welcoming hug.

  Cedric had a verse for her, as usual: “‘None ever was so fair as I thought you,’” he quoted, his once-powerful voice faint and flattened now. “‘Not a word could I bear spoken against you.’”

  The recitation brought tears to her eyes, and she hid them by going to the counter to get each of them a can of soda; she understood that Cedric would have difficulty lifting a cup. A can with a straw would be easier for him to deal with.

  Back at the table, she asked, “How’d it go with the neurologist, my friend?”

  “He’s a nice guy, but there’s not much point in going to see him again. He can’t do anything to stop this, so it’s a waste of time.”

  That was true, but it made Portia feel helpless. “What do you need, Cedric? What can we do to help you?”

  He looked at her, and his sea-green eyes revealed the strain he was doing his best to conceal. “Nothing, thanks, Doc. I’ve got everything I need. Gordon comes by almost every day with food and stuff and I’ve got lots of friends. They take good care of me.” His wide mouth tilted in a sardonic grin. “When they’re sober, that is. But you don’t need to worry about me, Doc. I’m okay.”

  Portia had talked to Gordon, and she knew that so far, at least, it was the truth. Cedric’s friends, street people, were doing their clumsy best to help when and how they could. But they had a struggle just taking care of themselves, so the help was sporadic. Also, the nights and days were getting colder, and Cedric’s ability to care for his most rudimentary needs was diminishing daily. He had to be somewhere warm, where there was a bathroom.

  “Did Gordon take you on a tour of the Palliative Care Unit?” She’d arranged it earlier that day.

  “Yeah, we went before my appointment.”

  “Do you think maybe you could stand it there?”

  He shrugged and hesitated before he shook his head. “It’s way too neat and clean, Doc. I need to be in my own place. I can’t relax when I’m not in my own place.”

  Gordon had described Cedric’s place to Portia. It was a wooden packing crate lined in newspaper, furnished with an old army cot, a lawn chair, a small camp stove, a gas lantern and a few articles of clothing hanging on nails. And boxes and boxes of books, Cedric’s only treasures.

  “How’s the fair Juliet?” Cedric obviously didn’t want to talk about his own situation any longer.

  “She’s fine.” As long as she hasn’t gotten pregnant between Sunday and now. “She has a boyfriend. They’re talking about getting married. Stuart’s mentally challenged, as well. He works in the same bakery as Juliet.”

  “Is that so.” Cedric smiled. “Good for them. Tell her from me I wish them well. Never got married myself, but I hear it’s very companionable.”

  “I’ll pass your good wishes on.” Portia could tell he enjoyed having her confide in him about her personal life, and she was about to mention that a friend would be joining them when she caught sight of Nelson’s wheelchair coming through the cafeteria door.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Cedric. I asked a friend to join us. He’s the guy in the wheelchair by the door.”

  Cedric turned and looked, and at that moment, Portia realized she’d made a huge mistake. Nelson was a handsome man, and in spite of the wheelchair, he gave the impression of being fit and healthy, everything Cedric wasn’t. She realized something else, too—the depth of Cedric’s feelings for her. His eyes let show that he was in love with her. And he was jealous.

  NELSON ROLLED UP to the table and Portia introduced the two men. If Nelson was shocked by Cedric’s appearance, he hid it well. He held his hand out and shook Cedric’s.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said as if he meant it.

  Cedric didn’t reply, and the awkward silence lengthened.

  Nelson said, “I’m gonna grab a coffee. Can I get you two more soda? Maybe tea or something?”

  Both Portia and Cedric declined. Nelson made his way to the beverage dispensary and filled a cup with coffee.

  Portia reached across and took Cedric’s hand in hers. It was no use pretending nothing was wrong. “Cedric, I’m so sorry. I thought you two might enjoy meeting each other. It was stupid of me.”

  Cedric drew a ragged breath, and Portia could see him struggling with his feelings. “It’s me who’s stupid, Doc Bailey,” he said with a failed attempt at a smile. “I guess I like to pretend I’m your only admirer.”

  She hadn’t time to respond before Nelson came back. He was balancing a cup of coffee with one hand and propelling his chair with the other, and the chair bumped against the table leg. Hot coffee sloshed on his hand and he jerked, spilling the rest on Cedric’s arm.

  Cedric yelped and Nelson swore.

  “Damn, I’m sorry.” Nelson grabbed a handful of napkins. “God, that’s hot. I’m so sorry.”

  Portia rushed over to the ice machine and came back with two soup bowls filled with crushed ice. “Put this on it,” she instructed.

  Nelson, obviously embarrassed, did as she said, and so did Cedric. “Lucky I didn’t get you, too, Portia,” he growled. “I can’t believe how clumsy I am in this bloody chair. There ought be a warning sign on my forehead that says Approach At Your Peril.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, Portia thought. But not for the reasons Nelson meant.

  The burns were minor, and once she’d finished examining them, Portia could see Cedric had relaxed a little. The accident had somehow dissolved his antagonism. “Maybe you oughta write down some ground rules for me about wheelchairs,” he said to Nelson. “I’m gonna be using one soon. It would help to know what I’m up against.”

  Nelson nodded. “There should be an instruction book for the bloody things. I think the worst is being invisible. For some reason a lot of people don’t acknowledge you when you’re in a wheelchair. You’re too close to the ground. They not only ignore you they trip over you.”

  “So what happened to you?” Cedric gestured at the casts, and Nelson explained about the race car accident.

  “What caused it?” Cedric wanted to know.

  Nelson hesitated, and then he said, “It was my fault. I didn’t think so at first, but now I do. I was reckless.”

  Cedric was fascinated. “I’ve never met a race car driver. I always wondered how going that fast would feel.”

  “It’s a real high, but racing can suck you in and then spit you out long before you’re ready to quit,” Nelson said. “You’re at war not only with your car, but also with the forces of nature. Plus it’s tough to remain a nice guy and still do what it takes to win, because you’ve got to be pushy and self-promoting just to stay in the game.”

  “Sounds like life,” Cedric remarked. “How long you been in it?”

  Nelson gave a quick rundown on his career as a race car driver, and Portia listened, fascinated. She’d never really asked Nelson about racing. She hadn’t known that he owned the car he’d driven, or that any car could cost as much as it had.

  Cedric was hanging on his every word. “Think you’ll get back into it?”

  Portia hadn’t asked that, either. She’d assumed no one in his right mind would climb back into a race car after sustaining the injuries and coming as close to death as Nelson had.

  “I’m not sure. Right now all I can think about is being able to walk again and drive an ordinary car.”

  “I’d give a lot to be able to drive a car again myself. I haven’t for years, and I guess I waited too long,” Cedric said matter-of-factly.

  Nelson gestured at the walker. “At least you’re on your feet.”

  “Not for long. I’ve got ALS.”

  Portia held her breath. Would Cedric feel uncomfortable discussing his condition with Nelson? Would Nelson reveal that she’d breached patient confidence and told him about Cedric, even though she hadn’t mentioned names?

  Cedric gave Nelson a quick and text
book-accurate description of the disease.

  Nelson held his gaze steady on Cedric and nodded when he was done, just as if Portia had never said a word. “My father had something similar,” Nelson said quietly. “Neurological disease is one hell of a thing.”

  Cedric nodded, and Portia was aware that an invisible bond formed between the two men when Nelson mentioned his father.

  “Here’s Gordon. He’s gonna give me a lift home,” Cedric said as the tall, husky nurse came toward them. Cedric introduced Nelson and Gordon, adding that Nelson had driven in the Indy. Cedric was obviously enjoying himself, and Gordon was suitably impressed.

  The men talked for several moments about some technicalities of motors that Portia didn’t begin to understand, and then Nelson said, “If either of you ever wants a ride in my car, let me know. It’s been repaired, and although I can’t take you for a spin myself at the moment, one of my pit crew would be happy to.” He jotted down his phone number on a napkin and handed it to Cedric, who looked happier and more excited than Portia had seen him look since his diagnosis.

  When they were gone, Nelson slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes for a long moment.

  “You okay?” Portia reached across and touched his scalded hand. “Maybe I should get you something for that.”

  He opened his eyes and she could tell by the way he glanced at his hand that he’d totally forgotten about the burn.

  “You’re full of surprises, Portia.” He didn’t sound critical, however.

  “You guessed, of course, that Cedric is the patient I told you about. He’s also my dear friend,” she said.

  “I can see why. He’s not at all what I imagined a street person to be. How long has he got?”

  Portia sighed. “Nobody knows that for sure except God. I’d say not long at all. His disease is progressing at a rapid rate.”

  Nelson nodded. “And he still lives on the street?”

  “Yeah. He has some kind of shelter, under the west end of the Georgia Street Viaduct. Gordon says there’re steam pipes that provide a little heat.”