by Loree Lough
Gabe sighed. “Yes. I remember.”
“Ice chips are allowed,” Emily said as she came into the room. She dropped her medical bag and a small duffel near the door. “Not too many, though, because your dad is right—you don’t want a queasy stomach going into surgery.”
Gabe held out his arms, and Emily filled them. Her sweet smile reminded him of the white-robed angel he’d seen in a Baltimore storefront years ago, its ceramic face radiating peace and love and all the sentiments associated with Christmas.
“I am so happy to see you,” Gabe said. “I thought you would never get here!”
“I had to check in with a few patients back in Oakland,” she said, releasing him. She faced the computer in the corner, fingers flying over the keyboard as she called up Gabe’s chart. Numbers, codes, and symbols appeared on a pale blue background, each posted in columns and rows and outlined by rectangular black boxes. After giving the document an approving nod, she hit a key that turned the screen black again.
“Think you’ll be okay for a half hour or so?” she asked Gabe.
“Yes. I suppose.” His voice echoed his uncertainty. “Why?”
“Dr. Williams wants your dad to fill out some forms, and I thought I’d help him find the right office.”
“When will I meet Dr. Williams?”
“Soon.” She aimed a quick glance in Phillip’s direction before turning her attention back to Gabe. “So you’ll be all right then? While I help your dad?”
Gabe picked up his call button. “Oh yes, I will be fine. All I have to do is push this red key,” he said, pointing, “and a nurse will come, because it will send an infrared signal to the nurses’ station.”
“Infrared?” Phillip repeated. “Where did you learn such a big word?”
Gabe’s face glowed with admiration as he looked at Emily. “Dr. White told me about it. She is the smartest girl I know.” Eyes on Phillip once more, he added, “Do you think so, too, Dad?”
“Yes, I think so, too.” He could have listed a dozen reasons, but this was neither the time nor the place.
Emily stepped into the hallway and waved him closer.
“We won’t be long,” she said over her shoulder. “On the way to Dr. Williams’s office, I’ll stop at the nurses’ station, ask one of them to bring you some ice chips.”
The boy’s smile seemed all the thanks she needed. As promised, she paused to ask one of the nurses to make sure Gabe got his cup of ice, and after thanking her, crossed the hall and knuckled the elevator’s Down button. “I hope I remember how to get to his office. This place is enormous, and I haven’t been here in a while.”
Her hands were shaking. Nervous about assisting in the operation? Or apprehensive about spending so many hours under the watchful eye of the great Dr. Alex Williams?
“How long since you’ve seen him?”
Eyes fixed on the numbers panel above the doors, her voice wavered slightly. “I haven’t exactly kept track.”
Phillip wasn’t buying it. But the doors opened, and half a dozen people exited the car. She didn’t have any trouble recalling which floor his office was on, he noticed as she pressed the four.
“Think he’ll make time for us now, or keep us waiting?”
She lifted one shoulder as an aide joined them. “Good,” the blue-garbed woman said, “you’ve already chosen the fourth floor.”
No one spoke as the elevator lurched upward, and when the doors opened this time, an orderly stood, patiently waiting beside a gurney. His patient, a blanketed man wearing an oxygen mask, lifted his head. “Hey, Dr. White,” he said. “What’re you doin’ here?”
She and Phillip exited. “Assisting in an operation on one of my patients. And you?”
“This ol’ ticker again. Thanks for recommending Dr. Williams. Probably saved my life.”
“I’m glad you’re on the mend.”
She patted his hand, hidden under the blanket. And as the orderly backed the gurney into the elevator, he added, “You’re not in Baltimore to stay, I hope.”
“No, only until it’s safe to take the li’l guy back to Oakland.”
“That’s good to hear. Soon as I’m on my feet, I want to start seeing you. You know, for follow-ups. Wife needs a GP, too.”
Phillip wondered why Emily didn’t point out that she was a diagnostician, not a general practitioner.
“Good seeing you.”
And as the doors whooshed shut, she said, “You too.”
And then she rubbed her temples. Sighed heavily. Shook her head.
“Emily? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing.”
He wasn’t buying that, either.
Down the hall, an office door jerked open and a tall black-haired man leaned into the hall. Spotting her, he said, “Emily. There you are.”
Her footsteps slowed. “As usual, you refused to let us make a specific appointment, so we can’t be late.”
Dark brows rose on his high forehead. “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” he quoted as she approached, finishing up with, “I see you’re still always on the defensive.”
Already, Phillip understood what Pete had said about the man’s tendency to put her on the spot, every chance he got.
“This is Phillip Baker,” Emily said, “the father of the little boy we’ll operate on later today.”
Williams stepped aside, waved them into his waiting room. “Good to meet you,” he said. “Forms all filled out?”
“We only just got here, Alex.” She made eye contact with the middle-aged woman behind the reception counter. “Are you the person we need to see about new patient forms?”
She answered with a quiet “Yes,” and slid a clipboard toward Alex. “Be sure to return the pen, please?”
Williams’s brow furrowed slightly. “Pearl, really. That tone isn’t necessary.”
She removed her wire-rimmed glasses. “But Dr. Williams,” she said, fidgeting with her own pen, “I thought you said—”
He pointed at a small round table in the corner. “Have a seat while you fill out the paperwork. Pearl, get Mr. Baker a bottle of water.” He looked at Phillip. “Unless you’d rather have coffee.”
Phillip aimed his reply in Pearl’s direction. “Thanks, but I’m fine.” Then he pulled out a chair and clicked the pen into the on position as Williams opened another door. Gold-leafed letters on the opaque glass spelled out DR. ALEXANDER J. WILLIAMS, MD, FACC.
“Emily? May I have a word?” Williams said.
Phillip detected dread in her posture, in her expression. Pete hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said the breakup had been less than amicable. It made him wonder why she had recommended—and volunteered to assist—a surgeon who stirred up bad memories. In an instant, he knew: She’d put Gabe’s well-being ahead of her own discomfort. He made another mental entry on his Reasons to Like Emily list. Later, he’d thank her for that. And ask what the final four initials on Williams’s door stood for.
After completing the form, he delivered it to Pearl.
“Ready for that coffee now?” she asked.
“I’m good, thanks.” He nodded toward Williams’s office door. “Any idea how long they might be in there?”
“Depends.” She smirked. “I have a feeling it’s not a work-related meeting, so your guess is as good as mine.”
What had Williams said or done to give Pearl such an impression? He did his best not to show disapproval and took a seat on one of two caramel-colored brown sofas, then grabbed a magazine. While pretending to leaf through it, Phillip decided to give them five minutes in there. Then he’d rap on the door, let her know he’d been away from his son long enough. It was up to her after that: She could use the announcement as an excuse to call a halt to the meeting or wish him luck finding his way back to Gabe’s room.
Six minutes later, he got up and walked toward the office.
Pearl stopped typing. “Oh, you can’t go in there, Mr. Baker. Dr. Williams hates unannounced interruptions.”
He knocked on the glass. “We’ll consider this my announcement, then.”
A few seconds passed before the door opened. Emily looked angry. Agitated. Exasperated. What had Williams done to cause it? Would she tell him? If not, would asking upset her even more?
Phillip wished he’d listened to Pearl. “I, ah, I’m sorry to disturb you. Just wanted to let you know . . . I’m on my way back to Gabe’s room.”
“You aren’t disturbing us. We’re through here.” After a quick glance toward Williams, Emily added, “Right?”
Now, the surgeon looked uncomfortable. One forefinger held back the gold cuff-linked sleeve of his starched white shirt. “See you in two hours.” He walked quickly toward her and, one hand on the bronze-toned doorknob, said, “I trust you’ll be on time?” Then he shut the door.
Emily, fists balled up at her sides, growled under her breath. “That man,” she said through clenched teeth, “can be so . . . so—”
“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that,” Pearl injected. An empathetic smile softened her expression. “I’ll say a prayer for your little boy. And one for you, too, Dr. White. You’re going to need it.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Will you sit down? You’re gonna wear a groove in that tile.”
Phillip stopped pacing long enough to say, “I can’t sit. I keep wondering how things are going in there.”
“I know Em. She’ll be out shortly to update you. Now park it, will ya?”
He chose the chair across from Pete’s. “It’s good of you to stay. But you don’t need to. I’ll be fine.”
“I want to be here, for you and Emily.” He paused, then said, “So what’s on your mind? Besides Gabe and the operation, I mean.”
He’d feel ridiculous, admitting jealousy of an old beau. When he’d asked what Williams said to put her in such a foul mood, she’d waved the question away. The notion that she still cared enough about the man to let him upset her that much . . .
“Tell me, Pete, what’s going on between Emily and that nurse back at Garrett Regional?”
“Who, Barbara?” Pete shook his head. “That woman needs to get a grip.”
Phillip waited, and hoped Pete’s explanation might help him better understand Emily’s attachment to Williams.
“There’s this male nurse, see. Mike Shaffer. Nice guy. Does a good job, far as I can tell. And well, Barbara was all wrapped up in him. Followed him around like a well-trained pup. Bu-u-t . . .”
“But Mike was interested in Emily,” Phillip finished.
“Yup.”
It seemed he’d opened the proverbial can of worms: Had Emily been interested in Mike, too?
“Easy, pal,” Pete teased. “Em was nice to him, but that was it. No surprise there. She’s nice to everyone, y’know? Mike made some half-baked attempts to ask her out, and when she said no a coupla times, he got the message. Moved on to some nurse who left the hospital to work for some pediatrician in McHenry. Barbara . . . Barbara did not take it well. You want my opinion? She convinced herself that Emily is the reason they’re not . . .” He crossed index finger over forefinger.
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow,” Pete agreed. “Are Amish women bitter like that?”
“You’re askin’ the wrong guy. What I know about women wouldn’t fill a thimble.”
“Aw, gimme a break. You have a mother and a sister. You were married. You seriously expect me to believe there aren’t a couple young beauties in Pleasant Valley with their bonnets set for good-lookin’, eligible you?”
Phillip joined Pete’s quiet laughter. “Trust me, no one in the community has shown any interest in me.”
“No kiddin’?”
“No kiddin’.”
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“You can ask. . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been down that road before. But be honest now. How hard has it been to swap the Pennsylvania Dutch–style talk for, what do you guys call it?”
“English.”
“Yeah, right. You guys call us Englishers.” He rested an ankle on a knee. “Feel free to tell me to butt out.”
“Okay . . .”
“Your family isn’t all over you, nagging you to stop speaking ‘English’ and go back to the German? And they aren’t making you nuts, asking where your suspenders and straw hat are, and why you don’t wear a beard?”
Phillip thought he’d answered these questions, days ago, but apparently, not well enough to satisfy Pete’s curiosity. What harm could come from going over it, again?
“At first, the bishop and a few of the elders had a problem with it. But I keep my head down. Work hard. Help out when I see a need. Take care of my mother and Gabe. I suppose they decided to take the ‘leave well enough alone’ mindset.”
“So then, no talk of shunning you.”
The word hit like a punch. If he left the community, Phillip wanted to do it on his own terms, with no hard feelings between him and family and friends. He was even less prepared for the second punch: He didn’t want to leave the Plain life, especially not by way of shunning.
“Not yet.”
Pete chuckled. “Whew, right?”
“Yeah, whew.” Should he confess the thoughts that had been tumbling in his head since long before Gabe’s diagnosis? That he’d wanted out? That if he wasn’t worried about breaking his mother’s heart, if he could find someone trustworthy to care for Gabe, he might have packed up and left months ago?
“So answer me something, Phil. Let’s say you meet some nice Englisher gal, and the two of you hit it off. What happens then? I mean, does she move to Pleasant Valley with you and your mom and Gabe? Or do you and Gabe set up house with her in . . . in whatever town she lives in?”
Phillip didn’t have to be a genius to figure out who Pete was talking about. But being a genius might have helped him come up with honest answers to the tough questions.
“I only ask because, well, I’ve seen the way you and Emily look at each other.”
“You’re making too much of that.” Everyone was making too much of it! “She’s just trying to picture me with the Amish beard.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious. I can see it now . . .” He swiped at the air, as if painting a marquee: “Phillip Baker, the country’s first Amish comic.” Pete quickly grew serious as he said, “Phil. I mean this: You can be honest with me.” He lifted a hand, as if taking an oath. “I won’t tell a soul. Not even Emily. Admit it. You’re sweet on her, aren’t you?”
“Sweet on her? Were you born in the last century?”
“Okay. All right. Fine. If cracking jokes makes it easier to avoid the truth . . .”
“Here’s the truth, Pete. My only son is in the OR, fighting for his life. Your sister is his doctor. Her decisions have been good for him, from ordering all those tests to find out what’s wrong with him to introducing us to Williams. Convincing you that I’m not sweet on your sister . . . Suffice it to say that isn’t first and foremost in my mind right now.”
“I hear ya, Phil. My apologies. Sometimes the stuff that comes outta my mouth—”
“I’m not sure if my feelings for Emily are rooted in gratitude, or if there’s more to it. But like I said, this isn’t the time or place to talk about it.”
Her brother nodded. “I think you’re wrong. It’s eating at you. Anyone can see that. So why not ’fess up? Get it out in the open—at least with me—so you can start figuring things out.” He met Phillip’s eyes. “I know things would be challenging, what with you being Amish and her being English and all, but just so you know, I haven’t changed my mind: I still think you’d be good for each other. Real good. And Gabe thinks the world of her. She’s crazy about him, too.” He held up a hand to forestall any retort Phillip might make. “I’m sure your mom does a bang-up job, taking care of the kid. But she isn’t getting any younger, y’know. Maybe she’d like a break.”
“Sounds like you’ve given the matter a great deal of thought.”
“Sounds like you’ve been reading legal journals.”
The moment of companionable laughter ended when Phillip got up, started pacing again. He paused near the doors to the surgical suite. “How long has it been?”
“Two hours. Two and a half, maybe.”
He drove a hand through his hair. “Feels like twice that.”
Pete stood, stretched, and said around a yawn, “How ’bout I see if I can scare us up some coffee. Maybe a bagel, or a Danish or something.”
Phillip didn’t need a drink. Didn’t need something to eat. All he needed was to hear that his boy was all right, that between them, Williams and Emily were giving Gabe a chance at a good, long future.
Williams and Emily. He didn’t like the sound of that. Liked the way it felt even less.
And there you go, thinking only of yourself again! When had he become such a self-centered, selfish man? Pete had been here for more than an hour, hadn’t taken a sip or a bite in all that time. Maybe his offer was a hint that he wanted something to eat and drink but didn’t want to do it in front of Phillip.
“That’d be great. Thanks, Pete.”
Phillip decided that while Pete was gone, he’d spend some time in the chapel. God was probably less pleased with him than he was with himself, but he had to believe the Almighty wouldn’t hold the sins of the father against an innocent, sickly little boy.
Phillip wandered the halls for what seemed like half an hour, stopping when he reached the administration building. There, under a great glass dome, stood a statue of Jesus, arms spread as if welcoming all who entered. Phillip stared up at the kindly face, mesmerized by the compassion in the Savior’s eyes.
“You know who this is?” said the elderly woman beside him.
“Why, it’s Jesus of course.”
“Oh, He’s not just Jesus. This here,” she said, “is a duplicate of the Christus Consolator. He’s made of one hundred percent Carrara marble, don’t you know. Yessir, He surely is.”
She grabbed Phillip’s arm, urged him to look back up into the kindly face.
“This Jesus, He’s been here since, well, I can’t remember when He got here, exactly. But I remember this: They brought Him here from the wharf. Pulled Him over on a wooden sled, yessir, and it was drawn by four horses. And that wagon rolled all the way up Broadway. Didn’t stop until it got to the north entrance, there.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, then patted the statue’s right foot. “See how His toes are all worn down?”