Love, Michael: A second chance romance

by Gina A. Jones

  "Low census. You know the policy," she says, and yes and I was up on rotation to get it off.

  "Well, let me know if anyone calls off. I'll come in."

  "Are you sure, Jill?"

  "Yes. Monica's off and…I could use the distraction to keep from worrying about her."

  "How'd the wedding go? All went off without a hitch?" she asks.

  "Ahh…yes. Thanks for asking."

  "Well, have an extra day to recuperate. See ya tomorrow."

  "Yes, goodbye," I say and set the phone back down. Well, shit. I do not want to become all agoraphobic, locking myself inside all day.

  I walk back into the bathroom, remove my jammies and climb into the shower and ponder of what to do with myself. Monica's gone. I'm called off work…and Michael is somewhere in this town. Why?

  Now showered and wrapped in a towel, head, and body, I move to the closet and throw on a pair of leggings and tank. I also grab and pair of black boots and open loose sweater to throw on after hair and makeup. My cell rings again. "Now what?"

  Walking back to the nightstand, I see the hospital displayed once again.

  "This is Jill."

  "Well, you got your wish. Tammy is not feeling well today. You sure you want to cover her? It's your rotation to be called off."

  "Tammy? Did she say what's wrong?" Tammy was at the wedding. She seemed fine. Perhaps just a bug.

  "No. She sounded exhausted. We have three a.m. outpatients scheduled. After that, nothing in Ambulatory surgery. I can schedule you for half a day."

  "Yes, I will come in."

  "Thanks, Jill."

  Now back to the closet, I remove the leggings and tank and throw them into a bag with the boots and sweater and jump into blue scrubs. Since I will be only working half day, I will get my grocery shopping done after. And I hate being seen in scrubs in public. Might as well be in sweats. After I dry my hair, I throw on some makeup, take a deep breath and walk on the front door—ready to face my day.

  Pulling out of the drive, I grab my phone to call Tammy and see if she's all right. I press the home button and say Tammy's name. It rings through the speakers, and she answers, sounding weak and tired, just like my supervisor said.

  "Jill?"

  "Hi, Tammy. I'm going in to cover you. Are you okay?"

  "What? I don't want you to have to cover for me. They said Linda was up."

  "I asked to go in. It's not a problem. I prefer not to be home alone today. Are you sick?"

  "I guess. Just tired and old. I'll be in tomorrow," she says, but by the sound of her voice, I doubt it.

  "It's low census at the hospital, and I'm only going in for half-day. Can I bring you anything?"

  "No, it's fine. Ryan's staying home today."

  Ryan's staying home? She must really be sick. "It's not a problem. I'm going to the store after anyway."

  "I'll let you know later, okay?"

  "Ah…sure, okay. Get some rest, Tammy. I love you."

  "I love you too, Jill. Thanks." I end the call and pull into the parking garage, parking in my usual spot and head inside the hospital.

  Dr. Stine is standing right outside my station and looks up from his clipboard when he sees me. "Nurse, could you page Dr. Buck to cover my rounds this morning? I just got called to OB. Patient of mine has just been brought in." He looks at his watch. "Her contractions are one minute apart."

  "Yes, doctor," I say and pick up the phone to page Dr. Buck. Why he couldn't do it himself is beyond me. One thing they didn't teach in nursing school was how you become the doctors at-work wife.

  "Thank you, Jill." He hands me his clipboard with a list of his patients and starts to walk away and then stops.

  "Oh, how was the wedding?"

  "Good…beautiful." Unexpecting. Is he asking for a reason?

  "Sorry we couldn't make it. Please tell Monica we wish her the best," he says and walks to the elevator.

  "I will. Thank you, Dr. Stine." The elevator closes and I breathe out a sigh of relief. With all that had happened, I was not aware he and his wife didn't show. There's been no mention from those who were, my state of being. But like I said, I locked myself inside yesterday. Mom did call and ask if I heard from Monica. I told her yes. And that was because Michael told me she called. Why hasn't she called me?

  I page Dr. Buck and then head to Ambulatory Surgery on the fourth floor where two patients have already been brought in for post opt. And according to admissions, only two more are on the schedule. Which will put me out of here by 1:00 and give me time to stop by the grocery and put up something to make Tammy. Perhaps chicken soup or potato.

  "How're you feeling? I'm going to put this on and check your blood pressure. It will go off about every fifteen minutes," I say to my first patient who slowly nods and with half-closed eyes. "The doctor will be in later and read you your results. You feeling okay?" She nods again and rests her eyes. "Good. I'm going to put this call button in your hand. You press it if you become uncomfortable.” I say and smile down at her. She nods again as I check her vitals before tending to my next patient.

  Sixteen years this month I have been a registered nurse at Lakeland Health. The only hospital in St. Joe and, in that time, I had worked myself up from bedpan duty, sponge bath duty, until I transferred to Ambulatory Surgery. I have always wanted to become a nurse since my freshman year in high school and even that I must give credit to Michael. As much as he has fractured my thought of true love, I do owe him this.

  After setting up the next few patients on the monitors, I head back to the nurses' station and send Tammy a quick text.

  Feeling better? Stopping by Martin's when getting off. What can I bring for you? If she's sleeping, I hope my text doesn't wake her. But then I see read and wait for her response.

  No need. Ryan just left. Thanks for covering.

  Her text is short, and I can't help but feel something is wrong. Is she mad at me? Perhaps the way I disappeared at the wedding. She did help me plan everything and was my only support when I told her Michael was attending. Shit! I wish I could remember more.

  Dr. Buck is standing next to the nurses' station when I return. "Good morning, Jill. My wife enjoyed the wedding. She wants me to ask you for information about The Round Barn and their wedding details. Our son has just popped the question."

  "I'd be happy to send her the information. And congratulations on Barren's engagement."

  He looks up for the clipboard, not very enthused about the idea. "I feel they are rushing it. He's just completed his grad school. Hasn't even started his residency yet."

  Dr. Buck comes from a long line of doctors, dating back to his great-great grandfather and now Barren, his only son, has followed suit. "Well, I am sure Mrs. Buck is excited to finally have a girl in the family."

  "Yes, she is. And she will probably be running her off by overtaking the wedding plans. You know how she can be."

  "She's been a blessing for all the events here at the hospital," I say. Dr. Buck's wife runs many charities in the community and with the many benefits the hospital sponsors. But then again, men seem to take for granted all the work that goes on behind the scenes, making them appear essential and successful in their careers. I should know.

  "Yeah, you're right. Please let Dr. Stine know I've completed his morning rounds. And signed to release his patient in 213."

  "Yes, doctor."

  "And…e-mail my wife the information for The Round Barn," he says, placing his pen in the pocket of his lab coat and hands me the clipboard.

  I smile. "Yes, I will."

  "Have a good day, Jill.

  "You too, doctor."

  He walks away, and I recheck my phone, hoping Tammy has sent a message. When I see she hasn't, I send another text: Chicken or potato soup? I wait for her answer, but nothing appears. So, I slide the phone down into my scrub pocket and head back to Ambulatory Surgery.

  Due to a few late arrivals after surgery, I finally clock out at 1:30, grab my bag, and head to the restroom
to change into the clothes I packed. Now to the grocery store. I think potato.

  The sun shines heavenly through the row of trees, now full of new leaves as I drive down Lakeshore Drive. Still nothing from Monica, which only adds to my worry. But, she is on her honeymoon, and calling her mother is probably the last thing on her mind. But still.

  After parking my car and making my way into the grocery store, I grab a cart and pull out my list, adding the items for Tammy's potato soup. I also write soppin' bread for soup. Nothing like carbing it up with comfort food when sick.

  I push through the aisle, heading to produce first to select the best potatoes. I grab a few and struggle opening the damn plastic bag.

  "Excuse me. Do you have a great recipe for chicken cacciatore?" I freeze. Michael. He's behind me. I slowly turn around, and both potatoes fall out of my hand and drop to the floor. They roll right to his feet, and he picks them up, bringing them over and reaches for the bag I'm struggling with. He licks his finger, slides the bag open and drops both potatoes in. "You see, I used to know this girl," he hands me the bag, "and she used to make me the best chicken cacciatore. I haven't had it since." A long pause as we both stare into each other's eyes. "Hi, Jill."

  "Hi, Michael. Look it up on Pinterest. I'm sure they have plenty to choose from," I say and push my cart on down the aisle.

  "I don't want plenty to choose from. I want yours," I hear him say as I walk away. I ignore his comment and turn into another aisle. I'm shaking and now confused about what I have come for. My list. I look down and see I can check off potatoes. As I'm groping for a pen in my purse, he pulls his cart next to mine. "Could you help me? I don't want to get home and not have the right ingredients. Or better yet, how about we get the stuff together, go to your place, and you can show me how? I'll grab a bottle of red…"

  "What? Michael! You are not coming to my house to make chicken cacciatore."

  "Okay. Then come to my place, and I'll make you chicken cacciatore. But, either way, I need your recipe."

  "Michael, I'm not going to your place… And by the way, why are you staying here?" I lift my hand. "No, don't answer. I don't care. Now, if you excuse me, I'm making my best friend who is sick potato soup." I start to walk away and consider the items in his cart—green zucchini squash and chicken breast. "It's yellow squash. And use chicken thighs. They're much tender than breast," I say and walk on with my cart.

  "Thank you," he says. I ignore him and turn the corner.

  I focus on the rest of my list and dash to the U-scan, hoping I don't run into Michael again. So far, success. My groceries are bagged, and I'm out the door to my car. But once I'm there, no such luck. He's right behind me.

  "I made the exchange, but still need the recipe. Could you please just take a pic of it and send it to me? I left you my number." He stands there, looking helpless with two bags in his hand.

  "No, Michael, I won't do that. I don't want you to have my number." I'm surprised Monica hasn't given it to him. Probably the lecture we had after she gave Jerry, Chelsea's dad, my number. My phone rings from inside my purse, and when I pull it out, I see Monica's name. I can't get to it fast enough. "It's Monica," I say with excitement. "Hey, Baby. How are you?"

  "We're fine, Mom. Oh, Paris is amazing."

  Michael bends down and yells into my phone. "Hi, Monica."

  "Was that Dad? Are you two still together?"

  "What? No. He just ran into me at the store. I'm at the store. Leaving," I say to Michael and climb down into my car. I shut the door, and he looks at me through the window.

  "Put him on. I want to thank him again for the honeymoon."

  What? Err. I open the door. "Monica wants to talk to you." I motion the bags, and so I put her on speaker. "Go ahead. I have you on speaker. He's standing right here."

  "Hi, Dad. Paris is gorgeous. Jordan and I want to thank you again."

  "You're welcome. I'm so happy it makes you happy," he tells her.

  "So, you two hanging out?" she asks.

  "No…”

  "We're going to make your mom's famous chicken cacciatore tonight," Michael says while smiling at me.

  "NO. No, we're not," I say, giving Michael a stern look. "He was just asking for the recipe. "Tammy's sick, and I'll be making her soup tonight," I say, directing it toward Michael.

  "She's still sick?" Monica asks.

  "What do mean, still?"

  "Yeah, she left the wedding early. Said she wasn't feeling well. She couldn't find you and told me to tell you." She did? "Sorry, I forgot to tell you when you and Dad were lighting the lanterns." He did help me with the lanterns.

  "Oh, honey. It's not your fault. It was your big day. I should have been paying more attention." I raise my brows to Michael. "Well, I'll be seeing her tonight. I'll tell her you told me."

  "Okay. Love you, Mom." She hesitates. Is she going to tell Michael the same? "Tell Dad, bye." And that's a no. Michael presses a weak smile.

  "Bye, Baby. I love you." But by the time his words are out, the call ends. I don't think she heard him. I really don't know how to feel about this. This is Monica's emotional department, and I hope it wasn't just to get the trip to Paris. Is that why she had Michael come to the wedding? But, I can't think about that now. I need to check on Tammy.

  I get back into my car and watch Michael as he walks away to his car—a black Toyota 4Runner. He smiles and waves one last time after his groceries are inside and I give a little wave and then pull out of the lot.

  Once I'm home, I waste no time making the soup and find my best crock to pour into. I wrap the warm bread in foil and head back out the door. Tammy lives only blocks away, and so the soup will still be plenty warm.

  Ryan answers the door, and I hand him the basket with the food. "She's been sick since the wedding?"

  "Come in, Jill. She's still in bed."

  "Did she catch a bug at the wedding? Monica told me she left. I wish I would have known."

  "She's hasn't been feeling well lately." He places the basket on the counter.

  "Ryan?" I hear Tammy call from the bedroom. Ryan walks to the hall.

  "Yes, honey?"

  "Is that Jill?"

  "Yes…”

  "I'm here, Tammy. I brought you potato soup," I call down the hall.

  "Ryan, tell Jill to come in," she says, and her voice is weak.

  I look to Ryan, and he nods. "Thanks, Jill. She'll love this. I'll bring her some. Go ahead."

  I nod and walk to their bedroom. She's sitting up in bed, face pale with reddened eyes. She looks awful, but I don't want to tell her that. "Tammy, you look a bit under. How long have you've been sick? I'm sorry I missed you at the wedding." I shake my head. "Michael…”

  "Hey, how's that going? You two were getting along great. Please tell me it wasn't just for Monica's sake."

  She has no idea that I can't remember a damn thing. And despite her condition, only she will get a kick out of it. "Tammy, I don't remember anything after Michael's speech—second speech." She laughs, and it's the release I need after the last few days.

  "Oh, please tell me more. I could use some cheering up," she says and pushes herself up against the headboard. Not caring if she's contagious, I sit down next to her.

  "I woke up, and Michael was in my kitchen making pancakes. What the hell happened?"

  She laughs like it hurts and Ryan brings in a bowl of soup. "Here ya go, Babe," Ryan says as he sets a tray over her lap. Up to eating?"

  "It smells wonderful. Thank you, Jill." She takes a small bite and then says, "Go on. I need to hear the rest." I look up at Ryan. "Could we have a moment?" she says to him. He kisses her on the forehead and smiles before leaving the room.

  "Hey, you sure you're okay?"

  "Don't deflect. Spill it. Tell me about the great make-up sex."

  "There was none," I say. She eyes me suspiciously. "He swears, but I guess we did shower together." She stops with the spoon to her mouth and looks at me. "I puked all over him," I say before thinking. "So
rry." But she takes a bite anyway.

  "After three kids, nothing shocks me anymore, Oh, Jill. It's delicious."

  "Well, it should be. It's your recipe." Tammy was destined for culinary but somehow ended up going to nurses' school with me. I guess we're inseparable.

  "Hey, speaking up recipes, I ran into Michael at Martin's, and he wanted our chicken cacciatore recipe. He was determined to come over and make it." She widens her eyes with a spoonful of soup.

  "And," she says after swallowing.

  "No way."

  "No way you didn't give it out, or no way he's coming over?"

  "Both," I say. "I'm here, aren't I?"

  She smiles. "Yes, thank you."

  "So, how long you've been feeling like this?"

  She takes another bite of soup and smiles again at me. After taking a deep breath, she looks me in the eye. "I have Leukemia."

  Then

  I left the dance that night with my head held high and Michael on my arm. The minions watched with agape mouths. Tammy and I high fived each other as we walked out through the door. It was only 8:00 and I didn't have to be home until 10:00.

  "So, what you in for now, kid," Michael said as he helped me back into the Corvette. He could call me kid as much as he wanted. I didn't care, and somehow, I felt it was a special pet name reserved only for me.

  "I don't care. Anywhere but back in there or home," I said as Michael closed the door.

  Once he was in the car, he asked, "You hungry? We could go back to my place and call in a pizza."

  Hanging out with Michael at his place sounded like an excellent idea. But pizza didn't. "How about we stop at the grocery and pick something up to make?"

  "You're sure? I'm not much of a cook."

  "I don't doubt that," I said, feeling more comfortable around him.

  "If you don't mind. I buy, you cook," he said.

  "Great. You like chicken cacciatore?"

  "I've never had it."

  "Well, you're in for a real treat. Tammy and I have perfected our own recipe, and it's to die for."