All He'll Ever Need

by Loree Lough

  “When I send down the blood tests, let’s put a rush on them. Because if it is meningitis, we’ll need a CT scan, a lumbar puncture.”

  Head down and one palm lifting the bangs from her forehead, Emily began to pace the width of the hall.

  “Oh, and would you do me a huge favor, and call the pharmacy,” she continued, “to make sure they have plenty of cefotaxime, ceftriaxone, and gentamicin on hand? We can’t be sure until we review the labs which will be most effective. This patient . . . he’s only four, Brugada syndrome. Yes, yes, the drugs will likely put a slight strain on his heart, but since we know about the Brugada going in, we can take precautions, monitor him closely. If this is meningitis—and I hope and pray it isn’t—we’ll need to run tests on his father and grandmother. All the nurses who’ve worked with him. Even the dietary staff that has been delivering his meals.”

  Turning slightly, she noticed him. The look of dread on her face was all the evidence Phillip needed to know that even without tests, Emily felt fairly certain Gabe was in trouble. Serious trouble.

  “Call me when you know more, will you? And thanks, Carl. I owe you one.”

  She walked right up to him, grabbed his hand, and led him into the family lounge, across from the elevators.

  “You’re white as a bedsheet. Sit down before you fall down.”

  “I’m fine.” He wasn’t, but Phillip needed to stay ready to hit the ground running if need be, get to Gabe’s side as fast as possible, after she delivered the rest of the news.

  “How long were you standing there?”

  He didn’t like her tone. Didn’t like the way she stood, one hand on her hip, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. Maybe this attitude was responsible for the nurse’s odd behavior.

  “Don’t talk to me as if you’re a teacher and I’m some misbehaving schoolboy. If you wanted privacy, you should have placed that call behind closed doors. Besides, let’s not forget it’s my son you were talking about!”

  Apparently, she didn’t like his tone, either. “Exactly how much did you overhear?”

  He considered repeating what he’d already said, adding that she had no right to speak to him that way. Gathering his self-control, Phillip said, “Enough to know you believe Gabe has meningitis.”

  “We’re not sure yet. It could be something relatively insignificant. A minor bacterial infection that we can control with antibiotics. But in either case, we’re lucky he was here, in the hospital, when the symptoms began. Catching it early like this gives us an edge.”

  He could almost hear his mother and Bishop Fisher insisting that luck had nothing to do with it. God led him here, they’d say. And maybe they’re right ...

  “The drugs . . . you’re afraid they could do further damage to his heart?”

  “Not damage, exactly. Just an added strain, like he’d get climbing the stairs, or running with his cousins.”

  Her eyes told another story. “Don’t lie to me, Emily. I’ve dealt with bad news before. If you can’t give it to me straight, I’ll request a new doctor for Gabe. One who won’t sugarcoat things.”

  Emily marched toward him, stopping mere inches from where he stood. “I have never lied to a patient, nor have I lied to a patient’s family. I’ve done everything humanly possible to keep you informed about Gabe’s disorder, about our plans to help him.” She drilled a forefinger into his chest. “If that isn’t good enough for you, then yes, you should look into finding another—”

  He didn’t know what came over him, but Phillip wrapped his hand around hers and pulled her close. So close that he could feel her heart, beating hard against his chest.

  “Emily . . . I-I’m sorry,” he ground out.

  And then he kissed her.

  Chapter Eight

  Hours later, in the hall outside Gabe’s hospital room, Emily heard voices, and paused to pull herself together.

  “How long have I been here, Grossmammi?”

  “This is your third full day in the hospital.”

  Only three days? It didn’t seem possible that in so short a time, she’d come to think of him as more than a patient. So much more. And his father . . .

  Emily pressed fingertips to her lips. Lips that, hours ago, Gabe’s father had kissed.

  Not only had she allowed the kiss, she’d fully participated in it. Enjoyed it so much, in fact, that when it ended, disappointment shrouded her. That, and embarrassment, because in the nanosecond beforehand, worry, helpless frustration, and fear had lined his face. Afterward, in the seconds before he turned and those long, lean legs carried him out of sight, she’d read guilt. Or regret. Maybe even both.

  What had she been thinking, meeting him toe to toe, jabbing at his chest like an adversary—especially knowing his state of mind! A good doctor would have found a better, more professional way to help him understand that everything she’d done to that point had been in Gabe’s best interests. In Phillip’s best interests, too.

  It would be easy to blame lack of sleep. Her heavy patient load. Skipped meals. Too much time bent over medical journal articles related to Gabe’s condition. But in truth, her personal attachment to the boy—and his father—had been responsible for the commotion in her head, in her heart. It was an easy explanation. But easy wouldn’t salve her conscience. Emily felt that she owed Phillip an apology. And assurances that, from here on out, professionalism would dictate her words and actions. . . and reactions. The good Lord knew that lack of professionalism had cost her dearly in the past, when she and Alex—

  “Emily?”

  The soft baritone startled her, and when she whirled around to face him, she nearly lost her balance. In one deft moment, both powerful hands shot out, gripped her shoulders, and steadied her.

  If only he could steady her heartbeat, too.

  She looked up into the stunning face so near her own and took note of his unemotional expression. Sadness overwhelmed her, because it could mean only one thing: He wished he could erase that almost-perfect moment in time.

  Emily stepped back, away from his protective embrace.

  “I was just on my way into Gabe’s room. To check his vitals. See what the nurses and lab techs recorded in his file.” She was rambling and knew it, and yet she continued. “He’s had a busy night, what with all the blood draws. Scans. Other tests.”

  “He made me proud. Only time he complained was during the spinal tap.”

  Emily winced, knowing how painful it could be. “I should have been here with him.”

  His left brow lifted, as if to say, Yes, you should.

  “I know he isn’t your only patient. Besides, Chrissy—one of the nurses—let me stay to hold his hand.”

  “Chrissy. Yes. She’s a real pro.”

  “Uh-huh. Yes. A pro.” Phillip pointed at her medical bag. “You brought the results of Gabe’s tests? Or are they in the computer?”

  “Of course.”

  Now, he gestured toward the chairs that lined the wall across from the elevators. “Let’s sit, so you can fill me in.”

  “Of course,” she repeated as he led the way.

  Was this how it would be between them now? Emily had consciously prayed for help in controlling her ever-growing affection for him; she hoped his coolly businesslike demeanor wasn’t the answer from above.

  Or did she?

  Emily sat, intentionally leaving an empty chair between them. “As you know,” she said, placing her bag on the blue vinyl seat, “I was concerned about Gabe’s aches and fever. He does have a low-grade infection, but it isn’t meningitis.”

  In the middle of the night, her eyes had filled with grateful tears, reading the results. When lab tech Teri asked what had caused them, Emily forced a laugh. “Forgot to take my allergy pill today.” She’d never had a knack for half-truths and hid a telltale blush behind the computer monitor. Better that than have Teri and the other lab techs suspect the truth: She’d started to fall for Phillip Baker.

  Leaning forward, he clasped and unclasped his hands in the space b
etween his knees. “If not meningitis, then what?”

  “A minor infection, one that’s easily controlled with medication.”

  On his feet now, he began to pace. “But the operation. . . does this mean Gabe will lose his place on Dr. Williams’s surgery schedule?”

  “Dr. Williams couldn’t have performed the operation until the end of the week, anyway. By then, the antibiotics should have the infection well under control.”

  The pacing stopped. “Should?”

  To the casual observer, he might seem composed and in control of his emotions. But Emily knew better. Dark circles shadowed his beautiful eyes, and he didn’t move with the same sure-footed gait as before.

  Her dad liked to say that lies, even the little white ones told to make others feel better, had a tendency to multiply. Phillip had already accused her of being less than honest with him. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she said, “It’ll be all right, Phillip.”

  But she said it anyway.

  He slapped a hand to the back of his neck, then dropped heavily onto the chair once more.

  “Ah, Emily, if only I could believe that.”

  “You can. And you should. It’ll be good for Gabe to see you feeling confident. It’ll be good for you, too.”

  He sat back, leaned his head on the wall, and closed his eyes. And on the heels of a ragged sigh, said, “Guess I owe you an apology.”

  Why ask for what? when she already knew. In her opinion, Phillip had nothing to be sorry for. She’d been at least as much to blame for that instant of intimacy. To spare them both having to relive the moment, Emily stood and gathered her things.

  “I’m going in to check on Gabe. And make sure Mike has updated his file.”

  His brow furrowed with confusion. “Mike?”

  “Gabe’s new day nurse. I’ve worked with him before. He’s great with kids and old people.”

  “In other words, he’ll have no trouble getting along with my mother.”

  It wasn’t much of a smile . . . just enough to give her hope that he’d forgiven her for her earlier lapse.

  * * *

  “She is clever—I will give her that.”

  “What do you mean?” By his definition, the word meant shrewd. While Sarah hadn’t been blatantly rude when dealing with Emily, she hadn’t exactly kept her feelings hidden, either.

  “The things she knows, and the things she says are proof of her book smarts. But that is a worldly thing. Where is the proof of her spirituality?” Sarah clucked her tongue. “Do you worry for the state of her soul, as I do?”

  Hours spent here in his son’s room, studying to understand Gabe’s condition and treatment, and keeping up with customer needs had eaten up every spare moment. He’d barely managed to fit in sleep and meals. When would he have had time to question Emily’s religious beliefs?

  Now, with the subject at the forefront in his mind, Phillip said, “The things she knows and says are proof that she cares more about others than herself. And she has never said a bad word about anyone, at least in my presence.” Besides, I saw her praying at the café.

  “This world is filled with nice people who do the right things for the wrong reasons.”

  Gabe, who’d been napping, opened his eyes. “I love Dr. White.”

  “You are a good boy,” Sarah said. “But you are four. What you know about love would fit in my thimble.”

  “I know how to love Dad, and you, and Aunt Hannah, and Onkle Eli, and my cousins John and Paul . . .”

  Phillip’s heart swelled with pride. Leave it to Gabe to put his judgmental grandmother in her place without being hurtful or disrespectful.

  “. . . and though I am mad at God, I know how to love Him, too.”

  If asked, Phillip would say he’d done a good job of hiding his personal feelings toward the Almighty. Evidently, not good enough, since Gabe had sensed his anger and decided to emulate it. A boy his age ought to believe in the power, protection, and forgiveness of a loving God. And just as soon as Gabe was home and healthy, Phillip would sit him down and make things right.

  “Loving God is as it should be,” Sarah said. “You do not have meningitis, thanks be to God’s answer to prayer.”

  “You prayed for me, Grossmammi?”

  Sarah held up her knitting project. “With every stitch of this sweater, I whispered, ‘If it is Your Will, dear Lord, deliver Gabriel from his sickness.’”

  Gabe bowed his head and smoothed the blanket Emily had draped over his legs earlier. “And what if it isn’t His will?”

  Phillip heard the steady, high-pitched beeps of Gabe’s heart monitor; the din of voices—nurses, doctors, other patients and their family members—drifting in from the hall; his own heart, drumming hard in response to the simple, straightforward question. He heard the apprehension in his boy’s voice, too. As part of his own schooling, Phillip had memorized dozens of Bible verses that referenced God’s love for children. But not one promised to shelter them from pain, illness, or death.

  Gabe sat up straighter and repeated his question.

  Phillip hadn’t prayed in a long time, but he prayed now: Lord, give me the words that will ease his mind—and his heart.

  “I believe that God wants you to get well as much as we do.”

  All three Bakers turned toward the strong, convincing voice.

  “God wants me to get well?”

  Emily walked up to the bed and pressed fingertips against his wrist. “Of course He does. You’re going to be fine, just fine. You have to have faith. You’ll see!”

  The boy didn’t look convinced. Emily must have seen it, too, because she said, “Nurse Jody tells me that you slept well last night.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And that you ate all of your supper.”

  “Yes. Well, except for the green Jell-O.”

  Emily smiled and leaned in to say, “I know about three people who like green Jell-O, so that doesn’t count.”

  “Then why do they make it?”

  For a second there, Emily looked confused. “Well, I suppose because the manufacturer thinks they have as much a right to green Jell-O as we have to . . . What’s your favorite flavor?”

  “Red.” He smacked his lips.

  “What if only three people like red Jell-O and they stopped making it?”

  “Oh,” Gabe said in a thoughtful, whispery voice, “I get it now. Yes. They should make all of the flavors so that all of the Jell-O eaters will be happy.”

  Emily ruffled his hair. Then, unpocketing her stethoscope, she hung it from her ears. “Your fever is gone. How ’bout those aches and pains? Are they gone, too?”

  He nodded.

  “Well then,” she said, pressing the tool’s diaphragm to his chest, “I think it’s time to prepare for our trip to Baltimore.”

  Phillip stood across from her. “How soon?”

  “I spoke with Al—Dr. Williams, and he promised to make time to speak with us—with you, to explain everything, tomorrow evening. If we leave first thing in the morning, we’ll be able to get Gabe registered in plenty of time for the meeting.”

  His mother’s knitting needles hit the floor with a metallic click as she jumped up, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She turned toward the wall to hide them, but not soon enough.

  “Please do not cry, Grossmammi. The operation will fix my heart. And anyways, Dr. White says I’m going to be fine.”

  Gabe might only be four, as Sarah had so sharply pointed out, but he was bright, intuitive, and empathetic. Even if she managed not to voice her opinions aloud—highly unlikely—Gabe would pick up on her attitude. Phillip couldn’t risk that. Wouldn’t risk that, not even for his beloved mother. He knew she’d never intentionally hurt her youngest grandson, but reaction and result, in this case, were one and the same.

  “I have a few loose ends to tie up,” Emily said, draping the stethoscope around her neck. “Can we meet later tonight, to work out the details of our trip?”

  Our trip? He’d rest
easier, knowing she’d be in the operating room, but surely she didn’t expect them to travel together.

  “I am going to the chapel,” Sarah said, “to pray, to seek God’s guidance. Everything is happening too hastily. A sign that things are not happening according to His will, if you ask me.”

  She hadn’t asked him. Rarely asked him anything. But in Phillip’s estimation, things were happening too slowly. They’d been here at Garrett Regional for going on four days now, while Gabe endured test after test, and Phillip struggled to decipher all the test results.

  “Come with me, Phillip,” Sarah said from the doorway. “Humble yourself before the Lord. Set aside your disrespect. Beg His forgiveness. Maybe then He will guide us, tell us the right thing to do.”

  “We’re already doing the right thing, Maemm.”

  Sarah grumbled something under her breath and left them.

  Emily picked up her medical bag. One hand resting on his forearm, she whispered, “Don’t be angry with her, Phillip. She’s of a generation that did things differently. It’s only natural that she’s afraid of what she doesn’t understand. And I believe that would be true even if she wasn’t Amish.”

  “I appreciate your attempt to smooth things over,” he whispered back, “but I’ve been dealing with my mother for every one of my thirty-four years. I can handle this.”

  She gave his arm a slight squeeze, then turned him loose and walked toward the door. “I’m sure you can. But . . . should you?”

  “You’re a believer in the old ‘choose your battles well’ adage, I see.”

  Emily’s shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug.

  “I’ll be back by five,” he told her. “We can talk anytime after that. If you still have time, that is.”

  “For this, I’ll make time.”

  To her credit, she didn’t ask Back from where? because he hadn’t yet figured out how to tell Gabe that he was taking Sarah home, and that she wouldn’t travel with them to Baltimore.

  “Eat something,” Emily said. “And try to get some rest. You look exhausted.”