The Wife He’s Been Waiting For

by Dianne Drake

  “Eyes forward,” he warned himself, even though he wanted to look in the rear-view mirror again, wanted to finally see them lying on the ground, safe and secure. “Eyes forward. Keep it steady.” Just another few feet. That’s all it was. All it could be. Just another few feet…another few inches.

  Michael drove until he heard cheers coming from the crowd, yet even then he didn’t look in the mirror until he’d driven well past the place where Sarah and Delroy were stretched out. When he finally came to a stop and applied the brakes, he slumped over the steering-wheel for a few moments, willing himself to breathe normally again, willing his heart to settle back down. Then and only then did he gamble a look at the two forms lying on the ground. And when he’d finally convinced himself that he hadn’t run over them, it took him another few seconds to force himself out of the driver’s seat.

  Once he was out the jitney door, Michael was greeted by the cheers of the crowd…they were actually cheering him. But he ignored them in his haste to make his way back to Sarah. When he reached her, he dropped to his knees and began an immediate assessment of Delroy.

  A glance out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head to Sarah. “You OK?” he asked, trying to sound unaffected by the whole event, even though the sight of her there on the ground affected him in ways he hadn’t expected. She’d been so…vulnerable. And so trusting. Her mistake. People shouldn’t trust him. He’d proved that a long time ago and so far nothing in his life had changed. He wasn’t worthy of being trusted. Just ask the loved ones of the two men who’d trusted him to save their lives, and he hadn’t. Those were families who knew just how far that trust went, where he was concerned.

  “I’m fine,” she said, pushing herself to her knees. “But I was wondering, were you following me again? Or do we just have this uncanny ability that makes us turn up at the same place at the same time?”

  Uncanny, maybe. Something he was going to have to avoid in the future, definitely.

  “Is the hospital good?” Sarah wrung her hands, watching the ambulance pull away with the patient she’d held onto for the past thirty minutes…thirty minutes that had seemed like a lifetime.

  “Actually, yes. Prince Hospital has about four hundred beds, I think. It’s the public hospital here, and they have just about every service you can imagine—general practice, surgery, obstetrical, emergency, intensive care. Delroy will be in good hands there, and if they feel they don’t have all the support he needs, they’ll transfer him to one of the hospitals in the States.”

  “If he lives,” she said despondently.

  “He’ll live.” Michael brushed away a dead twig that had tangled in her hair. “So, why didn’t you tell me you were a doctor? Here I was, explaining hypoglycemia and all its complications to you, and you’re a… What kind of medicine do you practice?”

  “I don’t practice medicine now, but when I did I specialized in internal medicine and family practice as a partner in an immediate care clinic.”

  “But you quit?”

  He seemed to want an explanation, but she didn’t talk about it. Not to anyone. “Burned out,” she said. It was a simple explanation and people accepted that much better than they would the real reason. “Probably wasn’t meant to be a doctor in the first place so I got out of it.”

  “Well, you sure could have fooled me, because the doctor under the bus seemed like someone who should be a doctor. Someone who cared enough to risk her life.”

  “Well, we all have our opinions, don’t we?” That seemed a little snappish maybe, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Not with Michael, not with anyone else. Right now she just wanted to go back to the ship, clean herself up, grab something to eat, and spend the rest of the day in her cabin. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but after what just happened…”

  “I totally understand about the way you feel. Not about why you left medicine. But if you don’t want to tell me, I won’t ask. OK?” He frowned. “Are you aware that you’re in need of some medical attention? I mean, a doctor would be, but as you’re not a doctor now…”

  “Really subtle, Michael. But I’m still not going to talk about it.” She glanced down to the cuts and scrapes all over her legs and arms. “And I’m fine. When I get back I’ll stop by the ship’s hospital for some antibiotic ointment and bandages.”

  “Well, as you’re not a doctor and I am, I’d like to get all the dirt washed off those cuts before that,” he said, pointing to the hose-drawn carriage making its way down the opposite side of the street. “The streets aren’t very clean here, in case you didn’t notice.”

  He was attempting to humor her, to lighten her mood. Trying hard. Charming. Close to being irresistible. But she had to resist. That’s what she did now…resisted. “I don’t see any kind of facility nearby, so I’ll be fine until I get back.”

  “Right there,” he said, pointing to a picturesque little café not three doors away. “I was on my way to make a house call there anyway, so if you don’t mind going with me…”

  She glanced at the horse clip-clopping its way by her, then at the scrapes on her knees. She really didn’t want to go, but there was no telling what was already festering in her wounds. And, yes, that was the doctor in her prevailing on her common sense. Wasn’t it amazing, though, how Dr Michael Sloan always seemed to be on the spot when she needed him? Funny, how that worked out.

  Funny, but nice. “OK, I’ll go with you. But no doctor questions.”

  Taking her arm, he pulled her through the crowd of people that was finally beginning to disperse. Admittedly, she liked the feel of clinging to him. He was sturdy, and she hadn’t had that in a very long time. It felt good.

  “Are you being mysterious or stubborn?” he asked, as they approached the cottage door.

  “I said no questions.”

  “You said no doctor questions. That wasn’t a doctor question.”

  She glanced up at the smile spreading across his face. Yes, this felt good. Maybe too good.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “YOU’RE the one who rescued Mimmie’s boy, aren’t you?” Clarice Rolle’s high-pitched voice drifted over the noisy crowd while she ushered Sarah and Michael through the tiny café at the front of the wood-frame building. It was filled to capacity with people staring at Sarah, many of them patting her on the back and smiling as the three of them made their way down a hall and through a door into Clarice’s living quarters in the rear. It was all very cozy—the café, the flat. Tidy, and immaculately clean, it was a nice, friendly place that Sarah immediately liked, both parts to it done up in different shades of blue—the café in an array of bright blues and the flat in more subdued shades.

  “I was under the bus with him,” Sarah admitted to Clarice, wishing she wasn’t the center of attention now. Although an admission wasn’t necessary with the way she looked. She was a mess, head to toe, covered in a mixture of dirt and blood and whatever else had come off the street, all of it ground into her tattered clothes, into her hair, her skin.

  “Well, it was a brave thing going to help him like you did, when you could have been hurt yourself,” Clarice said, giving Michael a frown and a shooing gesture that told him he clearly was not wanted or welcomed in the bedroom into which Clarice was leading Sarah. Once she’d shut the door, practically in his face, she said, “Now, you go clean yourself up in the bathroom, take care of those cuts and scrapes all over you, and I’ll go and find you some fresh clothes to put on.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Sarah said, for the first time noticing that the leg of her shorts was split right up the middle, almost to her hip line. It was, quite literally, hanging in shreds, revealing much more of her leg than she cared to reveal. “I can just wash off.”

  “With your clothes hanging on you the way they are, showing off more than they cover now, I don’t think you’ll want to walk through the streets that way. Men being what they are, and this is such a crowded town with all the ships docking here…” She gave her head a wary
shake and pointed to Sarah’s knit shirt, which was torn halfway down from her neckline. “But don’t you worry. We’re about the same size, so I’ve got something you can put on.” Clarice said, “and it wouldn’t be polite of me not to take care of you after what you did for Mimmie’s boy.”

  Sarah studied Clarice for a moment. It was optimistic, thinking they were about the same size. Clarice had a perfect figure, and she was diminutive, the way Sarah had always wanted to be. Sarah, in comparison was…larger. Taller, bigger bones, bigger everything. But Clarice was right about the way she looked. Her clothes were so close to being indecent, with so many rips, and covered by so much blood. “Thank you,” she finally said. “I’d appreciate it. And I’ll be glad to pay you—”

  “That’s not the way we do things here,” Caprice interrupted. “We take good care of our friends, and you’re a friend now.”

  “A friend,” Sarah murmured, shutting the bathroom door. It had been a while since she’d considered anybody a friend, or even been anybody’s friend. Cameron had been the last, and look what she’d done to him. Even thinking about that ugly period in her life caused her hands to shake as she turned on the water in the sink, then splashed some of it in her face. She couldn’t think of it…wouldn’t think.

  Focus, Sarah.

  The room was getting smaller, starting to spin.

  Just breathe.

  She gripped the edges of the washbasin to steady herself.

  One breath at a time.

  The wobbling was starting in her knees.

  You can stop this.

  She knew she could. It was only a panic attack. Mind over matter. She was in control. In control… Sarah held her breath for a moment, then let it out and turned to focus to the face in the mirror, and to the small abrasion on her left cheek. It was red, but not bleeding. Nothing too deep, nothing that mattered. Neither was the tiny cut along her right jaw. Insignificant again. Especially when she thought about Delroy, and all his injuries.

  Besides the major ones, he’d been a mass of cuts and scrapes, some that would, no doubt, leave scars. And then there were the emotional scars. He had so much trauma to overcome, so much recovery ahead of him. Perhaps she would try and get his address so she could check in on him from time to time, just to see how he was doing. Not as a doctor, but as…as someone who’d shared an experience with him.

  Cleaning herself up to where she was presentable took Sarah nearly ten minutes, dabbing gingerly at all the spots that were now becoming sore. But after they were clean, and after she’d made the assessment that everything was superficial, she took one final look in the mirror, hoping she could hold everything together until she was back in her cabin. These panic attacks…she hated them. They made her look weak, feel weak. Feel out of control. And for someone who’d owned an immediate care center, which had depended on her always being in control not just for herself but for everyone working for her, she absolutely despised what she’d become.

  That face in the mirror…she hardly even recognized it any more. Didn’t want to recognize it.

  Disgusted with herself on many levels, Sarah put on the clothes Clarice had left on a chair outside the bathroom. Admittedly, now that she was clean again, she did feel a little better. But the clothes Clarice had chosen for her…hot pink short shorts, with much less fabric in them than anything she’d ever worn in public, with the exception of a swimsuit. And the top…pink and blue floral, bright colors, in a stretchy knit fabric—much less fabric than the shorts—that left nothing to the imagination about her breasts, now that her torn bra was in the trash can. Clarice’s idea of a shirt pulled tight across Sarah, showing off the precise outlines of her nipples, and it didn’t come within a good hand’s width of covering her belly button, it was so short.

  “Well,” she said, assessing herself in the mirror, not sure she wanted to walk back through town to the ship dressed this way. But what other choice did she have, other than her own clothes, which were filthy, and in shreds? Probably discarded already, as Clarice had carried them off the second Sarah had handed them out the door in exchange for what she had on now. Which turned out to be the case she found out once she’d stepped out of the bathroom. Her old clothes, bra included, were already in the incinerator.

  “You look beautiful,” Clarice said, smiling her approval at the way Sarah wore the outfit.

  “It’s a little…small, don’t you think?” She tried tugging down on the shirt but all that did was reveal more breast.

  “But you can wear small. Better than me. I’ve lost so much weight these past months, worrying about Lachelle the way I’ve been doing, that my clothes practically hang on me.”

  Well, nothing about this outfit was hanging on her. Sarah took another look down at herself, and decided to make the best of it. “You have a daughter?” she asked.

  “She’s out with Dr Mike right now. He’s supposed to be examining her, but they play more than anything else, when he comes to look at her leg.”

  “He makes houses call?” That seemed odd.

  “Every time the ship docks here. He keeps an eye on Lachelle’s progress, especially now, with her growing so much. She’s wearing a new one and he wants to make sure it fits her properly.”

  Sarah didn’t follow that. “A new what?”

  Clarice looked surprised by the question.” A new leg,” she said, like Sarah should have known. “My Lachelle has to have a new leg made for her when she has a growth spurt, then Dr Mike comes to check, to make sure the fit is good and that Lachelle is working with it properly. I trust him more than I do the public clinic here.”

  So, the child had a prosthetic leg. And Michael had been on his way to visit her, which was why he’d carried his medical bag with him. She’d wondered why he’d happened to have it but that explained a lot. He was making a house call of sorts, and lucky for her he was. Lucky for Delroy, too. “How old is Lachelle?” Sarah asked, on her way to the bedroom door.

  “Ten. Eleven in two months. Big girl for her age. Looks more like fourteen, she’s been developing so fast.”

  Such a rough age, growing up. Almost into adolescence, all those hormonal changes going on. And a prosthesis to contend with. Her heart went out to the child. “But she gets along well with it…with her new leg?” She asked that, rather than asking if Lachelle had other disabilities.

  “She gets along beautifully. Better than I would if I’d had the accident and ended up the way she did. She’s good in school, she plays with her friends, rides a bicycle. Dr Mike introduced us to a very good man who specializes in prosthetics for children, and that has been a blessing for us because he knows just what Lachelle needs.”

  Once Sarah had stepped out into the hall, she immediately heard the giggling of a young girl. And deeper, more resonant laughing she took to be Michael’s. It was interesting that the ship’s doctor had one special patient here in Nassau, but as it was really none of her business, she wouldn’t ask how that came to be. Even though she wanted to.

  “Delroy went straight to surgery,” Michael reported, once Sarah stepped into the living room. “No word yet on how he’s doing other than he’s still holding on well. Not conscious, but they said that his vital signs were much improved.”

  “He’s my friend,” Lachelle piped up. “We go to school together, and play together.”

  “Do you like him better than me?” Michael asked, the corners of his mouth turning down to feign hurt.

  Lachelle giggled. “He’s here all the time. You’re not. So I have to like him better when he’s here. But I like you better now, and every time you come to visit me because you bring me candy.”

  “So now I understand,” Michael said. “You’re fickle. Do you know what that means?”

  Lachelle looked puzzled for a moment, then her face brightened. “It means I can like Delroy better when he’s here, and I can like you better when you’re here.”

  “But what if we’re both here together?” Michael asked. “Then what would you do?” />
  “I’d like whoever’s closest to me the best,” Lachelle said, with perfect ten-year-old logic. “Especially if he has candy.”

  Michael was seated on a wooden chair and Lachelle was standing across the room from him, smiling for all she was worth. She was a beautiful child. Smooth black skin. Black hair, dark brown eyes and a smile that could have melted even the coldest heart. It gave Sarah a little tug, thinking about how she’d wanted children, first when she’d been married to Kerry, then again when she’d been engaged to Cameron. She was almost thirty-five now, and while the longing hadn’t gone away, the expectation had. “And what if I’m the one who’s closest to you?” she asked Lachelle.

  “I might like you best, but I don’t even know you.” She looked Sarah over, head to toe. “But you are wearing my mama’s clothes, so I suppose I could like you, too.”

  “Well, I’m Sarah,” Sarah said.

  “And you’re a doctor, like Dr Mike,” Lachelle said, quite matter-of-factly. “I’m going to be a doctor, too. An orthopedic surgeon. Dr Mike says that when the time comes, he’ll help me find the best medical school.”

  It crossed Sarah’s mind that Michael and Clarice might be involved, as there was no sign of a permanent man in this house. Not here in this room, not in the bedroom either. Michael certainly did seem like he had an important place in this family, though, especially with the way Lachelle seemed to adore him. “Well, I’m sure he’ll have some very good suggestions.”

  “And I’ll work with children like me, who have had amputations. And like Dr Mike.”

  That’s right. Michael was a surgeon. She’d forgotten all about that. “I think you’ll make a fine surgeon,” Sarah said, as she watched Lachelle walk cross the room. She was in shorts, not at all self-conscious about showing off her prosthetic leg. It came over the knee and stopped at mid-thigh. Not the old, clunky kind that imitated the real thing, but a lightweight metal variety that showed it for what it was…an artificial limb. A functional part of the body meant to work, not look like it was real. The newer ones were easier, had more precision to them. While she wasn’t an expert in the field, she’d done enough reading to know that technology had come a long way these past few years and the science involved in making a leg or an arm was as close to being exact as you could get. Anyone wearing one could expect high function, and high function seemed to be the case with Lachelle, because her limp was barely noticeable as she moved with all the agility of any ten-year-old. She seemed quite athletic, in fact.