The Doctor Delivers

by Janice Macdonald

  Catherine dragged her eyes away from him, forced herself to concentrate on what needed to be done. Heat was the first priority, she decided as she stamped her feet to restore circulation. Both children stood huddled and shivering, Peter’s face buried deep in his parka. With relief, she noted the wood and kindling left from a previous visit still stacked beside a huge wood-burning stove, the cabin’s sole source of heat.

  “Tell you what, Peter.” She started to take off then changed her mind. “While I call someone about the van, why don’t you see if you can get a fire started?”

  He shrugged, but moved over to the stove and began crumpling newspaper.

  She watched him for a moment and tried not to worry. He’d snap out of it, she told herself as she dragged a phone book from a shelf in the kitchen. Maybe what she needed to do was assign him more responsibility. Build up his confidence. Make him feel manly. Manly, but not arrogantly male like his father. Her head started to throb as she thumbed through the Yellow Pages to garages. Nothing about being a parent was easy.

  Ten minutes later, the smell of smoke drew her back into the living room. Through billowing black clouds, she peered at Peter still squatting in front of the stove. Julie, at his side, looked up as Catherine approached and shivered dramatically.

  “Peter used a whole box of matches, Mommy, and it’s still not lit. Brrr, I’m freezing to death.”

  “Shut up, Julie.” Peter poked at the paper. “The wood’s wet. We need some fire lighter.”

  Catherine sneezed and surveyed the ashy gray newspapers in the grate, felt the sting of acrid smoke in her nose and eyes. Her teeth chattering in the frigid cabin, she wrapped her arms around herself and considered bundling the kids up and finding the nearest motel. Then she remembered the immobilized van. Not one of the garages she’d called had been open, so they were stuck until morning, by which time they could all freeze to death. Eyes smarting, she looked at Peter still valiantly balling up newspapers. Torn between the need for warmth and fear of wounding his pride, she knelt on the floor beside him.

  “Sweetie, it isn’t good for you to be breathing this stuff. Let me help, okay?” She picked up a couple of sticks of kindling. “I’m not sure I could do any better, but I’d be glad to give it a try.”

  “I can do it.” He ignored the wood she held out, struck another match, touched it to the newspaper.

  A brief blaze warmed her face as the newspaper caught fire, then it faded and dissolved into gray ash. Black clouds billowed all around them. She sneezed again. “Pete, I know you’re trying to help, but this is going to make you wheeze.” As she tugged on his arm to pull him away from the smoke, she heard the front door open and slam. A sudden blast of even colder air filled the room. Peter’s arm stiffened in her grasp, and Julie’s eyes widened.

  Still on her knees, her heart thudding, Catherine reached for a piece of wood. The weapon clutched tight in her right fist, she looked through the smoky haze to see a tall angular figure dressed in jeans, boots and a heavy parka.

  “You must be Cinderella.” Martin took a step toward her, his face solemn. “Could you tell me where I might find Catherine Prentice?”

  She rubbed her eyes, felt the grit of ash, and sat back on her heels. Fear gave way to a surge of more complex emotions that made her heart pound and robbed her of words. As though she were watching the scene from a distance, she saw Julie dart across the room and hurtle into Martin, heard her squeals of excitement as he, pretending that Julie had knocked him off balance, swooped her up into his arms.

  “We’ve been trying to unstick the van.” Julie grinned at him. “But it’s still stuck, and Peter can’t make the fire go, he started coughing when the smoke got in his face and now we’re all really, really cold.”

  “Shut up, Julie.” Peter shot his sister a dark look. “The wood was wet.”

  Martin set Julie down, and she scampered back to the stove. Blood beating in her ears, Catherine sat rooted, one arm around her daughter, the other around her son.

  Shoulders slightly hunched, his expression uncertain now, Martin stood in the middle of the room. Unshaven, his face flushed from the cold, he wore a heavy navy parka, opened to reveal a red flannel shirt. Crystals of melted snow clung to his hair, his sleeves, the legs of his faded jeans. Catherine’s hands ached to brush them away. An electric jolt swept through her. If she made one move toward him, everything would change. He would put his arms around her and all her resolve would fade, and if he asked her to go to Boston or the moon, she would.

  Her heart leaped at the thought even as her brain commanded her to stay put. Moments passed. Martin’s eyes dark, almost navy, didn’t move from her face. The silence between them lengthened, broken only by the sound of Peter crumpling newspaper.

  “I saw your van down the hill,” he finally said. “Couldn’t get it out, eh?”

  “Peter and I both tried.” Catherine glanced down at her son. “But I drove it in there pretty good. None of the garages in town are open.”

  “I’ll go and take a look at it,” he said in the neutral voice of a stranger. “Living in Boston, I got quite a bit of practice at dealing with that sort of thing.” He moved past her and over to the stove, where he squatted beside Peter. “What’s going on here, son?” One hand ruffled the boy’s hair. “The wood’s a bit damp, is it?”

  “I guess,” Peter replied, his voice sullen.

  Martin peered into the ashy mess. “A long, long time ago, I was a Boy Scout. Maybe between the two of us, we can get a fire going. What d’you think?”

  “Fine, I don’t care.” Peter jumped up and started across the room, but Catherine shot out her hand and caught him as he tried to pass. With a cry, he squirmed out of her grasp and ran up the wooden ladder to the loft. “I’m not his son,” he called, his voice defiant. “I’ve already got a dad and I wish I was with him instead of here.”

  IGNORING HER IMMEDIATE impulse to rush after Peter, Catherine glanced over at Martin. In the dim light of the cabin, his face was shadowed. Fatigue showed in his eyes, the set of his shoulders. Tears burned in her throat. It was as though something life-affirming was ebbing out of him. What clutched at her heart was the knowledge that she had the power to stanch the flow.

  “Martin, I’m sorry.” She focused her eyes on the stitching around the neck of the black T-shirt he wore under the flannel shirt. “About what Peter said, I mean. He’s a little touchy about someone taking Gary’s place, I guess, and—”

  “Right. Well…” He looked at her for a moment and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’ll get this lit for you and then take a look at your van.”

  Ten minutes later, the fire blazing, she watched him trudge down the snow-covered driveway. A solitary figure surrounded by empty whiteness. Her eyes filled and she started for the door to call out to him. Behind her, she heard Peter’s asthmatic cough. For a moment, she stood paralyzed. Pulled in two directions. Then Peter coughed again and she made her choice.

  THERE WAS NO REASON to stay, Martin kept telling himself as he stood in the kitchen watching Catherine put dinner dishes away. He had completed his good deeds. Lit the fire, freed the van with the help of a couple of passing motorists and driven it back up to the cabin. The kids had gone to bed. Julie had planted a kiss on his cheek, but Peter maintained a sullen silence.

  What did it matter anyway? He had no reason to be here.

  Still he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He’d come because he needed to know whether Catherine really meant what she’d said at Mulligan’s. On the way up, he had convinced himself that she hadn’t. In his mind, she’d flung her arms around him, tearfully admitting that she’d been wrong, that she wanted to go to Boston with him.

  Reality was another story. From the moment he’d walked in, he felt like an intruder. Now Catherine was peppering him with questions about Western, about the drive up, about the snow. About anything except what was happening between them. Her tone was that of a distant acquaintance. Worse, he found himself responding in kind,
unable to break through either her reserve or his own barriers. Catherine looked over at him and he realized she’d asked a question.

  “Sorry?”

  “What happens with Holly’s surgery once your rotation’s over?” She put a carton of milk in the refrigerator. “Who will be the attending physician?”

  “John Nillson.” The thought of the portly physician he’d tangled with a few days earlier made his spirits drop further. One of Grossman’s cronies, Nillson had made it pretty clear he agreed with the neurosurgeon on the prospect of surgery for Holly. “Once I’m gone, there’ll be nothing standing in his way.”

  “So I guess Holly’s infection was just a temporary reprieve, huh?”

  “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Is that how it works with the rotations?” She wiped her palms down the sides of her jeans. “Nillson might not agree with you, but he doesn’t get involved until he’s the attending?”

  “There’s a sort of unwritten protocol that we step out of each other’s way when it’s not our month. It’s about the only way we can all work together.” Why the hell were they talking about this?

  She looked up, caught him watching her and their eyes locked for a moment. Unresolved tension filled the air between them. It was as if they’d entered a silent pact to avoid the one thing he knew they were both thinking.

  “Well…” He grabbed his parka and started for the door. Catherine followed him and they walked in silence to where he’d parked the Fiat. A huge pine tree hid the house from view. Unable to hold back any longer, he turned to her, caught her arm and pushed her roughly against the trunk.

  “Dammit, Catherine.” He stared into her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You know why.” Her teeth were chattering. “I’ve told you.”

  “Tell me again.” He moved closer until he felt her body against his. “I can’t remember. You don’t give a damn about us, is that it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Tell me.” He caught her shoulders, pinned her against the trunk and kissed her until her mouth opened under his. Kissed her throat, her neck, leaned hard against her. She murmured his name and shuddered against him. He looked up at her. “Tell me why it won’t work between us, I forget what you said.”

  “Martin, please.” She tore free from his grasp, caught his head in her hands and kissed him, her tongue in his mouth, body pressed tight to his. “God, I love you,” she breathed, her voice almost a sob.

  “Wait.” His mouth still on hers, he maneuvered them until his back pressed against the tree. Her body trembled against his. “Say that again.”

  “I love you.” Shaking now, she buried her face in his collar. “Don’t make a big deal about it, okay? I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “Catherine.” He pulled away from her, took his parka off, slipped it around her shoulders. In the dim light from the porch, he could see the tears running down her face. “What’s all this about?”

  “I’m sorry.” She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand under her nose. “I need a tissue.”

  “Here.” He pulled the rag he’d used on the van from the pocket of his jacket. “Watch for the oil.”

  “I quit my job yesterday.” She blew her nose, gave him a wan grin. “So I’m a little emotional.”

  For a moment, her words didn’t register. Then they did and his spirits soared. She had decided to go with him. From somewhere down in the valley, he heard a car’s engine. Catherine stared at him, her eyes huge in the dark night.

  “You quit? So you mean—”

  “No, it’s not what you’re thinking.” She’d evidently read his expression. “Derek was angry about all that’s happened with the Hodges case and…” She hesitated. “Well, he gave me the choice of continuing my relationship with you,” she said, looking away, “or keeping my job. So I quit.”

  He stared at her, openmouthed. “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.” She met his eyes. “Pretty amazing, huh? I’m having trouble believing it myself.”

  “When did this happen?” he asked, struck by a suspicion. “Before I told you about Boston?”

  “A few hours earlier.” Tears glittered as she shook her head. “It’s so damn ironic. Telling Derek had to be the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I felt like I was walking this high wire and suddenly you were holding out a safety net. You have no idea how hard it was to say no to you.”

  “But you did.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “Unemployment being preferable to marriage, I suppose.”

  “Thanks.” Her tone matched his. “That’s just about the most helpful comment you could have made.”

  “I’m sorry.” He took her in his arms again, his thoughts in turmoil. “Why the hell couldn’t you have just told me before you did it? You’ve got children to support. For you to just quit your job because of me, I don’t know, it seems—”

  “It seems what, Martin?” She pulled away to look at him. “Go ahead and say it. Gary already has. Irresponsible? Is that what you think?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m just concerned. I don’t want you and the children to pay the price for my… I know how important this job is to you. Why didn’t you just talk to me first? We could have worked something else out.”

  “Because it was my decision.” She stabbed at her chest. “Mine. If I’d told you we had to end things because of my job, you would have resigned, wouldn’t you?” Her eyes glittered in the darkness. “Solved the problem for me? Tried to save me?”

  “So what? It’s not as though I have some great love for Western. If it would have helped you out, what harm would it have done for me to quit? I did anyway.”

  “We’ve been through this,” she said quietly. A frown creased her forehead. With her finger, she traced a pattern on his chest. “I don’t want someone else solving all my problems. I don’t want to be rescued. I have to know that I can make it by myself.” She looked up at him. “And I can.”

  He looked at her, lost for words. “What I don’t understand,” he finally said, “is why you feel you have to shut me out in order to prove yourself. Doesn’t it occur to you that I could be there to encourage you? To cheer you on?”

  “But it wouldn’t happen that way. You’d want to rescue me.” She put her hands on his shoulders, as though to soften the words. “Just like when you agreed to do the press conference because Derek threatened to take away my job. It would happen over and over. I wouldn’t be able to fall because you wouldn’t let me.”

  He said nothing. She was right, he knew that. He could make promises, but they would be empty. A scene ran through his mind. One that he’d never discussed although it had haunted his dreams for years. He saw himself walking into the chemist shop to see Sharon. Sun slanted through the windows, fell across her face as she looked up and saw him. Then he heard the click of the trigger behind him, saw the smile fade from Sharon’s face. In an instant, he had knocked the pistol from the gunman’s hand, jumped across the counter, swept Sharon up in his arms and carried her out of harm’s way. Boldly and heroically he had saved her life. And then he would wake up to the mockery of reality.

  Sure, he could promise Catherine that he wouldn’t step in to rescue her, but the truth was, he wanted to do for this woman what he had been unable to do for his wife.

  She pressed her chin into his shoulder and he put his arms around her and stroked her hair, but even as he held her, he felt the old grief rise. His need to save was as strong as Catherine’s own need to prove herself. For the first time since the conversation in Mulligan’s, it occurred to him that perhaps she had been right in urging him to go to Boston.

  “Well, then…” He pulled away to look at her face. “I suppose that’s it. Have a happy Christmas, Catherine.” She nodded, tears in her eyes. There seemed to be nothing else to say, so he climbed into the Fiat and drove down the mountain.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING Catherine sat in her office drinkin
g coffee and feeling miserable enough to indulge in a cinnamon bun from the cafeteria. She hadn’t been scheduled to work, but around eight in the morning Derek had called to ask her to cover this year’s reunion of all the kids born in the NICU. The event was scheduled for that afternoon. Derek had a raging fever, he said, and couldn’t be around small babies. Considering that he’d essentially forced her resignation, she’d been tempted to tell him to go to hell, but decided it might be unwise if she needed references.

  Besides, as Gary was now calling to remind her—for at least the third time—he was picking up the kids from her mother’s to spend Christmas Day and the rest of that week with him and Nadia. Since Christmas kind of lost its magic without the kids around, she figured she might just as well be at work.

  “Four days,” Gary said again. “You got any problems with that?”

  As if it would make any difference anyway. Her fingers tightened around the receiver. “Please make sure Peter uses his inhaler, okay? And it might help if you kept the dog out of the house. You are aware he’s allergic to it, right?”

  Gary mumbled something about her attitude, but she cut him off by carefully replacing the receiver. Then she ate a jelly bean from the jar on her desk, chewed it well, and shoved a handful in her mouth. Okay, this had to stop. She couldn’t afford the luxury of self-pity. For the next two weeks, at least, she had a job to keep her busy. Beyond that, things were more uncertain.

  There were no suitable jobs in the Sunday classifieds, a fact on which she didn’t care to dwell. It had occurred to her that since Martin was leaving Western, perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary for her to quit, but the thought made her uneasy. If she stayed, it would be because, even without realizing it, he had made it possible for her to stay.

  Even as she’d watched Martin’s taillights disappear down the hill, she’d imagined herself getting into the van to go after him. Why the hell was she so determined to prove she could make it alone, anyway?

  Restless, she got up, paced around her small office, taking in the homey touches—pictures of the children, trailing plants, knickknacks—all intended to make her feel as though she belonged. But it was an illusion. Derek could take it all from her, just as Gary had. All of it was so damn transitory. Jobs, possessions. Relationships.