by Roz Denny
Her eyes flickered briefly, then closed as if weighted.
Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. "Now what?" he muttered, half under his breath. Restless, he got up and opened her closet. Right off, he spied the robe she had on the other night. He laid it carefully beside her and pulled out dresser drawers until he found her nightclothes. He'd kind of figured her for the cotton-gown, little-pastel-flower type. A much washed, stretched out, oversize nightshirt showed Gabe how unpredictable she was. And it was inscribed with a most unlikely slogan. My Life is Filled with Romance, Lust, Danger and Dust Balls the Size of Tumbleweeds. He chuckled to himself, placed it with the robe and left to make coffee.
He carried her cup into the bedroom to find that she hadn't moved a muscle. Nor did efforts to interest her in coffee succeed. All she did was mumble and roll over.
At last Gabe gave up, drew the covers over her and drank the coffee himself. According to Sarah's bedside clock, it was closing fast on one. Should he go or stay? He couldn't decide.
He yawned and went back for another cup of the Kona blend that was his favorite. Returning to the living room, he sat in the recliner and picked up a book with dog-eared pages. How to Win at Parenting. Funny, he'd always assumed parents won by default. He read the first few chapters, paying close attention to the notes Sarah had penciled in the margins. They said things like "good idea, can't afford." That was beside a paragraph about getting your child a puppy. He smiled. Meticulous as she was, he couldn't picture her with a dog.
Gabe was engrossed in the chapter on single parenting when he heard Mike cry out for Sarah. Doubting that Sarah would hear, he hurried down the hall to the boy's room. Light spilling from a Ninja Turtle night-light bathed the room in an eerie green glow. Mike was all but hidden beneath stuffed animals.
Not wanting to frighten him, Gabe spoke softly from the doorway. "Mike, it's Gabe. I gave your mom a lift home from the party, kicker. Do you need her, or can I help?"
He heard restless thrashing, more sobbing and an almost garbled plea for Sarah. Gabe realized then the child was talking in his sleep. He stepped into the room and walked to the bed, hoping to wake him from the throes of a nightmare.
At first, Gabe thought Mike was feverish. Sweat dampened his fine blond hair. A hand to the brow revealed that his skin was cold. Clammy. Now Gabe could see that he was curled into a tight fetal ball, both hands pressed to his stomach. Even in the muted light, he saw where recent tears had streaked colorless cheeks. Gabe flipped on the bedside lamp and lost no time shaking the child awake.
"Mike, Mike. Talk to me, kicker. Are you in pain? Show me where you hurt."
"G-Gabe?" Mike blinked in the brightness, but the eyes he turned on the man were dark. Unfocused. "Wh-where's Mommy?"
The plea tore through Gabe's heart. In the weeks since they'd met he'd never known Mike to be less than tough. Grown-up. He didn't say "Mommy."
"Mike, listen to me. Your mom is sleeping. How long have you been like this? Do any of your friends at school have the flu?"
Mike scrubbed his eyes with one hand. "I felt okay this afternoon. Don't know if anybody else is sick. Gabe…it hurts bad."
Gabe chewed at the inside of his mouth. He thought of one other thing. "Did you and your sitter eat a lot of junk food tonight? I know my brother and I used to pig out whenever the folks went out for the evening."
Mike shook his head. "Mom left money for pizza. Jenny Sue ate it. I didn't want any." A big tear found its way between his freckles.
No pizza? This was mote serious than Gabe had thought. Maybe appendix. Lord, he hoped not. "Show me exactly where you hurt. Can you do that?"
The boy attempted to straighten his legs, but cried out and grabbed his stomach high on the left side. Soundless tears rolled down his cheeks.
Gabe swore under his breath and cast a glance toward Sarah's room. He could drive Mike to emergency, but by whose authority? Because they weren't related, he doubted anyone would accept his permission to treat the child. Then Mike whimpered again. "Don't try moving, Mike. Let me get your mother. It'll be all right. I promise." Yet as he made his way next door, Gabe wasn't nearly so confident. He'd read somewhere that pain from appendicitis occasionally radiated to the left side, but he thought it stayed low in the abdomen. Mike seemed fairly consistent in holding his hands high, just under his rib cage.
He threw open her door and switched on the bedside lamp. Sarah was beginning to stir. "Mike?" she said, squinting, "is that you?"
"It's Gabe. I need you, Sarah." His voice was raw, urgent.
Sarah sat up fast and clutched the covers beneath her chin. "What are you doing in my bedroom?" she hissed, putting a hand to her reeling head.
About that time Mike cried out for her again. She threw the covers aside and got her feet tangled in the sheets. She almost fell, but Gabe caught her. "Let go," she said, struggling. "What's wrong? I've never heard him cry like that!"
Gabe supported her with a firm hand around her waist. "I've been trying to tell you, Sarah. He's sick. He's crying with stomach pains."
She jerked from his hold and discovered she was still wearing her gown. Her eyes clouded in memory. She said, "Maybe he has the flu."
"I don't think so, Sarah. But he needs a doctor. I'll go sit with him while you get dressed and call your doctor. Tell him to meet us at the hospital. Then I'll drive you there."
"I want to see him myself." She straightened her dress and started for the door.
"Let me get him. You're shaking and you look like a ghost. That won't help him. Trust me, Sarah."
"All right." Her voice was steady, but just barely. "Give me five minutes."
"It'll be all right, Sarah. If it's his appendix, they'll take it out. If it's something else, they'll find out what."
"Wh-what time is it?" she asked.
"Almost one-thirty," he said, checking his watch.
"Why are you still here? Where's Jenny Sue?"
"Later, Sarah. Go. Dress."
As she went, Gabe realized what a tight rein he had on his emotions. He wanted to drive away the anxiety he'd seen lurking deep in her eyes. He wanted her to trust him, dammit! Mike cried out again, forcing him to put those particular feelings on a back burner. There was no doubt that his heart was involved here. He could wait to find out about hers.
True to her word, Sarah popped into Mike's bedroom door in five minutes. Pale, but efficient, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and slid a thermometer under his arm. "It's below normal," she announced a minute later.
"What'd the doctor say?" Gabe asked.
"They're paging him. His answering service wanted me to call back with the temperature reading."
She left to do that while Gabe dug out Mike's Batman slippers. The boy said he didn't have a robe, so Gabe helped him into his jacket. They were going to the hospital. Gabe didn't care what the answering service said.
Sarah came back. "Dr. Manolo will meet us at St. Jude's. But you don't have to go," she told Gabe coolly. "I can manage."
Gabe's answer was to gather the boy carefully up in his arms and strike out for his car. "You hold him," he said when Sarah followed. "I'll drive."
Gabe backed out and headed toward Pearl Harbor. Concentrating on his driving, he only half heard Mike's constant jabbering.
"Me and the guys played soccer out in the backyard today, Gabe, but I didn't do so good. I let Jim Cline get three goals. Once him and me crashed together hard. After that, he just runned faster than me."
"Ran," Sarah corrected automatically, smoothing a lock of hair out of his eyes. "Why don't you hush?" she said softly, placing a kiss on his forehead. "Puts you in a sweat thinking about soccer."
"Wait." Gabe frowned. "Tell us about that accident with Jim. Did you fall? Did he land on top of you?" He turned to Sarah. "Jim outweighs him by a good twenty pounds."
Mike caught his breath in pain. "Jim was goin' fast. He plowed into me with his head. I didn't fall, 'cause I whammed into Cubby Burke."
Sarah turned her head
and looked at Gabe. Quick moves still made her woozy. "What is it?" she asked. "You think he might have internal injuries? Oh, my Lord." She cradled her son tenderly. "I knew I shouldn't have gone to that party."
"I didn't say that, Sarah," Gabe cautioned. "We need all the facts. I think it's important to tell the doctor what happened with the boys."
Mike moaned and burrowed deeper into his mother's arms.
"Can't you hurry?" she begged, her face ashen, her eyes teary.
"We're almost there," he said, sounding calmer than his rapid pulse suggested. "Getting stopped for speeding wouldn't be in our best interests."
"No," Sarah agreed meekly. "What kind of injury would cause these symptoms, do you think?"
He remembered a football player he knew in college who had taken a hit in the lower back. "I'm not a doctor," he muttered, but Gabe recalled they'd had to surgically remove his friend's spleen.
"You brought it up," Sarah said, sounding perplexed.
"How old were you when you lost your mother?" he asked to change the subject. Not a good choice, he immediately realized.
"Fifteen," she said woodenly.
Gabe winced. "Rough. But you still had your father, right?"
Her words came as if from a distance. "Dad had just accepted a two-year tour of duty overseas. He thought I'd be better off staying here. He hired an ex-army nurse to help. She was strict and she didn't much like kids. By the time his tour was over we'd both changed. I was no longer a grief-stricken needy adolescent, and he'd been without family for too long."
Gabe's heart squeezed. "Look," he said, "here's the hospital." They found the emergency entrance and he pulled into the adjacent parking lot for hospital personnel only. "I'll carry him, then move the car."
"Don't want no doctor," Mike whimpered. "Gabe, stay. I'm scared."
Gabe made the transfer from Sarah's arms to his as smoothly as possible, but Mike still cried out.
Sarah wasn't moving very fast herself. She pressed her lips tight and walked with purpose. Already, her head was beginning to pound. And she must look a mess, she thought.
A fact confirmed by the expression on the face of the nurse at the desk. Sarah steadied herself on the counter, saying in a not-so-steady voice, "We have Farrell Michaels to see Dr. Manolo. Is he here yet?"
"Not yet," the hard-eyed nurse replied. She shoved a cupboard and some forms at Sarah. "If you'd like to fill these out, Mrs. Michaels, I can take your husband and son back into a room."
Sarah put a hand to her head and gazed helplessly at Gabe. "I, ah, that is…" She blushed. "We're not married."
The nurse, a matronly woman, lifted a brow. "Oh. I see," she said.
"No," Gabe broke in, taking command. "I don't think you do. I suggest you take all three of us to the room, then she'll fill out your papers." Let them tow the damned car. He didn't care.
Sarah flashed him a grateful smile. So this was the Gabe his mother had said couldn't be bested in a test of wills. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, glad he was on her side. On Mike's side, she corrected.
Gabe knew what this whole effort must be costing her. She had spunk, but he'd bet anything her head was churning like a cement mixer. He'd seen people run on adrenaline before. When they ran out, they crashed. He hoped the doctor came before that happened.
The nurse led them to a spotless room and stiffly told Sarah to remove Mike's outer clothing. "I'll be back for the forms and to take his temperature." It was the last they saw of her. Shortly thereafter, Dr. Manolo arrived. Gabe had just watched Sarah shakily sign the final release.
Like Gabe, Mike's doctor was dressed in formal wear. Except that his was immaculate, where Gabe's was now hopelessly rumpled.
"Well, Sarah," the physician said briskly, "let's have a look at this young man."
"Sorry to disturb your evening, Doctor." Sarah moved to the opposite side of the examining table as she spoke. "It looks as if we took you away from something important."
"I'd only just arrived home from the party I believe you left earlier. The Maxwell gathering." The two men shook hands and exchanged names. Dr. Manolo immediately shucked his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed with liquid soap. All the while, he joked quietly with Mike. Without asking direct questions, he managed to get the facts about the soccer accident, as well as Mike's symptoms.
The doctor wasn't far into the physical examination when he ran a hand over Mike's left side, and the child let out a sharp cry. Dr. Manolo straightened. "I'd need to get X-rays and have some blood drawn," he said. "I suspect the collision he had may have injured his spleen."
Gabe passed a hand over his stubbled jaw. It was what he'd feared.
Sarah blanched, clasped her hands and put them to her lips. "Spleen?" Her voice shook. She didn't object when Gabe stepped around the table and placed a warm hand on her neck. "That sounds serious," she murmured.
"Now, now," the doctor cautioned, "let's see the extent of the damage before you go falling apart. Mr. Parker, could you go to the X-ray department with the boy? I'd like a word with Sarah." Opening the door, he called for a nurse.
Gabe looked to Sarah for approval. She barely had time to nod before a woman in white breezed in and whisked Mike's gurney away. Gabe had to jog to keep up.
It seemed to Sarah that she'd no more than finished giving Dr. Manolo background information when the two returned.
"You'd have been proud of him, Sarah," Gabe said. Turning to Mike, he prompted, "Show your mother the badge they gave you for courage."
"I hurt," the little boy sniffled. "I don't wanna be brave. I wanna go home. Gabe—take me home."
"You be brave a little longer," Dr. Manolo advised, patting him on the hand. "I'll go take a peek at those films and be back in a jiffy."
When he left, Gabe joined Sarah. "You okay?" he asked.
"I can't think. My mouth feels dry as sand and my mind won't work. Whatever must Dr. Manolo think of me? I couldn't answer half the things he asked about my family history. I know next to nothing about Farrell's."
Gabe pulled her close and rubbed his chin over her hair. "Don't sweat it. He expects you to be nervous."
"I am, Gabe. What will they do?" she whispered. "Not surgery?"
He straightened. "Did the doctor say that?"
"Only in passing," she mumbled, smiling at Mike as she left Gabe's arms and stroked her son's hair.
The doctor returned. Sarah reached for Gabe's hand without thinking.
"Well," Dr. Manolo said, ignoring her alarm, "it's the spleen, all right. Enlarged." He held a gray film up to the light. "Probably bruised."
Sarah turned to look, and she shrank from the bright light.
"White blood count doesn't suggest there's any bleeding into the abdominal cavity. That's good. Excellent, in fact," the doctor went on. "We don't like taking the spleen out of children. We're beginning to think it's a defense mechanism against infection, even though it's not essential to life. I'm ordering a shot. Anti-inflammatory. If that doesn't do the trick, I'll consider placing him on a low dose of steroids."
"So he can go home?" Sarah questioned, slipping a reassuring arm around the child's thin shoulders.
The doctor tapped a pen on the table. "Can you keep him quiet? No activity other than trips to the bathroom for a week. No soccer for the rest of the school year. If he takes it up again, you'd better see he gets some protective shields to wear. Next time, he might not be this lucky."
Mike started to cry and Sarah tried soothing him.
"Hey, kicker," Gabe said, bending over him, "part of a year isn't so bad. They bench the pros longer than that sometimes." Lacing his fingers with Sarah's, he continued, "I've got a great idea. Quit fussing and maybe your mom will let you come stay at my beach house next week. I'll put a lounger on the patio. You can be lazy all day and watch the surfers qualify for the Grand Nationals. How does that sound?"
Sarah sputtered as Mike scrubbed at his eyes, and tried to smile. "All right!" .
Dr. Mano
lo grinned. "Sounds like a good deal to me. Mind if I make a house call? I haven't seen the big competition in years. Got a few medals myself before med school." He looked sheepish then and shrugged.
"You're welcome, of course," Gabe offered. "Maybe if you tell his mother surfing's respectable, she'll come Friday and spend the weekend with him herself."
Sarah didn't reply. Not to the doctor's comments, or to Gabe's. She gave the doctor a cool thanks and asked which hip he needed for Mike's shot.
"Left," he said. "I'll give it myself. Why don't you let Mr. Parker steady Mike's hands? I don't want him wiggling."
"I've managed for eight years without Mr. Parker, Doctor. Mike won't wiggle."
Gabe noticed the measurable drop in room temperature. He knew the way Sarah felt about surfing had to do with her ex. Precisely what, he wasn't sure. Her dislike of surfers must run deeper than he'd thought. It definitely didn't help his case when Mike begged to sit on his lap during the shot. By the time they left the emergency room, Sarah's short terse responses dripped icicles.
They were back at Sarah's home and had Mike tucked into bed—with a promise from Gabe that he'd definitely be back for him the next day—before Sarah asked to speak to him.
Gabe didn't like her tone.
"Mike will not be going to your beach house," she said coldly. "Not tomorrow. Not ever. I appreciate all you've done tonight, but I suggest you call him tomorrow with a plausible reason for changing your mind."
"Why, Sarah? I'd never let anything happen to him. I heard the doctor's orders. You said yourself Mike minds me better than he does you."
"That's another thing," she said. "With soccer out, you can taper off your visits. It'll give you more time to teach Sheena."
Gabe's eyes blazed. "Just like that?" He snapped his fingers. "You expect me to fade out of Mike's life? And yours? Somehow, you know Sheena's not the issue here. Tell me what's really bugging you."
"I don't like surfing, or surfers. If that's not clear enough, hear this—I don't like being manipulated. How dare you invite my son to your beach house when I'd already said no?"