by Lexy Timms
“I would love to see me in downtown L.A.! I want to see the Walk of Fame and the footprints of the stars! Doesn’t Marilyn Monroe have her breasts imprinted in the cement?”
“You have a singular focus, Joseph.” Brant shook his head. Nonetheless, he followed the tall, gangly man to a set of huts in the back of the clinic. The battle for territory against the jungle was being lost here, and the scrub crept up on the buildings like a herald announcing the arrival of the horde. “And, to my knowledge, her breasts are not immortalized in cement.”
“That is too bad. What do you mean, to your knowledge? You live there, you should know!”
“I haven’t actually seen it, to be honest.” Brant shrugged, embarrassed suddenly though he couldn’t say why exactly. “I’ve always been too busy to go exploring.” The words sounded defensive. Why did he care what some backwoods gardener thought?
“So, you work very, very hard, make a lot of money, and for your reward you get to work harder and make more money?” Joseph chuckled and shook his head. “I take it back Doctor; I don’t envy you after all. I like my free time.”
There was no time to respond to that, though Brant couldn’t have figured out what to say even if he’d had the time. Joseph was either going to be his enemy or best friend in this place, and right now Brant was on the fence about which it was going to be. Whatever the case, Joseph was pointing to the door next to them with all the flourish of a bellhop at the Ritz-Carlton, which was where he should be staying right now.
“There’s your palace for the next three weeks, Doctor. Maybe you can relax here in my jungle, eh?” He clapped Brant on the shoulder and walked off toward the others, who had gathered their equipment and were standing in a small group waiting to tackle the brush again. Apparently, they had decided that the heat of the day was over.
They began attacking the slow assault of the shrubbery and the beating back the slow tide of foliage. Brant looked at the door to the ‘palace,’ and took a deep breath. He’d seen more of the tiny office than he was wanting to, and now the closet-sized bungalow that sat before him offered little respite. Large windows with heavy screens promised little relief from the heat. He was almost surprised to see an actual porch, as if anyone would want to linger here outside with the bugs. What he hadn’t seen yet was any sort of medical facility.
He glanced back at the men in the near distance. They seemed to be preoccupied. He looked once more at the door that had been assigned to him, and turned again to the large glass doors that marked the entrance to the clinic not far away.
Well, it’s not like I have anything to unpack…
Home could wait. Let’s see what the clinic looks like…
If he’d been honest, he’d have had to admit that he hadn’t been expecting much. A grass shack, a dirt floor, no walls of course, just a roof to hold off the sun and the rain. Walking into a building with linoleum floors as ugly as any hospital in the U.S., air conditioning and bus station seating was quite a surprise. The nurse behind the desk was formidable-looking to say the least, but he screwed down as much charm as he was able to dredge up and walked up smiling. “Hello,” he said, holding out his hand, “I’m…”
“Dr. Layton,” she said with a sniff. “The plastic surgeon from California.” She looked at him over the top of her glasses, like he was something under a microscope slide. Something unpleasant. “Yes, Doctor, I know all about you. I thought Joseph was showing you to your quarters.”
“Turns out I’m not very sleepy,” he said, making his smile larger, more ingratiating. “I would like to look around…”
“Doctor, I don’t have time to give you a tour…” she said as she sat back down, and resolutely did nothing whatsoever.
Brant waited to see what was so pressing for her to do, and then waited a bit longer. Finally, he just nodded. “I can see that. But I’m not here to take a tour; I’m apparently assigned here, so I may as well…”
Somehow, she’d simply shut off. It seemed that once she’d made her declaration, she was done and there was nothing more to be said. Stoic and resolved, she stared through him, quite simply as if he weren’t there at all.
Brant considered waving a hand in front of her face, but decided that just maybe it wasn’t safe. He looked from her to the door behind her and back again. He pointed to the door and decided that it was the better part of valor to just let the woman do whatever it was she didn’t seem to be doing, and changed the pointing finger to a thumbs-up as he let himself through the door.
A self-satisfied hurumph was all she replied, but didn’t break the basilisk stare to the far wall. In Brant’s opinion, the wall was all the more remarkable for not having folded and fallen under the great weight of the disapproving glare. He sauntered through the doorway, looking as casual as possible, ready to make a break for it if the nurse decided he wasn’t welcome after all. But, to his surprise, he was able to get through the door unchallenged.
Any ideas of mud huts and grass roofs dissipated. The space beyond resembled a cross between a Motel 6 and a hospital ER. There were beds on all sides, each one comfortably sequestered into 20-foot- square cubicles of linoleum, tile, and steel. One wall had two doors claiming IMAGING and SURGERY, but the rest could have easily been transported from the ER of any small American town intact.
Three of the beds were currently occupied; one of them, at least, appeared to have held the same patient for some time, judging by the child’s artwork hanging from the walls and the potted flowers that seemed to cover every flat surface.
Two nurses were on duty in the nurses’ station that formed a redoubt in the center of the facility against any attack from the surrounding beds. They looked up from their computer monitors and smiled at him. And then looked at each other. And giggled.
“Hello,” He tried, “My name is…”
“Que?”
“No habla Ingles,” the other chimed in helpfully.
“I live in L.A.,” Brant told himself slowly. “I can manage this.” He cleared this throat and tried again. “Me llamo…”
They both laughed again. “Si! Dr. Layton!” one said, and held her hands out indicating enormously oversized breasts.
He sighed. Obviously, his reputation preceded him. There was nothing to do but smile and reach over the counter to pull a clipboard that read ROOM 5.
It was entirely in Spanish.
Of course it is.
He tilted the clipboard sideways, as if somehow a different angle would magically translate the words. Even squinting did nothing more than blur the text. Scratching his head, he drifted away from the desk, pondering the only thing that made any sense – the numbers. He figured out that the blood pressure of this particular patient was 110/72. It was the only thing that those numbers were likely to be. 98 could be oxygen or pulse. He wasn’t sure.
“Doctor!” Joseph greeted him warmly. The man had materialized at his left, his greeting so full of energy that he nearly shot Brant into the next room. Giggles could be heard from the vicinity of the desk.
Taking a deep breath and ordering his own pulse somewhere back down below 100, he turned in consternation to confront the other man. “Joseph. I can’t imagine that you’re allowed in here. Is this open to the gardening staff? I mean, no offense, but it is a somewhat controlled area, is it not?”
“Oh no, not controlled at all. We take all patients here!”
Brant pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if that would make his building headache any better. It didn’t, but at least gave him the feeling he was doing something useful. “I don’t mean… never mind. While you’re here, maybe you can help me.” He handed the chart over and pointed at the numbers and the notes.
“What is the patient in number five in here for?”
“Oh, very bad,” Joseph tsked. “Very bad. Man was working on truck and cut his leg; very bad, very deep. He took lots of stitches.”
“How do you know that?”
“I stitched him!” Joseph grinned.
Brant blinked. “I thought you were the gardener.”
“I know!” Joseph threw back his head and laughed. The nearest patient looked up and smiled, as if that laugh was the medicine that they’d been waiting for. “I’m the head nurse here, too. I get lots of flack for that, too.”
“And the rest of the men out there hacking away at the jungle?”
“Orderlies, mostly. John, though, he’s an exception; very rare in this area.”
“Oh? I fear I already know the answer to this, but I’m going to ask anyway. What does John do?”
“He’s a gardener.”
There was a long pause. Joseph’s smile never wavered. Brant didn’t even sigh this time. He was getting better at this. “I thought as much.”
“He works at the resort, trying to perfect the golf course.”
“Golf?” Brant asked, one eyebrow arched.
“Yes, Doctor. They have golf there.”
Brant nodded twice. It was cliché, but he really did like the game. He tried to imagine playing in the rough in the middle of the jungle, and shook his head. He’d file that away for later. Assuming there was a later and he wasn’t on a plane back home before nightfall.
Still, he was here now, and there were patients to see. “Come, then, Nurse Joseph, and translate for me.”
“Wait a minute, Doctor,” Joseph said, his characteristic grin vanishing. “You don’t speak Spanish?”
“No,” Brant admitted. “I picked up a word or two here and there, but I never learned to speak it.”
“What kind of a fool hires on in a land where he can’t speak the language?” Joseph’s grin was back.
“The same kind of fool who would hire on anywhere while drunk, I suppose.”
“Oh!” Joseph laid his finger by his nose. “Him!”
“What?”
The man with the sliced leg was doing well. Joseph’s stitching was to be commended and the scar left behind would be minor. It was possible that he could have minimized the scar tissue considerably more, but Joseph explained that the man wasn’t married.
“I don’t follow,” Brant said slowly. As the patient spoke no English, he was free to speak over him.
“He was worried when he came here,” Joseph explained. “I told him girls love scars, make him look more macho. So, if I take away his scar, he’d be very, very angry with me. So, I give him a pretty one.”
Brant looked at the tall man for a long time. “I never know if you’re serious or giving me a load of crap, Joseph.”
“I don’t know either!” he agreed and smiled brightly.
Room 8 held a man who’d fallen from a tree, supposedly while attempting to cut down some dates, but Joseph secretly—so he said—thought the man was trying to peer insidea young woman’s window and slipped while looking. On the other hand, much of Joseph’s world seemed to be taken up with such endeavors by others. Brant was learning to take that in stride.
This particular patient had been officially released, but his family was still on their way, so he was taking this time to catch up on a Spanish soap opera that was playing on the small television.
It was in Room 10, the sanctuary of homemade art and potted flowers, that Joseph’s trademark smile and quick wit faded. He stopped Brant from entering with a soft hand on his shoulder.
“Doctor,” he said quietly, “Maria is 12 years old. There was a fire in her village. No one was killed, but the smoke got into her lungs and she passed out. She fell into the flames. She came here by ambulance, no breath, bad burns. We keep her in low light, try to be quiet.” He leaned over and whispered. “The burns on her face are bad, Doctor, and…” he leaned in closer, “she speaks English.”
Brant looked at the man and nodded, entering the room as quietly as he could. In the bed, layered under bandages, was half of the sweetest face he’d ever seen. Her eyes, mercifully, were untouched in the fire, and were bright and deep and guileless as only a child’s can be. She seemed younger than 12 so slight was she beneath the light cotton blanket that covered her, but her eyes held an age only possible from rough experience.
“Hello, Maria,” Brant said quietly. “My name is Brant. I’m a doctor.”
“Oh,” the girl said. “You’re the…” She held out her hands the way the nurse had.
Brant took the hand not bandaged and lay it back on the girl’s stomach. “Word gets around.” He shot a glance at Joseph. Did these people have nothing better to do? He wasn’t just a breast—never mind, it didn’t matter right now.
“You kissed Dr. Bell,” the girl said with all the innocence of a child.
Joseph gasped. Then laughed. Quietly.
At least the girl smiled.
“You kissed Dr. Bell?” Joseph said, the strain of being quiet showing in his voice. “And she let you live?” He stared at Brant a long moment. “She must truly like you!”
Chapter 6
“Carmen,” Mel greeted the taciturn nurse as she walked into the waiting room, “are you telling me that no patients came in today? At all?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” the admitting nurse said. “Don’t make me say it again; you know how busy I am. I don’t have time to repeat myself.”
Don’t tick her off. It only makes for a long day. “Of course, Carmen. My mistake. Keep on doing…uh…that.” After four years here, Melissa still hadn’t dared to find out what it was Carmen thought kept her so busy. One night, after a particularly long session when she’d spent 48 hours on duty and then assisting on a delicate operation, Melissa had thought that perhaps there was a hidden enemy at bay in the plaster of the far wall, and only Carmen’s fierce glare kept it from getting free and wreaking havoc on them all. Since then, she’d never come up with another excuse as to why Carmen was so busy.
Rested and sober, it still seemed to be the most logical explanation. As immobile as she was, however, Carmen was a fantastic trauma nurse. She just completely sucked at bedside manner, so it was better for her to stand guard against the paint on the opposite wall.
Mel wandered through the door and arched an eyebrow at the nurses behind the station. They were gossiping and giggling like two schoolgirls. Two of the orderlies were leaning against the door to the X-Ray room. They suddenly had other places to be when they saw Mel enter.
The orderlies did not, however, choose to warn the nurses of her presence, and so Mel slipped silently behind them to overhear words like ‘cute’ and ‘kiss’ and ‘black eye.’ She told herself they could have referred to anyone, a boyfriend or an ex, or someone from the village, or any other incident. But when Tina wondered if ‘he could make her larger’ and her hands reached out like she was carrying two melons, Mel knew what the topic of conversation had to be.
Not that it really could’ve been about anything else. Is that what everyone thought a plastic surgeon did? Just fix tits? She hoped for the next three months there was bloody more to Dr. Brant Layton than that.
She followed their line of sight to Room 10 and inhaled quickly. He was in there with Maris, who was such a sweet, little girl. “He’d better not be drumming up business,” she growled.
The nurses, startled, turned and suddenly found their monitors to be the most fascinating things in the world.
“If that idiot plans to work on Maria…” Her hands clenched and unclenched. What do I do? Somehow the idea of running in there left a bad taste in her mouth. For one thing, storming in would frighten the child when what she truly wanted was to frighten the one infuriating man.
“Pardon me, Dr. Bell,” Tina murmured quietly. “Why would that be wrong?”
If it had been anyone but Tina, she would have brushed off the question. As silly as the girl was, there was a good brain in that head, and not that many more hours of night school before she left them to pursue a medical degree that would enable her to take over this place someday.
Mel overreacted anyway, spitting out her answer with enough venom that, had it been anyone but Tina, they would have fled under the onslaug
ht. “What do you mean? She’s hurt and needs care, not some idiot telling her that she isn’t pretty anymore.”
“No one needs to tell her that, Doctor,” Tina said quietly, meeting her gaze squarely when her partner had obviously backed up a solid ten steps and busied herself in a pile of reports. It would almost have been a believable action had they not been upside down. Tina touched Mel’s sleeve. “She can still see. We can tell her it’s what’s inside that makes a woman beautiful, but she knows that already. She was pretty, very pretty, but that is just her physical. If she has to accept her loss, then she does. But if she doesn’t have to accept it, Doctor, wouldn’t it be cruel to not tell her?”
Mel started and then looked back into the room. “She’s not healed enough,” she said, but it was a weak argument at best.
“No, Doctor,” Tina conceded, “but she will be.”
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Tina was right. She shouldn’t be right. Mel took a steadying breath and marched toward the cubicle, pausing at the doorway, half-scared to look, not wanting to see the trauma fresh on the little girl’s face.
But Brant was laughing with her, and Joseph was there to lend his ever-cheerful support.
What surprised Mel the most—Maria was smiling. As brave and resolute as the girl had been throughout the whole ordeal, she’d never smiled. Not for Mel. Let’s be fair. You looked into reconstructive surgery, remember? But the nearest surgeon was over a thousand miles away. “No,” she amended quietly. “No, the nearest surgeon is at her bedside.”
It wasn’t a pleasant realization. She didn’t want to find reason to like him.
In fact, she didn’t. She didn’t like him at all. He’d bloomin’ tried to kiss her. He’d never had any intention of coming here in the first place. She reminded herself of every reason she wasn’t going to let her guard down for one minute. And then, as her blood began to boil all over again, she caught herself and counted to ten. In Latin.
But the longer the new, hot doctor was in there, the more it began to look like a commercial for a greeting card company. The girl in bandages, the caring doctor with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dress slacks and shoes still a little worse for wear in the jungle, however brief.