All He'll Ever Need

by Loree Lough

  “Help me understand. Why this Dr. Williams instead of you?”

  “I’m not a surgeon.”

  She looked down, her long lashes dusting her cheeks. Why hadn’t he noticed the light sprinkling of freckles before?

  “It’s a delicate operation, and Dr. Williams is one of the best. Just as important, Hopkins has the best and latest equipment. Experienced surgical teams. Skilled nurses.”

  “If you had the equipment, and people in the surgical suite with the right skills here in Oakland, then could you perform the operation?”

  Eyes wide, Emily blinked. Blinked again. “No, I’m afraid not. My specialty—if I can claim one—is diagnostics. I identify problems, then connect patients with doctors most likely to solve them.”

  An answer, but he still wasn’t satisfied.

  Elbows on the table, she leaned forward. “Look. Phillip. Dr. Williams asked me to assist. That means I’ll be in the OR with Gabe the entire time.”

  Why would this Williams fellow extend such an invitation? Surely he was aware that Emily’s expertise was outside the operating room. “Assist,” he repeated. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means I can help, with clamps and suction and whatnot, in the event the surgical team is busy with other, ah, tasks.”

  In other words, Phillip thought, if something went wrong?

  “And Dr. Williams, he knows about your specialty?” He couldn’t bring himself to say medical limitations.

  “Oh, yeah . . .”

  She rolled her eyes. Her big, long-lashed eyes.

  “. . . he’s aware all right.”

  Her tone confirmed his suspicions that she and Williams had been romantically involved. Phillip didn’t know how he felt about that. How he ought to feel about it. Despite the interest she’d shown in him—which had probably been the product of wishful thinking—she was an Englisher, and whatever his current doubts, he was Amish. Outsiders didn’t last long within the community. Of the Amish who left by choice, then returned by choice, some found their time away made it easier to live the Plain life. But a few didn’t do well, waiting for others’ scrutiny to end. Which would he be, if he walked away from Pleasant Valley? One thing was certain, if she kept staring into his eyes that way, waiting for him to react to her Williams comment, he might close the one-foot gap between them, take her lovely face in his hands and—

  “He believes it’ll be good for Gabe to see me, a familiar face, before the anesthesia kicks in.”

  She’s only in your life because of your boy’s imperfect little heart. And yet he said, “You said yes, I hope. You will be there? To assist?”

  “Of course.”

  His heartbeat quickened when she licked her lips. Her full, perfectly shaped rosy lips. Twelve inches, he told himself. Just twelve inches . . .

  “I’ve grown quite fond of that kid of yours.”

  Now, she smiled, and sent his heart into overdrive. Could she hear it, beating double time, from her side of the table?

  What was wrong with him! Had he completely lost his mind . . . or his soul? How else was he to explain that, instead of focusing solely on Gabe’s health, these notions kept pummeling him!

  “It is a long drive to Baltimore,” he managed to say.

  “Yes, I’m aware. I have family there, remember?”

  Good. A change of subject, and hopefully, a change of mood.

  “You will stay with them for a few days, then?”

  “No, I’ll set up a lunch or dinner, so we can catch up in person, but I’ll grab a cot in one of the residents’ rooms. I can probably scare one up for you, too.”

  Amazing, Phillip thought, the way she could make ordinary sentences sound like music. He loved watching her talk, too, big eyes alight, dainty hands accentuating words like “in person” and “you too.”

  Distance, Baker. Keep your distance.

  “Thanks, but I will pass.” He hadn’t intended for his words to sound hard and ungrateful. He smiled, hoping to make up for it. “I will probably be exhausted enough to sleep standing up.”

  Relief brightened her pretty face and she giggled. Giggled! He loved the sound of that, too.

  “Like a horse?”

  He grinned. “My mother claims I eat like one, so why not?”

  Hands folded on the table again, Emily shook her head and stared as a smirk lifted one corner of her mouth.

  “What . . . ?”

  “That smile again. It’s . . . just . . . I don’t understand why you try so hard to hide it.”

  “I don’t.” Do I?

  “Oh, but you do. I’ve lost track of how many times it seems you’re about to smile, but you hold back.”

  His cheeks grew hot as her eyes bored into his. Part of him was flattered that she’d noticed such a thing. Mostly, though, he felt annoyed. She wasn’t a parent, so he couldn’t expect her to understand that it wasn’t easy, acknowledging the possibility that in a few days, his only child could die in the operating room. That without the surgery, he’d almost certainly die.

  Gabe’s big, innocent blue eyes flashed in his mind. Shining golden curls that surrounded his beautiful, too-pale face. The “I love you!” smile that had the power to brighten his mood, even after hours of back-breaking, knuckle-abrading labor. The thought of life without his son hit harder even than when his mother-in-law had announced, “Our Rebecca is gone, Phillip. It is the will of Gott.”

  One perfect eyebrow disappeared behind her bangs. Bangs the color of the chestnuts that fell from the big tree behind his house. If he could muster the courage to brush those bangs aside, would they feel as soft as they looked?

  He shook his head. “So, two or three hours in the OR. You are sure?”

  “If everything goes well, yes.”

  There it was again . . . if. The biggest little word in the English language.

  Emily turned the notebook slightly, so that she could read aloud some of the notes she’d scribbled in the printouts’ margins: After the operation, Williams would likely prescribe quinidine, to control the beats of Gabe’s heart, a drug that, in some cases, causes nausea or cramps, vomiting, loss of appetite, dizziness.

  “Why not some other medication, one that will not cause so many side effects?”

  “There are one or two. Which I’m sure Alex, I mean Dr. Williams, will order if the quinidine proves problematic.”

  Problematic. Interesting way to avoid saying dangerous. “If I could, I would trade places with Gabe.”

  “I believe you. You’re a wonderful, loving father.”

  “Not always. Just ask my mother.”

  Emily’s brow furrowed. “Mothers can be tough on their kids, sometimes unnecessarily so.”

  Spoken like a woman taught by experience. And yet, she’d never said anything to lead him to believe that. Phillip drank the last of his lemonade. “What I mean is, my choices of late have not brought my mother much peace of mind. Or a feeling of pride.”

  “Because you don’t speak or dress like, well, like other Amish?”

  He let silence answer her question.

  “You own a thriving business, a home, and care for a sickly son and an aging mother. Sorry if this sounds harsh, but I’d think she’d be beyond proud of you!”

  God willing, she wouldn’t repeat the “why did you go back to the old ways?” question. Because in his current frame of mind, Phillip didn’t trust himself to keep the reasons to himself. Besides, if he didn’t fully understand what was going on in his muddled mind, how did he hope to explain it to Emily?

  “That,” he answered, “and I can’t recall the last time I attended a church service.”

  “Oh?”

  Talk like this—quiet and caring and clearly personal—would only make it harder to quash the affection he felt toward her. And yet he heard himself say, “The whole ‘Trust God, always do His will’ stuff . . . There are too many Bakers in the graveyard because people relied solely on Him. Not me. I refuse to bow down to a being so heartless.” Once t
he words were out, he wished he could take them back. He believed in God and wanted to trust that He would bring Gabe through this calamity. Would that miracle revive what had died with his father, his brother, his wife?

  “Oh,” she said again; this time, her voice barely registered as a whisper. Then the clinical doctor tone returned as she began listing further details pertaining to Gabe’s post-op care.

  Her quick prayer earlier should have told him that Emily was a believer. Had his irreverent words given her reason to mistrust him?

  Phillip hoped so . . .

  . . . and hoped anything but.

  Chapter Seven

  “I am not leaving this boy’s side.”

  Sarah wouldn’t have needed to jab the air with the long, silvery knitting needle to get her point across. When her voice took on that no-nonsense tone and she glared over her wire-rimmed glasses, people tended to take her seriously. And Phillip was no exception.

  He said a silent thank-you to the nurse who’d dragged the extra recliner into Gabe’s room. This one, like Sarah’s, boasted wide arms and a pop-up footrest. Phillip settled into it, the notebook open on his lap, and tried to make sense of what Emily had penned into every white space. The words blurred, making it impossible to decipher her tidy, feminine script.

  Phillip scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbed his eyes, massaged his temples, and prayed for peace of mind. He wanted to believe God would guide the surgical team’s hands, so that afterward, Gabe could run and play like his cousins. One question blocked total trust: If the Almighty was truly in charge, would Gabe be sick in the first place? And if he continued allowing such thoughts into his head, would the Almighty even listen?

  “What is wrong with you?”

  His mother’s voice startled him, and he nearly dropped the notebook.

  “Perhaps it is you who should go home. A good night’s sleep in your own bed. That is what you need.” Her frown deepened. “Not reading the drivel in that big heavy book.”

  Drivel perfectly described Sarah’s opinions about hospitals, doctors, and everything related to them. Ignoring the cutting remark, Phillip turned his attention back to the notebook, and hoped she’d finished complaining.

  Moments later, her soft snoring told him that she’d dozed off. He got up, thinking to relieve her of the yarn and needles resting in her ample lap. But Gabe stirred and sighed softly, and he stepped up to the bed instead. Odd, he thought, that the boy’s cheeks looked flushed when the only thing covering him was a thin sheet. Gently, so as not to wake him, he bent at the waist and pressed his lips to Gabe’s forehead. Straightening, he summoned self-control and made his way to his mother’s chair. Gently, he shook her shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” came her whisper.

  “Gabe has spiked a fever. I need to—”

  “How do you know?”

  “I used your tried-and-true, never-fails method, a kiss to the forehead.”

  She started to get up, as if to do it herself, and prove him wrong. But Phillip stood between her and Gabe’s hospital bed. “I’m going to the nurses’ station to ask them to call Dr. White and see about getting him some medication to bring the temperature down.”

  “Nonsense,” she huffed. “What he needs is an ice bath. That is the only thing guaranteed to—”

  Phillip hung his head and held up one hand, silencing her. “You know that I respect your opinions, Maemm, that I love you more than life itself and appreciate everything you’ve sacrificed for Gabe and me.” He paused, partly for effect, partly to gather the courage to say what must be said. “But Gabe is my son and I will always do what I believe is in his best interest, no matter who disagrees.”

  She shoved the glasses higher on her nose, and as he approached the door, he heard her disapproving snort. She’d likely give him the silent treatment for speaking to her that way, but Phillip didn’t care. Yes, she’d been good to him and Gabe, and although he appreciated everything she’d done to help out since Rebecca’s death, Phillip had meant it when he’d said that as Gabe’s father, he’d do anything in his power to protect and care for his child, and no one had better try to stop him.

  Two nurses stood side by side at the desktop computer, quietly discussing a patient chart. The youngest looked up and smiled. “Mr. Baker . . .”

  She must have read concern on his face, for her smile vanished.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m afraid not. Gabe has a fever. I need to get in touch with Dr. White.”

  The other nurse rushed toward Gabe’s room. “I’ll get his vitals, Barbara,” she told her partner, “so you can report them once you reach Dr. White.”

  “Oh great,” Barbara said. “Time alone with her.” She quickly gathered her self-control. “Relax, Mr. Baker. I’ll call her, right now. Knowing Dr. White, she’s probably somewhere in the hospital, and unless she’s involved in some sort of emergency, she’ll be here in a matter of minutes.”

  Hearing that, Phillip relaxed. A little. Still, there was something in the woman’s voice . . . resentment?

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Soda? Bottled water?”

  It had only been a few hours since leaving the café with Emily. “No, no, but thanks. I’m fine. I’ll just wait for Dr. White in Gabe’s room.”

  He’d no sooner settled into the big vinyl recliner than Gabe rolled onto one side, facing him.

  “What time is it, Dad?”

  With no pockets in his Amish trousers, he’d been forced to leave his watch at home. The clock above the nurses’ station had read 9:22. “Nearly nine thirty. Time for four-year-old boys to sleep.”

  “But Dad, my head hurts. My neck, too.”

  On his feet again, Phillip picked up the pink plastic cup beside the boy’s supper tray. He held the bendable straw to Gabe’s lips.

  “Don’t want any,” Gabe said, turning his head.

  “That’s okay. Drink anyway.”

  He helped Gabe sit up and waited patiently as he swallowed a few sips.

  “I don’t like warm water.”

  “That’s okay,” Phillip repeated. “Water is good for you. It’ll flush out the germs that are making your head and neck hurt.”

  The boy didn’t seem convinced but took another sip anyway.

  And then, as if in answer to an unasked plea to God, Emily entered the room. She met his eyes, but only briefly, as she walked up to the bed.

  “He says his head hurts,” Phillip informed her. “His neck, too.”

  For a nanosecond, her eyes darkened with concern, but she masked it by opening her medical bag to retrieve her stethoscope. Nodding as she listened to her young patient’s heart and lungs, it seemed she was deliberately avoiding his gaze.

  Both nurses hurried into the room. One powered up the computer in the corner while the other wrapped Gabe’s upper arm in a blood pressure cuff and slid an oximeter onto his forefinger. “My goodness,” she said, looking at Emily, “his li’l hands are cold!” Eyes on Gabe again, she added, “Soon as I’m finished here, I’ll get you a warm blanket.”

  If Gabe heard her, he showed no sign of it. “Can we turn out the lights, Dad? They hurt my eyes.”

  The nurse hit the button above his bed, and the room dimmed considerably.

  The boy glanced around the room. “Dad? Dad?”

  Phillip left his post near the windows and clasped his son’s hand. The nurse had been right. His fingers were cold. “I’m right here, Son.”

  “My legs hurt. When can I go home and sleep in my own bed? This one makes crunchy noises. And it’s hard.”

  From the other side of the bed, Emily grasped his free hand. “We’re all working hard to get you home again soon. I know you’ve heard that before, but it’s true, Gabe.”

  She patted his hand and instructed the nurses to administer four hundred milligrams of Caldolor. “A fifteen-minute drip,” she said, “then check his vitals again.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  And there it was again . . . that
resentful tone in the nurse’s voice. His own interactions with Dr. White had been positive, but then, he didn’t have to work with her, day in and day out.

  “Caldolor,” Phillip repeated. “What is it?”

  “Basically, it’s ibuprofen. It’ll bring down his fever and reduce his discomfort.”

  Sarah grunted. “Ice bath,” she muttered. “That is what he needs.”

  Emily faced the grandmother. “If the IV meds don’t work quickly, that’s exactly what we’ll do. But only as a last resort. Because no one likes being submerged in ice water. Especially children Gabe’s age, and in his condition.”

  Phillip noted her all-business stance and tone, and hoped it would stifle any objections his mother might make. He was far more interested in hearing what Dr. White believed was causing Gabe’s fever, aches, and pains.

  “May I have a word with you, Dr. White? Alone?”

  Another grunt from Sarah, who followed up with, “You just returned from two hours alone with her. What more can she tell you?”

  Gabe, who’d been quiet to this point, started to sit up.

  Phillip bent at the waist and said, “Close your eyes, Son, and rest. I know it won’t be easy with all the noise and activity around here, but try. Do it for me, all right?”

  Reluctance flickered in the boy’s eyes, but he nodded.

  “That’s my good boy. Dr. White and I will be right outside, and I promise to be back in just a few minutes.”

  Gabe replied with another nod, then squeezed his eyes shut.

  Now Phillip faced his mother. “Maemm, you and I will talk later.” He hoped she’d hear his silent plea: Please be quiet and stop making comments that will upset the boy.

  Emily was on her cell phone when he joined her near the elevators.

  “I can’t be sure until we run some tests,” he heard her say, “but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s meningitis.”

  The breath caught in Phillip’s throat. Meningitis had killed his former boss’s only son. The bacteria had spread quickly through the boy’s college dorm, putting half a dozen formerly healthy youngsters—some who were powerful athletes—into the hospital. Was Emily talking about Gabe, or one of her other patients?