Love's Healing Touch

by Jane Myers Perrine

  "Hey, kid," he said. "My name's Mike. Your shirt says you're Naomi."

  "My leg," she whispered. "Hurts. A lot."

  "I bet it does, buddy. The doctor will be out in a few minutes. She'll help you."

  "Fuller," Dr. Ramírez called.

  Mike started to move away when Naomi grabbed his hand. "Don't go," she said.

  "I'll be back as soon as I can." He wished he had something to give Naomi to keep her company. He took a clean towel, tied it in a knot and handed it to Naomi. "This is Whitey, the friendly polar bear who lives in the hospital and keeps little girls company."

  Naomi took the towel and hugged it.

  "Nicely done, Fuller," Dr. Ramírez said from the doorway. "Have you thought about working in pedes?"

  He faced her. "Need a transfer?"

  "Yes." Dr. Ramírez strode toward Naomi then gently pushed the hair from the child's forehead. "Move this gurney into Exam 4 and take her mother upstairs."

  By 5:00 a.m., the hospital had quieted again. He'd transferred four victims to the operating room then to their rooms once they came out of recovery. And he'd taken one body to the morgue. His least favorite transport.

  Not a hard night in the E.R., but two shifts added up to a backache and the need to relax for a few minutes. He wished he had time for a nap, but when he got to the break room, another orderly snored on the sofa.

  He took a thermos from his locker and poured the last of the coffee into his cup. With a groan, he settled down in the only comfortable chair in the room and leaned his head back.

  Barely a few breaths short of falling asleep, he opened his eyes to see Dr. Ramírez put a can of soda on the table and drop in the chair across from him. She seemed to be favoring her right leg and was rubbing her thigh almost surreptitiously.

  "Old football injury," she said with a slight smile before she nodded at his thermos and asked, "Saving money?"

  "I can't take the coffee someone makes in the E.R."

  "I know." She held up her Coke. "Tastes like it's spiked with old motor oil."

  "My mother makes terrific coffee. I'd rather have it than pay for it in the cafeteria."

  "I heard you say your mother is home from prison."

  He nodded and shifted in the chair.

  "What was she in for?"

  "Forgery."

  "Checks?"

  "Paintings."

  "Oh, an artist." She took a drink of Coke. As she lifted her chin, Mike watched a wisp of hair that had come loose to curl on her neck. He'd never thought of Dr. Ramírez as having curls or long hair…and he'd better not think about that.

  She put the can down and licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue. The motion wasn't meant to be seductive, just cleaning up after the last drop, but all Mike could think of for a few seconds was her lips, round and soft and pink. She'd spoken for several seconds before Mike realized she'd said something.

  "I'm sorry. I'm falling asleep. What did you say?"

  "My uncle was in prison." She stood and put the can in the recycle bin.

  "Oh?" He swiveled to look at her.

  "It was really hard on his family."

  That was all she said. She didn't offer sympathy or platitudes or advice or dig further into his life. She only commented on a shared experience. And she didn't say, "I know how you feel." Because no one really did.

  "Thank you."

  "Fuller," came a male voice from the hall. "Transfer."

  "And the fun keeps on coming," Dr. Ramírez said. She gave Mike a smile, that little smile that was only a curving of her lips. It made the long shift seem not nearly as bad.

  * * *

  Ana stretched and massaged the muscles in her neck. She hated the night shift, but that was what she had to cover if she wanted to learn everything she could about emergency medicine.

  Besides, her schedule wasn't all that bad: on twenty-four hours, off twenty-four, with no more than seventy hours a week. It allowed her time with her family, time to study and a few hours to rest.

  The pain in her thigh was worse than it had been for years. She must have twisted her leg. Now all she wanted to do was elevate it for a few hours. Not an easy thing to do in the E.R.

  In the long run, she was sorry she'd heard the conversation between Fuller and the other orderly. Better for her not to know about the private lives of anyone she worked with.

  So why was she interested in Fuller? Had she made him her project of the year? Usually her projects were easier to handle, more open and not nearly as attractive as Fuller. Wait. When had she started to think of Fuller as attractive?

  Well, what woman wouldn't? He had great longish dark hair and a terrific smile, although few people over the age of ten saw it. What she usually saw was a face clear of expression with a hint of anger in the depths of his dark eyes. The charm and the anger made him, well, interesting, as if he had dimensions he never shared.

  Add to that his broad shoulders, great build and the black stubble that covered his chin and cheeks by the end of the shift, and— ¡caramba!— what's not to like?

  Which meant it was time to get back to the E.R. before she had any more completely unprofessional thoughts about a man with no ambition. Maybe in other people's minds, Fuller wouldn't be seen as lacking in ambition. He worked hard, made good decisions, was great with kids. On the other hand, as an orderly he wasn't using every bit of his ability. Why wasn't he in school? Her brothers always told her she was an education snob, and maybe she was, but she hated it when people didn't push themselves to live up to their potential.

  Besides that, he was a man who had clearly but politely told her to leave him alone, a man she had absolutely no interest in.

  None at all.

  * * *

  "Hey, chica," Enrique, Ana's sixteen-year-old brother, said as she entered her family's home that evening. "What's for dinner?"

  "What does it matter, Quique? You eat everything I put on the table. You'd eat lizards if I could catch enough to fill you up." She grabbed him in a hug that became a wrestling match when he tried to slip away.

  "Sounds good."

  "And you never put on a pound." Ana glanced at his skinny body then down at her rounder hips. "I don't think we come from the same family."

  She headed for the kitchen and glanced back at him. "Where are you going?" As if she didn't know. He was wearing baggy shorts, a Spurs T-shirt and his favorite Nike runners.

  "Pickup game at Rolando's."

  "Dinner is at seven. Be home." She glared at him, well aware that he'd probably grab a bite with Rolando's family before he meandered home in a few hours. "I'd like to see you sometime."

  "Mira." He held out his arms and rotated slowly in front of her. "Look, here I am."

  "Just go." She waved as he ducked out the door.

  "Ana, is that you?"

  Hearing her father's voice from the kitchen, she hurried toward it. "Hi, Papi."

  Her father sat at the table doing a crossword puzzle. He and Enrique looked so much alike. Both six feet tall and slender. Her father had streaks of white in his still-full, dark hair. Before her mother's death almost a year ago, he'd been a quiet and often moody man. Since then, he'd retreated deeper, lost any spring in his step and his shoulders were more rounded. He was still a handsome man but not a happy one, as much as he tried to hide it.

  "What's a five-letter word for hackneyed? Ends in an E."

  "How 'bout stale or trite?"

  "Those might fit." His pen hovered over the folded newspaper.

  She pulled an apron from the pantry, tied it around her, and continued to watch her father. He was always doing puzzles. Crossword and Sudoku and anagrams. He had a basket by his chair with puzzle books in it and spent most of his time at home solving those puzzles. He'd become a hermit.

  "Papi, you have to get out more." She picked up a dishrag and squirted detergent on it. "Let's go to a movie next Saturday."

  He didn't answer, just stared at the crossword clues.

  The kitche
n cabinets were dark walnut; the linoleum floor that was supposed to look like bricks was well-worn. This place felt a lot more like home than the tiny efficiency she'd recently rented a few blocks from the hospital and spent so little time in. She squeezed out the dishrag and started cleaning the white tile counters.

  When she finished, she said, "I thought I'd fix enchiladas tonight." She pulled down a jar of tomato sauce. Her mother had always made her sauce from scratch, with real tomatoes, but this would just have to do. Except for her father, no one could tell the difference. After eating his wife's cooking for thirty-five years, he knew homemade sauce from canned.

  Ana's philosophy about cooking was if she covered every dish with cheese and onion, they tasted great. Well, not flan, of course. Because her father was diabetic, she used low fat cheese and watched his portions although he did pretty well keeping track himself.

  "Who's going to be here tonight?"

  Her father stood, held on to the back of the chair before he walked across the room. He was only sixty-one but appeared much older. A day at the store wore him out now. She'd made him go to the doctor but he said nothing was wrong with her father, not physically. How long did it take to recover from the death of a wife? Obviously, a year wasn't enough.

  "Robbie and Martita are coming with Tonito and the baby. She said she'd bring a cake," he said.

  "Luz, Quique and Raúl also?" Ana listed the other siblings who lived in Austin. Her brother Robbie, his wife and their small family were fun to be around, and Martita made wonderful cakes. "I want to be sure so I can make enough enchiladas for everyone and still leave some for your lunch Saturday." If Quique didn't eat them when he went through the refrigerator later.

  "Well, Raúl will probably stop by. He's between gigs."

  Raúl was always between gigs. Fortunately, he had a steady job at the family's furniture store Robbie managed. "Is he between girlfriends?"

  "I'm never between girlfriends," Raúl said as he came in from the garage.

  "Oh, yes, I know. Women always throw themselves at you. Poor dears." Ana pulled tortillas from the fridge. Store-bought tortillas, another shortcut her mother would never have considered.

  "¿Cómo no? Why not? They can't resist my smile or my guitar."

  What was he going to do in the future? Raúl floated through life, making it on his dark good looks, great smile and personality, plus a dab of talent.

  "Hey, Ana, no te preocupes. Don't worry."

  "Why would I worry about you?" She took out a slab of white cheese and began to grate it.

  "Because you always worry about me and Luz and Quique. We're all young." He pulled one of his guitars from the hall closet and came into the kitchen. "We'll grow up someday."

  Ana rolled her eyes. "I hope so."

  "We'll never be as responsible as you are." He ran his fingers over the strings. "After all, you were born responsible, but you don't always have to worry about us."

  "Yes, she does, Raúl." Her brother Robbie followed his five-year-old son, Tonito, into the kitchen and placed a cake on the counter. "That's what Ana does. Worries about her family. She's a rescuer."

  "Someone has to do it," Robbie's wife, Martita, said. "It's a full-time job. I refuse to take it on." She handed Marisol, the baby, to Robbie and sat at the kitchen table. "But sometime, chica, you are going to have to stop taking care of your family and find a life of your own."

  A life of her own? An interesting concept. Taking care of her family was, well, habit— one she'd never tried to break until she realized how dependent her father was getting on her. That, and the short drive from her little efficiency to the hospital were the reasons she'd moved. Not one to make changes easily, she felt this one was enough for now.

  "You want a date?" Raúl said. "I could fix you up with some guys."

  "Thank you," Ana said politely, but she'd never take him up on that. Although she was only twenty-eight, all his friends were years younger than she in both age and maturity.

  "Don't ever go out with any of his friends," Robbie said. "None of them are serious about anything."

  "Why don't you come to church with us?" Martita said. "There's a big singles' group there."

  Ana smiled but didn't answer. Other than weddings and funerals, she'd seldom been to church, although Martita had often invited her to the community chapel her family attended. Ana'd never consider going to church only to find a date. It didn't seem quite right to her.

  After dinner, they gathered in the family room to sing "Adelita" and "De colores" and other family favorites. Raúl and Quique sat on the bench by the fireplace and strummed their guitars. Her father leaned back in his blue recliner while Martita held her kids on the other recliner, the one Ana's mother had always sat in. Everyone else relaxed on the sofa while Tonito played with his trucks on the floor.

  As she watched, Ana was filled with love and with a terrible feeling that this was to be her life: to watch while her brothers and sister married and had babies and the babies grew up and married. And through those years, she'd worry about them, every one of them, exactly as Raúl and Robbie said she would. Forever. She knew that about herself, too.

  Sometimes, like now, she wanted more. Now that she'd reached her professional goal, she needed to look ahead. What she wanted now was a family of her own.

  Odd— she hadn't thought about marriage for a long time, not since high school when Tommy Schmidt had wanted to marry her after graduation. Her drive to be a doctor had broken up their relationship. There hadn't been anything serious since. Oh, she'd dated, but she'd been so wrapped up in her family, in her push to finish medical school and her need to learn everything she could, to be the best doctor possible, to finish the residency, that she'd never found time for a relationship. Hadn't really wanted one.

  Now that she was almost there, what would she do?

  Was it too late for her to have a life and family of her own? If she did, she was going to have to leave the warm, comfortable circle of her family and enter the world of dating. The whole idea bothered her. She wasn't good at flirtation or chatter, and her intensity frightened men.

  Then the image of Mike Fuller's unsmiling face danced in her brain. As much as she tried to force his image away, she couldn't. As far as she could tell, she didn't intimidate him.

  She could not, would not even consider him. How many times did she need to remind herself he was too young for her? No, that was an excuse. How old was he? Twenty-two, twenty-three? Six or seven years wasn't that much of an age difference.

  But there were other reasons. To her, he seemed unmotivated and that bothered her, a lot. And he was so guarded, so wary and uncommunicative.

  No, Fuller wasn't the man for her, but, well, other than Raul's friends he was the only unmarried man under fifty she knew.

  Chapter FourWhat really scared Mike was that he could always tell when Dr. Ramírez was in the hospital. He knew when he walked into the E.R.— without even seeing her— if she was there. He didn't understand how this happened. It couldn't be the scent of her perfume because she didn't wear any.

  So how did he know?

  He refused to believe in psychic phenomena, but every time he spotted her in the E.R. for the first time in a shift, it didn't surprise him.

  If he wanted to know for sure, her schedule wasn't hard to figure out. She worked three of seven nights each week. Sometimes he thought about going to the nurses' station and trying to glance at her schedule. Inconspicuously of course because staff was always around.

  Besides, the idea of actually planning this and carrying it out felt a little strange, as if there was actually something between the two of them, a relationship of some kind. He shuddered. After Cynthia and with the uncertainty of his life now, even the word scared him. No, there wasn't a relationship between him and Dr. Ramírez, and he could never consider the possibility.

  Nevertheless, when he walked in that day at 3:00 p.m. for a double shift, he knew she was there.

  * * *

 
Ana gently probed the leg of the crash victim. She couldn't feel anything odd. Of course, the swelling didn't allow for a complete manual examination. "X-ray," she shouted and turned to glance over her shoulder.

  He was there. Fuller. Getting ready to transfer the victim to a gurney so the other orderly could push the gurney of another patient into its place.

  His presence made her feel a little giddy.

  Get a grip, she lectured herself.

  "Dr. Ramírez," said an RN. "You have another patient."

  "Thanks, Olivia." She dried her hands and held them out for the nurse to slide the clean gloves on her.

  The entire night passed in the same way, patient after patient rolling in, being attended to, then moving on. Between those emergencies, she enjoyed the tantalizing glimpses of Fuller transporting patients or checking with an EMT or picking up a patient's chart. As she did with everyone, she nodded to him or thanked him or got out of his way so he could take the gurney to surgery or a room. At midnight, her aching back forced her to lean against the wall and stretch her muscles. Fuller hurried past, this time giving her a smile, much to her surprise.

  He had a great smile. Too bad she didn't see it more. Or, maybe it was a good thing. If he smiled more often, she might behave more foolishly, if that were possible.

  During a lull a few hours later, she decided to take a nap. She had two choices. The first: she could hurry over to the on-call rooms on the fifth floor of the east wing. Narrow little places, each with a bed and little else. The problem was, every time she took off her shoes, settled in the bed and pulled the covers over her, her cell rang. Walking all the way over there wasn't worth the trouble.

  So she decided on the second choice. She headed for the sofa in the break room and hoped she didn't have to pull rank to get it. Fortunately, she got there first. When she was almost asleep, the door swung open. She knew it was Fuller. How? She still couldn't figure it out.

  She opened her eyes a slit to see if she was right. She was.

  As she watched, he stepped into the room and watched her with a gentle expression, one that didn't fit the Fuller she knew, the Fuller who seldom spoke to her. It must be the dim light that allowed the deviant thought that Fuller might look at her in that way, caring and— oh, certainly not— tender.