Hot Doc from Her Past

by Tina Beckett

  “Oh, and we’ll want to get your and Dr. Camara’s formal permission to use this poster. We’ll put some of them up in the hospital entryway and some other places. It’ll help get the word out about one of the highlights of the festival.”

  Highlights?

  It just kept getting worse.

  The last thing he wanted was to have a spotlight placed on that picture of him and Tessa together. Not because it was embarrassing or humiliating but because it hit too close to home—was too much of a reminder of what he and Tessa had once meant to each other.

  She was going to blow her top when she heard about this. And his parents. They were going to get their hopes up that he and Tessa would get back together. At least his mother would. Of that he had no doubt. He was somehow going to have to figure out a way to nip that in the bud. Because there was no hope. No hope at all.

  A single night of summer madness? Well, it looked as if the exhibition might turn into exactly that.

  He left the office and headed for the bank of elevators. Once inside one of them, he punched the button for the third floor and leaned against the wall, waiting for the doors to open. When they did, he was surprised to see Tessa there. From the furrowed brows and flashing green eyes he gathered she was upset with someone. Well, so was he.

  As he made to step off the car he found a hand planted flat on his chest, pushing him backward. She moved into the space and pressed all the buttons one by one.

  What the…?

  The doors closed, and it started moving up—with him and Tessa as its only occupants. She turned toward him. “What is going on? I just got a call from Marcos that you’ve decided to take part in the capoeira exhibition after all.”

  He tried to wrap his head around her words and failed. He’d only just come out of Lloyd’s office. Surely word couldn’t have gotten back to her or Marcos this fast.

  “Did you already know about this?”

  The doors on the next floor opened and, when no one got on the car, closed again. The elevator continued on its course.

  “Know about what? That you were going to go to the administrator and ask him to put you into the exhibition?”

  “No. That would have been you.”

  “Me?” Her eyes widened. “Why would you think…? Hardly. I thought you said you didn’t want to do it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then who…?”

  “Marcos.” They both said the name at the same time. Clay’s muscles relaxed and he leaned back against the wall of the car. Lloyd had said it was Marcos, but he’d only half believed the man.

  The elevator stopped again, the doors opened and then closed once more. He could have gotten off and walked up the two remaining flights of stairs to his floor, but he didn’t. “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “What can we do? Between Marcos and Peter Lloyd they’ve got us right where they want us.”

  He laughed. “And where is that?”

  “Putting on a show for anyone who wants to watch.”

  For some reason a lurid image came to mind, of Tessa again sprawled across his chest. But this time, instead of leaping to her feet, he stopped her, his hand sliding into her hair and angling her head within reach of his mouth.

  He swallowed hard, trying to banish the mental picture. It didn’t work. So he trickled a bit of gasoline on the spark to make her aware that she was treading on dangerous ground. “Then we’d better make that show worth their while, don’t you think?”

  This time her face tipped up to look at him. Seeing what was written there, her lips parted and she blinked. “That could be awkward, Clay. Very awkward.”

  “Could it?”

  Clay remembered playing these games with her many times in the past. Suddenly all thoughts of his mother getting her hopes up fled as those memories crept closer to summer madness. “They have a poster already made up. The one taken at my batizado.”

  “The one where I… And afterward we went to your place and…”

  “That’s the one.”

  Two more floors came and went. After the next one they’d be heading back down the way they had come. The doors opened and this time a nurse got into the elevator. He nodded a greeting at the newcomer, who turned to stare at the readout, her head craning to the side, probably wondering why so many floors were lit up.

  Tessa’s cheeks turned a shade of pink he recognized all too well.

  She was the one who’d pressed all those buttons. And he realized he’d squandered his chance to act on their time alone. Except that little camera in the corner—which he hadn’t noticed until just now—would have caught them in the act. Good thing someone had interrupted or the poster the administrator hung on the walls might be even more suggestive.

  Not the kind of staff behavior Mr. Lloyd would approve of.

  There was silence for two floors, then the nurse got off, leaving Tessa and Clay alone once again. Despite the danger, he couldn’t resist pressing just a bit harder. “So we’ll have to practice,” he murmured.

  “More than likely.” She flushed even more.

  Hell, he’d love nothing more than to crowd her against that wall and mash his lips to hers. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest. Time to cool things down a little. “What day were you planning on going over to the studio?”

  The elevator stopped again, and this time Tessa pushed the button to hold the doors open. “This is my floor. But I’ll be over there Tuesday at five.”

  “I’ll see you there, then.” Three days from now. “To practice.”

  She stepped off in a hurry, saying nothing more. Soon the doors slid back together and cut her off from view.

  What the hell had he just gotten himself into?

  This was crazy. Except the anticipation flooding his veins and infiltrating his thoughts said something completely different. That the only crazy thing was thinking about what would happen when the exhibition was over and done.

  And when he and Tessa finally went their separate ways. Once and for all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TESSA’S ATTENDING WAVED to her as he walked past the desk where she was reading through some of the newer protocols on melanoma. It seemed research was showing that the depth of the tumor wasn’t always the best predictor of whether or not it would metastasize, rather it depended on the type of melanoma itself. So even very thin tumors could be deadly.

  “Do you want to check on your patient this morning?” he called.

  “Mr. Phillips?” The elderly gentleman was still recovering from surgery on his broken leg. “Have you gotten the results back on his scan?”

  Brian backtracked until he stood in front of her. “I was just going to check the computer to see. We can stop by my office on the way.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She followed him down the corridor to where some of the staff offices were. Once there, he sat behind his desk and she slid into one of the chairs in front of it. Tapping the keys on his computer, he soon pulled up the file and turned the monitor so they could both look.

  Flipping through the different slides, he soon got to one that made Tessa lean forward. “Oh, no.”

  Mr. Phillips’s liver had a couple of hot spots on it, as did his lungs. “I see them. We’ll need to talk to the patient and then assemble a treatment team.”

  Tessa’s heart contracted. The leg break was now suspect, as well—although it could be coincidental, due to his age. They wouldn’t know for sure without a bone scan. And at almost eighty she wasn’t sure what kind of intervention his body could handle. If they’d caught the cancer earlier…

  Memories of her mom’s fight came winging back. It had been a similar case, only her tumor had been deep-seated, roots extending down to the lower levels of the dermis before it had been caught. By then it had been too late. It had spread everywhere.

  None of that helped them right now, though. All they could do was come up with a plan.

  Brian looked up. “Thoughts? He’s officially yo
ur patient.”

  And this was where the weight of responsibility became heavy. It was one thing when you worked under someone and they made the final decisions. Tessa was rapidly coming to a time in her career where she would make those choices. As much as she might wish it were different, to have it any other way would be a cop-out. Brian was basically handing this case to her. She should be ecstatic. Instead, she was swamped by indecision. But she’d better snap out of it or she may as well hang up her scrubs right now. So she stiffened her spine.

  “I concur with what you just said. His daughter flew in to see him pretty soon after surgery, and she’s got medical power of attorney in the event that anything happens, if I understood her correctly.”

  The daughter whose name was Tessa. The memories of Mr. Phillips protecting his modesty seemed bittersweet now.

  “Good,” Brian said. “DNR order?”

  The tightness in her chest grew. DNR… Do Not Resuscitate. “I don’t know. I was hoping the section was all he’d need.”

  “I’ll need you to check on that. Talk to the daughter.”

  She knew that Brian didn’t mean to sound brusque. It was part of remaining objective enough to do what was best for the patient. And she should be grateful that he was guiding her through the necessary steps, because right now her head was spinning. She’d lost other patients, especially when she’d done her trauma rotation. But there was something about this one…

  Maybe because she and Clay had worked side by side on him—as if by joining forces they could double their healing power. But there was an inferno raging within Mr. Phillips’s body that would take a miracle to put out.

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “I was going to go down with you, but the fewer people in the room when he hears the news, the better.” He studied her across the desk. “Are you up to this?”

  Was she? This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. And she could probably say the word and Brian would go down in her place and handle everything. She wouldn’t ever have to see Mr. Phillips again. But sometimes caring about a patient meant having to relay difficult news and muddling through it the best you could. And if she was ever going to be able to do this job on her own, she was going to have to take the bad with the good. Walking with the patient, working together to make the very best choices, brought its own rewards—even if that reward was in bringing honor and dignity as they made end-of-life care decisions.

  But they weren’t there yet. The team would meet and come to a joint recommendation. That was, depending on what Mr. Phillips wanted to do.

  “I’m up to it.” She stood. “I’ll let you know what the feeling is from Mr. Phillips and his daughter.”

  “Call me if you need me.” He glanced back at the screen, where those bright spots seemed to glitter an unspoken accusation at her. “And, Tessa, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to see this any more than you did. Sometimes these things just don’t follow any pattern.”

  Maybe they did, though, in this case. The tumor hadn’t been all that deep, and she’d gotten down to clean margins. But somehow those cancer cells had ventured outside that dark circle and burrowed deep inside Mr. Phillips’s body. She wondered if Clay knew yet.

  Probably not. He was an orthopedist. That’s where his efforts would be concentrated. No need to even contact him with the news. Besides, he could pull the results up just as easily as she could, if he wanted to.

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know how things go.” With that, she left his office. About halfway down the hallway she stopped and leaned against the wall, drawing a couple of deep breaths and trying to organize her thoughts. No sooner had she done that and gotten on the elevator that her time with Clay in this same space filled her head and made tears spring to her eyes.

  The back-and-forth innuendos and laughter seemed crude now.

  You’re being ridiculous. This is part of being a doctor. If you can’t handle it, you’d better get out now.

  Someday she would take a patient’s diagnosis in stride, as Brian did. As Clay probably did. But today was not that day. Not with the anniversary of her mother’s death still clinging to her thoughts.

  The elevator stopped one floor down and opened, leaving her staring at the glare from the brightly waxed linoleum tiles. It took the elevator doors marching back toward each other to make her reach out to stop them. She stepped off and glanced at the board that listed the patients and room numbers. Mr. Phillips was still in room five, down to the left.

  When she arrived she heard laughter coming from inside. Giving a quick knock and forcing a spring to her step to avoid looking like a funeral director, she entered the room.

  Someone was sitting in a chair next to the head of the bed, a grin on his face that was as big as Mr. Phillips’s. Two pairs of eyes swung toward her. But it wasn’t the man’s daughter who sat there. It was Clay.

  He kept smiling, but a subtle shift took place as his eyes met hers. She made her own lips curl, although it took an enormous force of the will to get those muscles to tighten.

  She glanced around the room, hoping his daughter might be there. But she wasn’t. Just Mr. Phillips and Clay.

  “What are you two talking about?” she asked. Her voice was light enough, but it had an artificial timbre to it that reminded her of those sweetener packets she used in her coffee.

  Mr. Phillips’s eyes crinkled around the corners. “Just comparing notes.”

  “Guy notes.” Clay’s gaze never left her face.

  He knew. She could see it in the slight movements in the muscle at his cheek, in the firming of his glance.

  And it was Clay who provided the opening she needed. “I was telling Mr. Phillips his break is healing just the way we like to see. Do you have news on that spot you removed?” He stood and motioned her to take the chair so she could be closer.

  “I do. Do you want your daughter to be here?”

  Just like that, the crinkles disappeared, dying a terrible death. “That bad, huh?”

  Tessa could have taken the chart and studied it as if there was something important written there and avoided meeting Mr. Phillips’s gaze altogether, but she wouldn’t do that to him. She owed it to him to be direct and honest, without taking away all hope. “Your scan showed some areas that we need to look into.”

  “Where?”

  “Your liver. Your lungs.”

  The man’s breath exited in a soft sigh. “Cancer?”

  “We need to do so some more—”

  “Tessa.” That single word came from Clay.

  Mr. Phillips looked from one to the other. “I’ve been around the block a couple of times. Something’s eventually going to get me. Why not this? I’ve outlived most of my friends. My brothers and sisters. My wife. So just give it to me straight.”

  Swallowing, she nodded. “Yes. We’re pretty sure it’s cancer that has spread from your leg. We’re going to get a treatment team together and see what we come up with.”

  He looked at her for a minute or two. “You do your talking. But if it doesn’t look like an easy fix, I’m going to have to turn you down. I can’t do that to my daughter and son, and she’s traveled a long way to see me already. At least I’ll have time to say my goodbyes.”

  Mr. Phillips’s wife had died almost ten years ago of a massive stroke. She’d been dead before she’d hit the ground.

  Tessa wasn’t sure which was worse for those who were left behind. Watching your loved one wither away before your eyes or having them snatched in an instant.

  “Do you want me to speak with your daughter?”

  “She’ll probably want to talk to you herself, but I’d rather break the news to her.” Mr. Phillips reached out and gave Tessa’s hand a squeeze. “It’s okay, honey. I’ve been ready for a while now.”

  She wrapped her fingers around his for a few seconds. “As soon as I know something more, I’ll let you know.”

  “I know you will.” Rheumy eyes moistened. “I don’t mind telling you, I miss my wife. I’l
l be glad to see her.”

  Clay’s hand landed on her shoulder, whether in support of her or Mr. Phillips she had no idea. But she was glad he was there.

  “Don’t make your reservations just yet, Mr. Phillips.” If she could will someone’s cancer to go up in a puff of smoke, this would be the person she did it for. But she couldn’t.

  “Can I talk to you outside, Dr. Camara?” Clay’s low voice made her nod.

  But before she got up… “Is there anything you need? How is your pain level?”

  “I think it’s better than yours right now.” Her patient let go of her hand and gave her a smile. “Don’t be sad for me, honey. It’s going to be okay.”

  She gave one more nod, unsure she could force another word from her mouth, then stood to her feet, following Clay out of the room.

  Once there, he turned to face her. “You okay?”

  What was it with male doctors asking her if she was all right? She was a professional, just as they were. Her head went up, along with her temper. “Fine. Why?”

  He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t get to you. Especially with some patients.”

  “Brian seemed just fine.” Her face felt carved out of stone.

  A frown appeared on his face. “You saw him?”

  “Um, yes. He’s my attending. We just finished discussing this particular case.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Did he mention them?”

  “Them who? I don’t understand.” Sadness morphed into confusion.

  “You don’t know about the jars.”

  She blinked. “Jars?”

  Taking her elbow, he led her a few feet away from Mr. Phillips’s door. “It seems some collection jars have been set up at some of the nurses’ stations.”

  Okay, now she was getting irritated. “They always put up jars before the festival. The staff contributes to whatever charity the hospital has chosen this year.” It seemed a little weird for him to have pulled her out of a patient’s room to tell her that. Unless he was trying to spare her feelings.