Twenty minutes later, he said another, "Thank you, God," wiped his face and stood to go, renewed. The few minutes had changed him. At the door, he turned toward the chapel again, hating to leave, then he headed to his locker.
He worried about Dr. Ramírez and Mitchelson and everyone who'd gone through the siege. Although still shaky from the experience, inside he was different. Within he felt strong and at peace, finally. He knew he could get through the next few years as he searched for God's will for his life.
How? He didn't know, but now he would listen.
His arm had started to hurt and he felt completely exhausted. Ready to drive home and crash for the rest of the day, Mike pushed through the doors into the E.R.
"Fuller," one of the morning shift nurses said, "there's a message for a Dr. Fuller on the E.R. bulletin board. Guess that means you." She pointed across the hall.
Why would anyone think he was Dr. Fuller? He took down the pink slip and read it.
"Seems you worked with this kid in the E.R. yesterday and her parents want to thank you." The nurse passed him with her arms full of supplies.
"How do you know?" But he knew how. Privacy was nonexistent in the E.R. He guessed everyone had read the note.
With a groan, he turned toward the elevators. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, not now. He wanted to go home and sleep for two or three days. The delayed reaction to the scene in the trauma room punched him in the stomach and neck and sapped his physical strength.
Maybe he'd go home now and come in to see the kid tomorrow, but returning would mean waking up and getting dressed to drive here. Of course, the kid might be discharged by then. Might as well go now. The parents wanted to thank him. That was nice and seldom happened to an orderly. Shouldn't take too long.
While the elevator ascended, he tried to figure out which patient this could be. He'd worked a double shift and seen at least three or four children. When the elevator stopped at the third floor, he got out and headed toward room 323.
Once there, he glanced inside. The room was filled with balloons and stuffed animals. In the bed, he saw the little redheaded girl who'd come in the previous evening with asthma. She'd been struggling to breathe but had calmed down when Mike talked to her and gave her the polar bear he'd made from a towel.
Leaning over the bed was the child's mother who'd been so worried yesterday. "Dr. Fuller." She smiled and walked toward him. "I'm Julie Andres. I can't tell you how much my husband and I appreciate your care for Sarah."
"Yes, Dr. Fuller. We were so worried." Mr. Andres rose from the chair next to the bed and walked toward Mike with his hand out. "This was the worst attack Sarah has had. We're glad she stabilized. She's going home after a few more tests."
Mike took the hand Mr. Andres extended. "I'm glad I could help, but I'm not a doctor."
"You aren't?" The parents glanced at each other.
"We were sure you were a pediatrician." Mr. Andres let go of Mike's hand.
"No, I'm a CA, clinical assistant." Mike moved to the bed and smiled at Sarah who, although surrounded by plush animals, still held the towel bear tightly.
"Thank you," she said. "You were so nice to me."
"How are you feeling?"
She took a breath. "See, I can breathe now."
"And her blood gasses are good," Mrs. Andres said.
"I'm glad I was able to help."
Mrs. Andres caressed her daughter's arm. "You're great with children."
"I agree with my wife about that." Mr. Andres sat again and smiled at Sarah. "Thank you."
Mike patted the child's hand before he went to the door and turned to wave at her. When he left the room, he walked down the hall with an unexpected burst of energy. Heading toward the elevator, he passed a big window on the right, the window to the pediatric playroom. He stopped, took a few steps backward and looked inside.
At a table sat a little girl with an IV in her arm and on oxygen. She looked up and smiled. Close to the back wall, a child— he didn't know if this was a girl or boy because the head was shaved— sat in a wagon, reading and pointing out pictures to a woman. An older boy played with cars on another table while a pale little girl relaxed on a window seat and looked out at the view of the capital rotunda.
Children in pain.
Sick children.
Children he could help.
Children God wanted him to help.
He struggled to grasp this concept. God wanted Mike in pediatrics. The revelation hit him hard. He leaned against a wall and thought about it, filled with that certainty that, of course God wanted him in pediatrics. Why should the knowledge surprise him? God had been telling him that since Mike got here. So had most of the staff in the E.R.
God had been leading him, but Mike had resisted almost every step of the way.
He laughed. He didn't stop until he realized the children were staring at him. With another wave, he walked down the hall, confident this was where he belonged. This was his future. If it took him years and even more hard work, if it meant waiting until his mother and brother could support themselves, he knew he'd be here someday as a doctor, as a pediatrician: Michael Robert Fuller, M.D.
God had been speaking to him all along, but he'd been too stupid to hear Him, too filled with pain to pay attention, too angry to acknowledge God's voice and leading.
It seemed that, for him, the hardest part of praying was listening.
Smiling, he pushed away from the wall, dodged around the gurney, and ran toward the elevator.
He had to tell Ana what had happened.
Chapter TenMike had to see Ana. Because the scene of her being attacked was still clear in his mind, he needed to touch her, to make sure she was all right. And he had to share with her what had happened in the chapel.
It was only as he left the hospital and headed toward his car that he realized he'd called Dr. Ramírez by her first name. Ana. On top of that, he'd decided to share this experience with her before he'd considered telling his mother.
Of course, when Mike tried to find someone he'd at tempted to ignore for weeks, he couldn't. Her car was no longer in the parking lot. He had no idea of where her apartment was other than "only a few minutes" from the hospital.
He looked in the telephone directory but she wasn't listed. No way was he going to ask the E.R. clerk for the phone number or address. In the first place, due to privacy issues, the clerk couldn't give him either one. Besides, Mike didn't want anyone to know he wanted to get in touch with her.
His mother would know how to get Ana's number. Did he want his mother to know he planned to talk to Ana? Didn't matter. If things worked out as Mike hoped, she'd know soon enough and be happy about it. She'd probably believe Ana and Mike were together because she'd maneuvered things so cleverly. If they ever got together.
Then he stopped in the middle of the parking lot, as he was putting the key into the lock on his car. What was all this about him and Ana being together?
Slow down, he told himself. He should not rush into anything. Probably better to go home, sleep for a few hours, take tonight off with pay and decide what to do tomorrow. As much as he'd like to talk to Ana tonight, acting impetuously always got him in trouble. Another family trait.
He unlocked the door, got into the car and started the engine.
If he waited until tomorrow or the next day or next week to talk to Ana, he could spend the time until then rejoicing, knowing God had always heard him and that he had a future, that God was leading him.
Would Ana be part of that? Putting the car in gear, he headed out of the lot and turned left.
What an idiot he was. He had a problem with acting recklessly. Actually, that wasn't the problem. He acted recklessly very well. His problem was in slowing down, thinking things through. He knew that, but his mind kept going full speed into fantasyland. It was way too early to consider Ana's place in his life. He shouldn't even think of Ana's sharing his future. Not yet, but he could feel that impulsiveness attempting to take ov
er again.
And yet the entire experience— from the peril in the trauma room to his prayers in the chapel— had clarified his feelings. He couldn't ignore the fact that Ana or he could have been killed. What was the use of putting life on hold when it could have ended in the flash of a knife?
He didn't have to run to her immediately. He shouldn't. That would probably scare her anyway. If the strength of his feelings frightened him, imagine what a shock this would be to her.
He needed to slow down, rein in his rash nature.
What he could do was talk to her, just talk to her, tell her what had happened in the chapel, in Sarah's hospital room. She'd like to hear that. After all, nothing was going on between them. Nothing. They weren't dating. They worked together and were friends, nothing more than friends, through their families. He had no desire to take it further.
Oh, sure.
The truth was, he really wanted to be with Ana, but right now, his life was too crazy for a relationship. He was in no position to consider marriage.
Marriage? Where in the world had that idea come from? Marriage was not a possibility. What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all? He pulled off the road and into a parking lot to contemplate the situation. His mind and thoughts were going around in circles at a thousand miles an hour, headed for a serious crash if he didn't gain control.
Slowing his brain, he attempted to consider the situation, all that he'd gone through that night, and put it into a reasonable, rational order. First, he knew how hard it would be to talk to Ana as a friend and a colleague after he'd held her in his arms again, after she'd clung to him.
Second, he was aware that his family also got in trouble by not only conning others but themselves. It was important that he not lie to himself about Ana. The truth was, no matter how hard he tried to deny or ignore it, he wanted more than friendship.
Trying to be reasonable and not to lie to himself, he wondered if it was impetuous to want to be with a woman he cared about more than he should, a woman who'd been the length of a knife blade away from death.
He didn't think so, but he'd made a lot of poor choices during his life.
He didn't need to call her today. Not really. Today he'd sleep and think about things, and life and priorities. He could wait until the next day to come to a decision.
A good plan but a doomed one.
After he got home, he'd slept from eight in the morning to six that evening when he'd gotten up to make a couple of sandwiches. He was a little stiff from riding Jimmy's back and being banged into the wall, but rest and a soak in the tub would take care of that. No big deal.
While he ate, he kept glancing at the phone, almost calling Ana until he realized that he couldn't call her. He didn't have her number and was not going to call Mr. Ramírez to get it. The best thing to do was to watch a little television with his mother, read and go to bed early.
His determination failed. That impulsiveness again.
"Mr. Ramírez," he said when he called at seven-thirty after holding out for an excruciating ninety minutes. "This is Mike Fuller. Could you please give me Ana's phone number?"
"I could, but she's right here. Do you want to talk to her?"
"Sure." The decision of when to call her had been taken out of his hands, hands which at this moment were a little clammy.
He could hear muffled voices, then Ana said, "Hey, Mike. How are you? Have you recovered from last night?"
She thought he was calling to check on her. That was okay, a good start for the conversation. "I'm fine. My arm doesn't hurt much, but I don't mind not working tonight. How are you?"
"Okay. My eye hurts a little. It looks pretty ugly and will get worse. Maybe it's a good thing I'm not going in. I'd probably scare the patients." She paused. "Mike, thank you for coming into the trauma room. You probably saved the lives of both the patient and me."
"Glad to do it." Mike looked around the living room. On the sofa, his mother was sketching and Tim was flipping through a magazine next to her. Tim reading on a Saturday evening? No way. The kid was trying to listen to his call.
"I'm taking the phone outside. Give me a minute." Once on the porch, he sat on the front step. "I'd like to see you sometime."
"Okay." Her voice sounded pleased. "We can sympathize about our aches and pains. When?"
"Could I pick you up for breakfast Monday?" Breakfast seemed like a good choice. Not a real date like lunch or dinner. That would work until they decided where they were going, if they discovered anything between them. He knew how he felt. Was she interested in anything beyond comparing injuries?
"Breakfast? Sounds nice. Do you know where I live?"
He took down her address and phone number. "Is eight o'clock okay? That's early on a day off."
"Sounds fine. I can never sleep late. I'll see you then."
After they said goodbye, Mike turned off the cell and walked back into the house. Both his mother and brother glanced at him then back at their sketching and reading without saying a word. He picked up the remote and turned on the television.
"Mike," Tim said. "Are you going to use the car tonight?"
"Nope." He searched for a ball game.
"Could I borrow it? I told Luz and Quique I'd try to get the car and take them to a movie."
Luz, Quique and Tim as friends. That was good. Tim hadn't had a chance to make friends in the neighborhood.
"Sure." Mike tossed him the keys.
"What about you and Ana?" his mother asked as Tim hurried into his room to get ready.
"We're going to have breakfast together on Monday." Before his mother could begin to celebrate, he added, "Only breakfast, Mom. That's all. Don't get excited."
He shouldn't have wasted the warning. His mother tried to hide a smile but he knew she was humming "Here Comes the Bride" inside her head.
"I'm going to church tomorrow morning." Mike sat down and turned on the television to watch the Astros. "I'd like you to come with Tim and me."
"To church?" She stopped humming and gazed at Mike with a blank expression. "Why would I go to church? I mean, really, why would I want to?"
Putting the remote down, Mike said, "Francie took me to worship a couple of years ago. I really liked it. I stopped going for a while, but that was a mistake. Francie took me back to church just a few weeks ago. I've missed it. Church helps me. God gives me strength to live the way I believe I should. I'd like to share that with you."
"Sunday at church?" She glanced at her lap and smoothed the gauzy material of her mauve skirt, her bracelets jingling with each movement. Then she looked at him. He thought he could see terror and sadness in her eyes. "Mike, I'm not good enough to go to church. I'm not one of those churchy-type people."
"Mom, you'll be accepted and loved at this church. Francie goes there. If you're uncomfortable at any time, we'll leave, but I'd like to share this with you."
"I don't know." When he didn't push anymore, she nodded. "All right." She sighed. "If it makes you happy. What time do I need to get up?"
"We'll leave at ten."
She fidgeted a little more. "I dress funny." The panic was back in her eyes. "Not like those churchwomen in their expensive, fashionable clothes and purses and matching high heels. What should I wear?"
"Mom, Francie started going to church there only a few months after she got out of prison. She wore old jeans, but neither her clothes nor her past made any difference with the church members. They'll love you. They want you there. God wants you there and doesn't care what you're wearing."
"Oh." She nodded. "I'll try it once."
"Once," he agreed.
* * *
Sunday morning went well. They sat with Tim, a very pregnant Francie and her husband, Brandon. His mother had stayed through the service and had charmed everyone who introduced themselves to her, including the minister.
After the service, his mother agreed that she might try it again. After all, she got to see Francie and Brandon and the songs were pretty, too. The preaching
she wasn't as sure about. "The man surely hit a lot of tough places in my life. Felt sort of like meddling to me."
* * *
"That's one ugly shiner." Ana studied herself in the mirror. Her eye, surrounded by deep purple bruises, was almost swollen shut. The ice packs she'd used probably helped some, but her face would be a multicolored splendor for days.
What should she do about it? This girlie stuff was as new to her as were all the bruises. Should she cover them? No way. Although she might be able to even out the skin tone, nothing would hide the swelling. And to cover the purple would take more concealer than Wal-Mart carried.
With a sponge, she patted on a little liquid foundation and puffed on a light dusting of powder. That was the best she could do. If she turned her head to the side, she looked okay: khaki slacks, nice makeup, a pink cotton tee that flattered her complexion. Pretty good except for the really ugly part around the other eye, which nothing could help.
She picked up a pair of sunglasses and slid them on. Better. She wouldn't scare people on the street.
But should she wear them in the restaurant? Would it be impolite to sit across from Mike in sunglasses?
"Stop being such a girl," she told her reflection. "This is just breakfast. Nothing big. When did you get to be so wishy-washy? So anxious to please?"
Since she saw Mike the first time, she answered herself.
Whirling away from the mirror, she left the room, grabbed her purse and headed downstairs to meet him. After all, this wasn't a date. No reason he should come up to her apartment when this wasn't a date.
Odd, but she felt as though it was one.
As she was getting off the elevator, she saw Mike standing in front of the other one. How embarrassing it would've been if he'd gone up in one elevator while she'd come down in the other. They could have played that game for hours.
She might as well give up. She'd never been cool and felt fairly certain she never would be.
"Hey." She grabbed his arm. "I decided to meet you down here."
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