Out of the Shadows

by Loree Lough

  “Aw, go ahead and try,” she coaxed, grinning.

  He gave her a “you asked for it” look, then said, “They’re overzealous, for starters.” Brows knitted, he added, “And I can’t help but wonder about their motives. I mean, why would they spend their free time here, of all places? Do they do it so they can go home and brag to friends and family about their altruistic deeds? Do they come because when compared to the patients’ lives, their own seem better? What do they get out of it?”

  She sat quietly for a few seconds, taking it all in. “For someone who didn’t think he could explain himself, you did a pretty good job!”

  Chuckling, Wade shrugged. “Sorry if I didn’t say what you wanted to hear.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re sorry at all.” She hesitated, then blurted, “But you have a right to your opinion—” she grinned “—even if it’s one hundred percent wrong.”

  His brows rose again.

  “You heard me right. Even the almighty doctors among us can be wrong.”

  She stacked their plates and silverware on the blue plastic tray, then leaned forward. “I’ll have you know that volunteers are almost as necessary to patient care as the equipment and the meds and the personnel around here. I’ve seen children go from vulnerable, physically, to being on the mend, just because a volunteer took the time to make them laugh or smile.

  “I’ve seen kids who, one minute don’t seem to care if they live or die, start looking forward to getting well and going home the next. And it wasn’t medicine that made the difference—it was a volunteer.”

  She punctuated her speech by jabbing her fingertip at the tabletop.

  For a moment, Wade only looked at her. “And I’ve seen them come in here,” he began, “with head colds and stomach viruses, infecting my patients. I’ve seen them get people who oughta be resting quietly all riled up, sending their blood pressure skyrocketing and their pulse racing.”

  Patrice sat back, crossed her arms and said quietly, “I wonder how you’d feel if I maligned your profession the way you’ve just maligned mine?”

  He winced. “If that’s how I sounded, then I apologize.” Shaking his head, Wade fiddled with a corner of his napkin. “I’ll admit, I had a lot of negative opinions about volunteers before…before I met you.” He met her eyes to add, “But I saw what you did for Emily Kirkpatrick. A guy doesn’t need much more convincing than that.”

  Patrice clucked her tongue. “Shame on you.”

  “What?”

  “Girl gets up a good head of steam, and you fizzle it with a sincere apology,” she said, grinning.

  Wade chuckled. “Sorry.”

  She checked her watch. “Well, guess it’s true what they say.”

  “What do they say?”

  “That time flies when you’re having fun?”

  He laughed out loud at that. “I’d call that speech of yours a lot of things, but ‘fun’ wouldn’t be one of them!”

  Patrice got to her feet and reached into the booth to gather her purse and her puppet. “I’ll make it up to you tonight at supper.”

  He stood beside her. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs. I started the sauce before I left for work this morning. Molly promised to stir it every couple of hours.”

  Sliding an arm around her waist, he led her from the cafeteria. It felt good, felt right being this close to him, and Patrice found herself second-guessing her decision to end it with Wade. Later, she’d pray on it, find out if the Almighty agreed she’d been too hasty.

  “Homemade spaghetti sauce, eh?” he asked, licking his lips. “Where have you been all my life, Patrice McKenzie?”

  Right here, she thought, smiling happily, I’ve been right here….

  He sat back in his chair, too stunned to do anything but stare at the test results on his desk. When his buddy in the lab called to deliver the news, Wade insisted he run the tests again, Stat, because surely there had been an error.

  Moments ago, his friend in the lab had hand-delivered the file, had spent the past ten minutes explaining how his staff put everything else on hold to give Gus’s tests priority one…three times in a row. “The only other possibility,” he’d said, “is that your patient’s blood work got mixed up with somebody else’s.”

  Impossible, since Wade had taken Gus’s blood and labeled those vials himself.

  He glanced at the clock on his desk and realized that, in an hour and a half, he was supposed to have dinner with Gus and Patrice. Suddenly, homemade spaghetti sauce didn’t hold quite the appeal it had earlier in the day.

  Adam knocked on his open office door. “I’m through for the day, so I have time to go over that—” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Good grief, Wade,” he said, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, “you look awful.”

  “Thanks,” Wade said, shoving Gus’s file closer to Adam. “Take a gander at that, and you’ll know why….”

  He sat back, fingers steepled under his chin, watching his friend and colleague flip through the paperwork. The more he read, the deeper the frown on Adam’s forehead grew. After several moments, he looked up. “You’ve gotta be kidding. Chagas’ disease?”

  Nodding, Wade leaned on the edge of his desk. “They ran the tests to Sunday and back for me, so there’s no mistake.”

  “Wish I could be more help, pal, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about this one.”

  “I spent a couple hours in the hospital library, after the first results came back, just in case.” Wade pointed to the stack of computer readouts topping the stack of papers in his In box. “Only question left to answer is how Gus got exposed.”

  “You want me to take over?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’re mighty sweet on the Monkey Lady. Might make things harder still if—”

  “Don’t call her that, okay?”

  Adam tucked in one corner of his mouth. “Sorry, pal. You know I didn’t mean anything by—”

  He waved the apology away. “I know, I know. It’s just…” It’s just I’m in love with the girl, he told himself, and I don’t have a clue how I’m gonna break this to her.

  Chagas’ disease could be deadly for a healthy man. For a guy in Gus’s condition—

  “What’s the next logical step?” Adam asked.

  Sighing, Wade ran both hands through his hair. “Find out how he came into contact with the parasite in the first place, I guess. Maybe that’ll give me a clue what to do next.”

  Adam tapped Gus’s file. “Says in here it’s progressed to cardiomyopathy.” He shook his head. “Not much you can do but monitor him, now.”

  Wade nodded sadly.

  Rising, Adam dropped the file onto the desktop. “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “I know.” He met his friend’s eyes. “Thanks.”

  The phone rang, startling them both.

  “You headed home?” Adam asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Wade reached for the receiver. “Tell Kasey I said ‘hi.”’

  “Will do. And Wade?”

  The bell sounded again. “What?”

  “Kasey and I will say a prayer for you, so you’ll know what to say and how to say it.”

  God, Wade thought. Fat lot of good He’d be. Why didn’t the Good Lord intervene before this happened? But Adam was a devout Christian; questioning the man’s faith certainly wouldn’t solve Gus’s problem. “Thanks,” Wade said, lifting the receiver.

  “Dr. Cameron?”

  Adam waved, then headed out the door. “Call me if you need me.”

  Nodding, Wade said into the phone, “Speaking.”

  “Thank God, you’re still here. I’m Myra Jenkins, Emily Kirkpatrick’s nurse and—”

  “I’ll be right there,” he said, slamming down the receiver.

  He’d scheduled an appointment to talk to Emily’s mom, first thing in the morning. That’s when he’d planned to tell the poor woman that her only child
wasn’t going to make it. Looked like he’d have to tell her sooner rather than later, Wade thought. Unless of course the worst had already happened….

  He ran out of the office without even bothering to close the door behind him, darting around hospital staff and visitors who peopled the hallway as he raced for the elevator. With any luck, the car wouldn’t take an eternity to arrive, as usual; he couldn’t afford to waste a single second.

  His cell phone didn’t work in here, or he would’ve used it to reserve an operating room. So Wade did the next best thing.

  “Call Pediatric ICU,” he said, slapping both palms on the nurses’ station counter. “Get ’em to line up an OR, Stat.”

  “Patient’s name?” the nurse asked, pen poised above a scratch pad.

  He heard the unmistakable ping, announcing the arrival of the elevator. “Emily Kirkpatrick, age six,” he shouted as its doors opened. The nurse was on the phone even before they hissed shut again. When this crisis passed, he’d apologize for his brusqueness and thank her for her quick thinking. Right now, he couldn’t focus on much more than the slow-moving car.

  “Dr. Cameron,” Emily’s mom cried when he rounded the corner. “Thank God, you’re here!”

  He took a second to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Margie,” he said to a passing nurse, “get the lady a cup of coffee and take her to the waiting room.”

  “Sure thing, Doc,” Margie said with an understanding smile, and guided Mrs. Kirkpatrick from the bustling room.

  “I’ll keep you updated,” Wade told the teary-eyed mother. “I promise.”

  Immediately, he grabbed a pair of surgical gloves from the cart at the foot of Emily’s bed. “See if that OR is ready yet,” he barked to the nearest orderly. With a curt nod, the young man hustled to the nurses’ station.

  “Fill me in,” he ordered, popping the gloves against his wrists as he studied the monitors.

  In an attempt to bring him up to date, two nurses started talking at the same time. Wade pointed at one. “You, talk to me.”

  She rattled off the facts as she knew them: Emily had been complaining of dizziness, followed by a period of nausea, followed by a bout of coughing. An electrophysiologist had been on the floor, evaluating another patient; he’d been called in to evaluate Emily’s situation…and immediately insisted the child’s cardiologist be contacted.

  “So where is he?”

  “His beeper went off a few minutes ago,” she said. “He said it was an emergency.”

  Wade sighed in frustration as the orderly returned. “Operating room’s ready for you, Doc.”

  “Then, let’s get her prepped,” he demanded.

  The team bundled up the wires and electrodes attached to little Emily and released the brakes on her hospital bed. In seconds, the bunch of them were running down the hall with Wade in the lead. “Hold that elevator!” he shouted.

  Minutes later he was scrubbing up, when a surgical nurse stepped up beside him and pulled off her mask. Laying a hand on his forearm, she said quietly, “No need for that, Doctor.”

  Wade froze, hot water running over his fingers, suds running down the drain. Then, leaning on the edge of the sink, he hung his head. “Has anyone told her mother?”

  “Not yet.”

  He nodded as a breath of grief escaped his lungs. “She’s probably still in the waiting room in Pediatric ICU.”

  “I’ll have someone go and—”

  “No.” Wade shook his head. “I’ll find her.”

  He dried his hands, and in a fit of rage, threw the towel into the semicircular bin with such force, the bin began to rock. Stomping into the hall, he blasted through the swinging doors and stood, hands at his sides. The doors’ creaks and squeaks slowed and quieted, then stopped.

  Like little Emily’s heart.

  He spotted an orange plastic chair against the wall, its chromed legs and armrests gleaming in the harsh overhead light. Wade trudged over to it and slumped onto its seat. Elbows resting on his knees, he held his head in his hands. If only he had been with her at the end.

  He could almost hear her frail little voice, calling his name….

  Emily Kirkpatrick’s life had ended before it had a chance to begin. And now he had to find her mother and break the horrifying news—just one of many reasons he avoided caring for children whenever possible, and why, when a youngster’s case was left on his desk, he passed it on to colleagues who specialized in pediatric cardiology.

  A little bit of him wished he had passed on Emily’s file.

  And a little bit of him was grateful he hadn’t. Wade pictured her tiny blue-eyed face, the unruly golden locks, the sweetly innocent smile. An angel, he thought, come to earth to show them all what the seraphim and the cherubim looked like.

  “Why?” he whispered to himself. “Why!”

  Sadness and grief rolled over him like an ocean wave, drowning him in sorrow and helplessness and a feeling of utter futility….

  And he wept.

  The instant she arrived home, Patrice peeked in on Gus.

  “C’mon in, Treecie,” he called weakly. “I’m not asleep.”

  After dumping her coat and purse in the chair beside his bed, she kissed his forehead. “So how was your day?” she asked, perching on the edge of the chair.

  He held out his hand, and waited until she put hers into it. “If you consider lying around all day like a lazy bum a good day,” Gus said on a weak grin, “this one topped the list.”

  She patted his hand. “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. You deserve to take it easy once in a while.”

  “I’ve been taking it easy for years.”

  Patrice heard the dejection in his voice but chose to pretend she hadn’t. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”

  He gave a flimsy chuckle. “Now, lemme see…who could it be, who could it be?”

  Laughing, she said, “He bought me lunch today.”

  Gus scooted up a bit in the bed and met her eyes. “Did he, now?”

  She nodded. “I met his partner, too.”

  “Next thing y’know, he’ll be introducing you to the family….”

  Patrice took a deep breath. If only, she thought.

  “I’ve been inhaling that sauce all day long. What time is the great doctor supposed to grace us with his presence?”

  “I told him we’d eat at six.” She studied his face. “But if you’re hungry, I can fix you a plate now.”

  He waved the offer away. “Nah. I’d rather eat at the table, like a normal human being. Besides,” he added, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “do you have any idea how hard it is to eat spaghetti in bed?”

  Rising, Patrice smoothed back his hair. “No, but that’s quite a picture, I have to admit!” Grabbing the thermos-type pitcher on his nightstand, she refilled his water glass, then shook two aspirins into the palm of her hand.

  When he opened his mouth to protest, she quickly said, “If you take them without complaint, I might be convinced to fix you a light snack to hold you over till suppertime.”

  Grumbling and frowning, Gus downed the pills without a word. “Cheese and crackers would hit the spot….”

  She picked up her coat and purse and said, “Comin’ right up.”

  Gus grabbed her hand, gave it another gentle squeeze. “Did I ever tell you what a good kid you are?”

  Smiling, she said, “Only about a million times.”

  “That I’m a lucky man to have a daughter like you?”

  Yes, he’d said it before, too many times to count. And every time he said it, Patrice cringed. Because, would a good daughter cause an accident that put her father in a wheelchair for life? She licked her lips. “I’m the lucky one,” she admitted. And before he could object, she quickly added, “Has Molly left yet?”

  “Don’t think so. I heard her answer the phone just before you came in.”

  Nodding, she handed him the remote. “There was a horrible traffic jam on I-95. See if you can find out what happened.”

  �
�Will do,” he said, turning on the evening news. “Hope it wasn’t an accident. I’ll say a prayer for the people involved, just in case.” Immediately, his focus turned to the TV screen.

  How like him, she thought, to think of a thing like that. She was lucky to have a dad like him, and nothing he could say or do would ever change her mind.

  “Your doctor friend called a few minutes ago,” Molly said, when Patrice walked into the kitchen. “Said he can’t make it to supper tonight. ‘Patient emergency,’ he said. Told me to tell you he’d call you from home if he didn’t get in too late.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” She lifted the lid to the saucepan. “Care to join Dad and me for supper?”

  Molly sniffed the air. “Much as I’d like to, after smelling that all day long, I’m afraid I’m on duty tonight.”

  Patrice replaced the lid. “Well, I’m sure there will be leftovers.”

  “Especially if Gus leaves as much on his plate at supper as he did at lunchtime.”

  “He skipped another meal?” Patrice frowned. “That’s not like Dad at all.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” Molly said matter-of-factly. “He’s come down with bugs before, and always manages to fight ’em off.” She winked. “I don’t see any reason to believe this time will be any different.”

  Except that this time, the fever had lasted for days instead of hours. And this time, Gus’s weakness showed in his eyes. “You’re probably right,” she said. “Maybe there’s something to that positive thinking stuff.”

  “We’ll find out soon, won’t we.”

  Before Patrice had a chance to comment on Molly’s dull tone and worried expression, the woman hurried into her jacket. “Well, gotta run if I don’t want to be late—Channel thirteen says traffic is snarled up everywhere.”

  “Drive safely, Molly.”

  “Will do.” One hand on the back doorknob, she hesitated. “Have a good night, kiddo. And don’t worry too much about Gus. He’s a tough old bird.”

  She nodded. “I know.” But she didn’t mean a word of it.

  An idea popped into her head and she grabbed the phone and dialed Wade’s extension, thinking to leave a message telling him she hoped everything was okay.