by Marie Force
While Ted adored them all, the only fault they had was their ongoing meddling in his life. They were forever calling about a woman he just had to meet, a stock he just had to invest in, a party he just had to come to, or a tidbit of gossip from their various social circles he just had to hear. Sometimes when he received calls from the four of them in the same day, it was all he could do not to remind them of how busy he was and how trivial their news was compared to what he was doing. He never stopped being amazed at how easily his father and grandfather had slipped into retirement, seeming to forget about how challenging, heartbreaking, and overwhelming their work had once been—and still was for Ted.
The one thing he had succeeded in was getting them to drop the annoying nickname they had given him at birth, until he left for college and let them know he would no longer answer to "Third." He had told them on his way to Princeton that although his name Edward Theodore Duffy the third, he'd decided to go by Ted in college, and he had better not hear any more of that other ridiculous name. There must have been something in his tone or the expression on his face that told them he meant it because none of them had ever called him that again. Occasionally his grandfather still slipped up, but Ted had perfected an icy look that usually set him straight. The name change was one of very few major battles he'd ever won with the mighty foursome, and he was proud of it.
Ted picked up the phone in his home office and dialed a number he almost knew by heart after three years of caring for Hannah Ohrstrom. As he waited for someone to answer, he gazed out the window at the sun setting over the marina.
"Hi, Peg. It's Ted Duffy."
"Oh, hi, thanks for calling. Dr. Newsome said you were out of town."
"I was, but I'm back now."
"I hope you did something fun," she said wistfully.
Ted knew her life had been anything but fun since Hannah had been diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia at the age of six. After two years of chemotherapy, Hannah had been in remission for a year, and Ted was optimistic about her long-term prognosis. "I was in Newport where I rent a summer place with some college friends, but I heard Hannah was down with a fever, so I wanted to check in. How's she doing?"
"A little better today than last night. She's still kind of listless, though."
"Any temp today?" He fired up his laptop to log into the hospital's scheduling system.
"It was 101 this morning, but it's normal now."
"Any other symptoms?"
"No, just the fever."
"Why don't you bring her by the clinic tomorrow? I can get her in at eleven if that works for you."
"Sure," she said haltingly. "I can do that." She paused. "It's not back, is it?"
"I know it's hard to believe after everything you've been through, but not all fevers are sinister. I just want to take a quick look and do a CBC to be safe, okay? I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."
"Okay, thanks. I appreciate you checking in. I've told so many people about how great you've been to us. No one can believe we have a doctor in this day and age who makes house calls and cares the way you do. Thank you so much."
"It's no problem at all," Ted said, touched by her effusive praise. People like Peg and her adorable, precocious daughter were what he loved best about his job. "Page me if you have any problems during the night."
"I will. Thank you again."
"See you tomorrow." Ted hung up feeling like he had finally done something positive with this miserable day.
* * *
The next morning passed in a blur. After signing the discharge paperwork on the re-hydrated Matthew Janik, Ted saw nine patients in the clinic—seven of them frequent fliers and two of them new kids who were just beginning their journey with cancer—before he got to Hannah an hour later than scheduled. Knowing how worried Peg was about a recurrence, he hated to keep her waiting, but he had taken the time to coach one of his residents through his first-ever "day one" chat in which parents are told their child has cancer and are given the planned course of treatment.
These all-important conversations were handled with the utmost delicacy and compassion. Since there was a right way—and a wrong way—to do it, Ted was pleased with the job his resident had done. He had hit on all the most important points and had used the word "cancer" several times so the devastated parents were left with no doubt as to what they were being told. The resident had included statistics about the cure rate and had given them the cold, hard facts about what to expect during treatment.
Ted had been part of hundreds of day one conversations, but it never got any easier to watch a family's plans and dreams be derailed by cancer. After he left the family in the capable hands of his resident, Ted took the time for a quick cup of coffee to decompress before he continued with his clinic.
He pushed the exam room door open to find Peg chewing on her thumbnail as anxiety all but coursed through her slim frame.
"Good morning," he said. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting."
"It's no problem. You snuck us in."
"Didn't you bring Miss Hannah?" Ted looked around the room at everything but the girl sitting Indian-style on the exam table. He washed his hands and pulled on latex gloves.
"I'm getting far too old for that game, Dr. Duff," she said with a dramatic roll of her soft brown eyes. Her dark curls were corralled today in a high ponytail.
"Then I'll just have to take my game up a notch in the future." He sat on a stool and scooted to the exam table. "How's the fever?"
"Gone. I feel fine. I told my mom that, but she still called this weekend."
"That's exactly what she should have done." Ted did a quick but thorough exam. He was only slightly concerned by the pallor in her cheeks, but it was enough to confirm his decision to order a complete blood count.
"Are you going to stick me?" Hannah asked, sounding more like a frightened nine-year-old and less like a bored pre-teen.
"I'm afraid so, but we'll make it quick and painless. I promise."
"Will you do it yourself? It never hurts when you do it."
"Sure," he said, even though it would put him further behind schedule. "I'll be right back."
He went out to the desk to ask one of the nurses to set up the blood draw for him.
"I can take it from here," said Kelly Hopper, one of his favorite nurses. She was a pretty blond with bright blue eyes and an infectious smile. The kids loved her, and she was very devoted to them.
"Miss Hannah requested a Dr. Duff special," he said with a self-deprecating grimace.
Kelly grinned, and Ted noticed for the first time that she had dimples. Cute dimples.
"Jeez, you've even got the little ones falling at your feet, don't you?"
"Oh yeah, there's a regular line forming."
"Are you going to Joey's funeral?"
Sobered by the reminder of his recent loss, he nodded. "John called this morning and asked me to say a few words at the service. Are you going?"
"A few of us from the floor are going. You can ride with us if you'd like."
"That would be great, thanks. I wasn't thrilled about going alone."
Remembering his plan to find a girlfriend, he studied Kelly like he hadn't seen her almost every day for six years.
"What?"
Ted cleared his throat. "Oh, um, sorry. I was just thinking."
"About?"
"Would you like to have dinner some night?" he asked before he could chicken out.
Kelly's eyes widened into an expression of shock that probably wouldn't have been all that different if Ted had knocked her over the head with a baseball bat.
"Or, um, if you think it would be too weird, I mean because we work together…"
"No."
"Oh, okay." Ted felt like a bumbling fool. Clearly, this dating thing was going to take some practice. "I understand."
She held up her hand and shook her head. "I meant no, I don't think it would be weird. I'd love to have dinner with you."
"Really?"
Sh
e nodded.
"Great. How about Thursday?"
"Thursday's good."
"Think about where you want to go."
"I'll do that, and I'll get that stick ready for you."
"Oh, yeah. Right. Thanks."
Ted watched her walk away and wondered if she always did that thing with her hips or if she had done it for his benefit. Either way, it had his attention. "Nothing to it," he whispered as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Chapter 6
On Tuesday morning, Ted met Kelly and two of the other pediatric oncology nurses in the staff parking lot to go to Joey's funeral. Three of Ted's residents and one of the fellows would join them at the church. Ted wore a dark navy suit, a white shirt, and a Red Sox tie in deference to Joey's love of the team.
"Great tie," Kelly said with a nod of approval. She had worn a black suit and heels that brought her almost to Ted's shoulder.
He held the car door for her. "I think Joey would approve."
They sat together in the back seat of the car while one of the other nurses drove.
During the hour-long ride west to Worcester, Ted reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat for the notes he had jotted down earlier in his office and looked them over one last time.
"I don't know if I could do it," Kelly said softly.
Ted glanced over at her. "Do what?"
"Speak at his funeral."
"I'm hoping I'll be able to get through it."
"Have you done it before?"
He shook his head. "This is the first time I've been asked."
"I'm sure you'll do a terrific job."
"I just hope I can do him justice."
"You will."
Her smile of reassurance helped, and Ted was glad he had asked her out. He was looking forward to their date.
Ted watched the miles fly by out the window. "Imagine how many times Joey and his parents must've made this drive."
"Hundreds."
"I never think about what people go through to get to us. As if the disease isn't hardship enough, they have to travel, too."
Ted's pager interrupted his thoughts. Before they arrived at the church, he handled two minor crises at the hospital. Since he was on call, he'd had to arrange for backup so he could attend the funeral. He turned off the pager and his cell phone and stashed them in his suit coat pocket.
They joined the streams of somber people going up the stone stairs to the large Catholic Church. At the top of the stairs, Ted shook hands with the Red Sox catcher, who had also been asked to speak. They were shown to seats close to the front of the church.
A large photo of Joey from before his illness sat on an easel amid a sea of flowers on the altar. Ted stared at the photo, remembering his first meeting with Joey, when he'd still had hope that he could save the boy. His eyes burned with tears so he looked away from the photo. He hadn't experienced a lot of failure in his life, but cancer managed to frequently remind him of his all-too-human limitations. The disease was a formidable foe, and Ted was overwhelmed with sadness at what it had taken from this family.
The service began when four pallbearers—Joey's uncles according to the program—carried the small casket into the church. A family friend, a cousin, and Joey's fifteen-year-old brother John gave tearful eulogies. Next, the Red Sox catcher walked up to the microphone.
"On behalf of the entire Red Sox organization, I extend my condolences to John, Melinda, and the Gaither family. It was such a pleasure for all of us to have the opportunity to know Joey and to be able to bring him into our family over the last couple of years. Because of what I'm lucky to do for a living, I receive mail from many, many kids who tell me I'm their hero. Well, I want you to know that Joey's my hero. The Sox will dedicate the rest of our season to Joey's memory, and each of us will wear an armband with his name on it in tribute to a young life that ended far too soon. God bless you, Joey, and God bless everyone who mourns your loss."
Ted swallowed a lump in his throat as he approached the pulpit. He gave himself a moment to get his emotions in check before he looked out at the sea of faces that filled the church and spilled out the open doors onto the stone steps.
"I want to thank John and Melinda for inviting me to share in this celebration of Joey's life. I know I don't have to tell any of you how special Joey was or how courageous. Those of us at Children's Hospital Boston who had the honor of caring for him will never forget his enthusiasm, his laughter, his great big smile, and his generosity to other kids who were just beginning their treatment. He had a way of making it a little less scary for them." Ted paused and took a deep breath to compose himself. "I meet children and their families at the worst time in their lives. Yet I often find that crisis brings out the best in them, which was certainly the case here. John and Melinda, your dignity and grace were an inspiration to all of us and a source of great comfort to your son. Joey was much more than a patient to me. I loved him, and I'll miss him."
John and Melinda stood in the front row to hug Ted.
When he returned to his seat Kelly reached for his hand and squeezed it as he wiped his eyes with his other hand. Comforted by the gesture, Ted held on for the remainder of the service.
* * *
They attended the burial and the luncheon Joey's family held at the home of one of his aunts. Before he left to return to Boston with the others from the hospital, Joey's parents thanked Ted again for everything he had done for them over the last four years.
"Give me a call if you get to Boston." Ted didn't envy them the road they had ahead of them as they picked up the pieces of their shattered lives, attempted to reconnect with their other children, and dealt with the post-traumatic stress that parents who had seen their children through cancer often faced. "We can have dinner or something."
"We'd like that," John said.
Ted knew he might hear from them, and he might not. Often he also mourned the loss of the relationships he had formed with parents when a child either died or recovered to the point that he or she required only occasional visits with him. There were times, however infrequent, that he was glad to see the last of a parent. But he would miss John and Melinda.
Ted was back at the hospital by three, and the first thing he did was check his e-mail for the results of Hannah's blood work. He was relieved to find everything within normal range and picked up the phone to share the news with Peg.
She broke down at the sound of his voice.
"It's good news," he said quickly. "Everything's fine."
"Oh, thank you!" she cried. "Thank you, God."
"Are you all right, Peg?"
Her voice was small and sad when she said, "How long do you think it'll be before I don't freak out over every fever?"
"You probably always will. But remember, the longer her remission lasts the better her long-term prognosis becomes."
"I know. I keep telling myself that, but then she has a fever and I go bananas. She hates that."
"Someday she'll have kids of her own, and then she'll understand."
"Do you think so?" Peg asked softly. "Do you really think she'll grow up and have children?"
"Well, you know there's always a chance the chemo damaged her reproductive organs, but nothing in her report gives me anything to worry about today."
"Then I'll try not to worry, either. Thanks for rushing the results."
"No problem. I'll see you in a couple of months for her regular checkup. In the meantime, don't hesitate to call if you need me."
"Oh, you know I won't," she said, and they shared a laugh.
After Ted hung up, he sent an e-mail to remind his friends about the party on Block Island. The guys had been to a few of the anniversary parties by then, not to mention numerous other parties thrown by one or both of the Duffy women, and Ted knew they wouldn't miss it.
He was working on his grant application an hour later when Smitty wrote back. Ted noticed right away that his friend had copied Caroline on the reply.
"Looking
forward to the party," Smitty wrote. "Let us know the details. Black tie, right? Wasn't the funeral today? How are you doing?"
Ted stared for a long time at Caroline's e-mail address, realizing he now had a way to contact her. Not that he would… But the e-mail address loomed on the screen, almost taunting him with how simple it would be to send her a message. But he didn't do it. Instead, he replied to all of them.
"Yes, black tie," Ted wrote. "My mom said we can have the guesthouse for the weekend, so let's go out to the island that Friday afternoon. The funeral was today, and they asked me to speak. My colleagues said I didn't embarrass myself. Tough day, but then I returned to good news about one of my other patients. Life goes on, right?" He stopped typing for several minutes before he added, "How's Caroline's ankle?" and pressed "send" before he could talk himself out of asking the perfectly innocent question. Since he had been with her when it happened, no one would wonder why he was asking. Plus he was dying to know the answer.
Ted would have deleted Smitty's message along with the tempting address for Caroline, but it would have been pointless since he had already committed it to memory.
He tried to go back to work on the grant application, but his concentration was blown, so he decided to go up to the in-patient ward to check on some of his patients. Two hours later, he returned to his office refreshed by the time he had spent with the kids. They had a way of making his worries seem trivial. Messages from Smitty and Caroline had arrived in his absence. Ted's heart kicked into gear as he forced himself to read Smitty's first.
"They put her cast on yesterday, and she was in a lot of pain last night. She's staying at my place, and I'm doing my best to dote on her. She's on the sofa with her laptop, so you might hear from her. Don't pay any attention to her complaints about my cooking! We'll miss you this weekend. Hope you manage to get some sleep while you're on call."
Ted was more bothered than he wanted to be by the image of cozy domesticity Smitty had portrayed. Another emotion blazed through him that was new since he met Caroline: jealousy. He was bitterly jealous of his best friend and couldn't bear the idea of them spending the week together in Smitty's Upper East Side co-op. In light of what had transpired over the weekend, Ted had hoped Caroline would end it with Smitty before his friend got more involved with her. Apparently, that wasn't going to happen any time soon. If anything, it sounded like the two of them had grown closer after her injury.