All He'll Ever Need

by Loree Lough

  “Yep, and Gabe’s thrilled. They brought him sweet potato fries and crispy chicken, air-fried, of course, and chocolate cake.”

  They found Gabe sitting up, happily munching his meal. With one hand over his mouth, he said, “Your food is over there, Dad, on the windowsill.”

  Phillip wasn’t hungry but, knowing he needed to keep up his strength, he placed his tray on the wheeled food cart and rolled it up to the chair in the corner. Emily stood in the opposite corner, reading the computer screen, then moved to Gabe’s bedside.

  “You can keep eating,” she said, fingertips pressed to his inner wrist. “I just want to check your pulse and stuff like that.”

  Phillip half listened as she asked if Gabe felt tired, about aches and pains, dizziness. The other half of his brain recalled how, after spending time at the feet of the Jesus statue, he’d thought about whether or not things could work out between an Amishman and an Englisher. It hadn’t been easy, admitting that their differences outweighed the similarities: Her educational accomplishments were as long as his forearm, while his reading materials consisted of manuals that explained how to operate power tools. Her work had earned the respect of administrators and peers alike, and even his regular customers knew they could replace him in no time. Her family ties were strong; except for Gabe, he preferred to spend time alone. Despite all that, Pete insisted that things could work out . . . if they were willing to make the effort.

  Was he willing? Was she?

  “Headache?”

  Phillip had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed her approach. Startled, he dropped his fork, and it hit the tray with a clatter.

  “No.”

  She pressed a palm to his forehead. “It’s been a stressful couple of days. It wouldn’t surprise me if your immune system took a hit.”

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  Emily bent at the waist and, lips a mere inch from his earlobe, whispered, “Oh, I agree, Mr. Baker. You’re fine, all right.”

  He’d never seen her this way before . . . playful and flirty as a young girl. Phillip liked it. Liked it a lot. He might have said so . . .

  . . . if Alex Williams hadn’t chosen that moment to walk into the room.

  Emily stood up straight and, smiling, said, “Alex. Hello.”

  The surgeon made no effort to mask his disapproval of what he’d witnessed. Made no attempt to reply, either. After placing his medical bag and suit coat at the foot of Gabe’s bed, he inspected the food tray.

  “Not bad, li’l guy, not bad at all. A good appetite is a good sign.”

  Gabe put down his fork. “Does that mean I get to go home today?”

  Laughing, Alex found his stethoscope and pressed its diaphragm to Gabe’s chest. Eyes on the red and yellow emergency and electrical receptacles above the headboard, he said, “If things continue as they have been, day after tomorrow. Maybe.”

  When Gabe’s smile disappeared, Alex tacked on, “I’ll be back, every day, to check on you, make sure everything is shipshape.” Straightening, he retrieved his jacket, slung it over his shoulder. “Any questions?”

  “I only had one, and you already answered it.”

  “Sorry, li’l guy. But if we send you home before you’re ready, you’ll just end up right back here.”

  “I understand. I am not happy about it, but as my dad always says, ‘A man is not a man until he learns to cope with things he cannot control.’”

  Alex met Phillip’s eyes, a look of grudging admiration on his face. Turning his attention to Gabe again, he said, “Your father is a very wise man.” His gaze flicked to Emily. “He has excellent taste, too.”

  “Oh,” Gabe said, “he did not eat breakfast here with me.” He sent a loving glance toward Phillip. “Most days, he does not eat breakfast at all.”

  Alex tucked the stethoscope back into his bag. “Well then, here’s something you can teach him: ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’”

  “Oh, he knows that one.” Gabe giggled. “My grossmammi says it all the time, right, Dad?”

  Phillip stiffened, wondering how the surgeon might respond.

  “Seems your dad and I have more than one thing in common.” Alex sent a caring smile in Emily’s direction. “I don’t usually eat breakfast, either.”

  Alex shrugged into his jacket and, as he gripped the handle of his bag, said, “I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Keep up the good work, and you might just get to sleep in your own bed in a few nights.”

  Emily positioned herself directly across from Alex. “Isn’t that great news, Gabe? I’ll have to call Pete, make sure he’ll be ready to roll at a moment’s notice.”

  Alex frowned, then met Phillip’s eyes. “Any questions, Mr. Baker?”

  Standing beside Emily, he shook his head. “No, no questions. But I’d like to say that I’m grateful.” Reaching across Gabe to shake the doctor’s hand, he said, “Thank you seems a paltry thing to say under the circumstances.” As Williams clasped his hand, Phillip said, “But thank you.”

  “Just doin’ my job.” Halfway to the door, he faced Emily. “A word, Dr. White?”

  She hesitated, but only for an instant. Phillip had to give it to her. There were no former girlfriends in his past, but he doubted he’d handle work-related or social interactions anywhere near as well as she did.

  His stomach tightened when, as they entered the hall, Williams’s palm rested on her lower back, tightened still more when she didn’t reject the possessive gesture. Memory of the way her warm little body melded to his when she’d received his kiss—when she’d returned it with equal ardor—sparked in his mind. Had she responded that way to Williams? Had the two of them shared more than kisses?

  “Dad? Dad?”

  The boy’s worried voice broke into his thoughts.

  “What’s wrong, li’l buddy?”

  “You told Dr. White that your head does not hurt. But does it?”

  “No, I’m fine, Son.”

  “Then . . . why is your face all crinkled up like the time you hit your thumb with a hammer?”

  He could explain with, I’m thinking about the bills that have piled up while we were away or It’s going to take me months to catch up. But Gabe, big-hearted and too smart for his own good, would blame himself, and right now, healing should be the only thing on his mind.

  He stretched out on the bed, draped an arm over Gabe’s shoulders. “Guess sleeping in our own beds is gonna be good for both of us, huh?”

  It had been the right thing to say, because immediately, Gabe relaxed. “I can hardly wait to get home. It feels like we have been away for a whole long year instead of a little short week!” Then, using the pad of his forefinger, he plugged the hole in his drinking straw, trapping apple juice. Uncovering it, he watched the golden liquid dribble back into the cup. “Look, Dad, a siphon.”

  “Right you are, Son. Right you are.”

  A month or so ago, Gabe had joined him in the shop, tiny booted feet firmly planted on the mummy schtool that helped him to reach the workbench. Always eager to learn, Gabe watched closely as Phillip suctioned gasoline from a broken chain saw, using a thin black tube. With no prompting from Phillip, he’d recalled an earlier lesson, about how pressure and gravity worked together to draw a liquid from an enclosed space . . . in that case, a combine. That a boy his age could so easily pull the lessons together amazed Phillip, but then, Gabe had been amazing him from day one: walking by nine months, forming sentences before he was two, teaching himself to read—one pudgy finger following every line in his grandmother’s cookbook—and how to multiply and divide by listening as she doubled or halved recipes. In a couple of months, he’d turn five, but Phillip still hadn’t found a suitable description for how he felt when others commented on his boy’s wit and intelligence. It came to him just then: blessed. And thanks to Emily . . .

  The mere thought of how close he’d come to losing his precious son put a lump in his throat. And he hadn’t forgotten the list of
warnings Emily and Williams had recited, either: The ICD might malfunction; the anti-arrhythmic drugs might cause bronchial spasms and put Gabe into cardiac arrest . . . Better to concentrate on what should go right, he decided, instead of the many frightening things that could go wrong. With Emily at their side, overseeing tests to make sure the defibrillator was doing its job, tracking Gabe’s overall health and well-being, he saw no reason to believe anything would change.

  Not even if she and Williams picked up where they’d left off?

  Eyes clenched tight, he ground his molars together. You’re being ridiculous. Because what grown man would feel this way about a woman he’d known for—how had Gabe put it—a little short week?

  Emily feels something for you, too, his heart said.

  She’s just doing her job, said his brain.

  No, his heart insisted, one person doesn’t kiss another person that way unless—

  She probably still has feelings for what’s-his-name. You saw the way he touched her . . . the way she let him touch her . . .

  They’re colleagues, nothing more. She’s all I’ll ever need.

  Oh, grow up. In a day or two, you’re going home. Home to your Amish community and your Amish mother and your Amish job. Keeping Gabe safe and healthy, that’s what you should be thinking about, not a romance that you cooked up because you were lonely and afraid of losing Gabe.

  Speaking of Gabe, he’d have a full-time medical person nearby at all times if—

  If, countered his brain, biggest li’l word in the English language. And speaking of English . . . Emily is a city girl with a city girl’s tastes, a career woman with a busy, productive, very English life. She’s a good woman with a big heart. Those hugs? Those kisses? Just her ‘good doctor’ way of consoling a sick little boy’s worried father.

  Yeah, well, what about the way she whispered in my ear a little while ago, all girlish and flirty and saying I’m fine. Was she consoling me then?

  Yeah, well, ask yourself this: What woman in her right mind would trade her career, her busy life and all its movies and plays and restaurants for an undereducated Amish mechanic, with a sickly little boy and more bills than hairs on his head . . . who still lives with his mother?

  It hurt to admit it, but his brain was right. Emily would never give up everything for someone with so little to offer.

  Tears stung his eyes, and to hide them, he buried his face in Gabe’s hair.

  Gabe snuggled closer. “Love you, Dad.”

  It wasn’t easy, but somehow, Phillip managed to say, “Love you more.”

  And it was true. So true that the lump in his throat began to throb.

  “Well now, isn’t this a pretty picture.”

  “Emily.” He sat up straighter. Was she actually upset, or had his disquieting thoughts only made it seem that way? “Are you . . . is everything all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “You and Dr. Williams . . . you two talked for quite a long time. I thought maybe . . .” He glanced down at Gabe, to indicate they might have discussed the boy’s condition.

  She waved the comment away, a good thing, because Gabe was listening. Closely.

  “It was . . .” Frowning slightly, Emily said, “Alex barely mentioned Gabe.”

  Her lips—lips that had tenderly brushed his ear such a short time ago—drew down at the corners. And a blush colored her cheeks. Had Williams hurt her, yet again?

  “I told him what a wonderful caretaker your mother is and assured him Gabe will be in good hands.” Zeroing in on her young patient, she smiled like a doting mother. “Vitals have a tendency to change as the day goes on, but if your numbers remain in the safe zone, he’ll let you go home, first thing in the morning.”

  During the ride to Hopkins, she and Phillip had shared the narrow bench in the back of the ambulance, laughing and joking to ease Gabe’s fears. But thanks to his recent mind ramblings, he believed, the trip home wouldn’t feel anywhere near as warm. With any luck, during the hours-long ride, she’d lecture him about Gabe’s care. Doze off . . . and snore. Sing off-key. It didn’t matter what, as long as she armed him with reasons to like her a little less.

  “When was the last time you ate something?”

  Good, he thought. The nagging had begun, already. “Found a muffin in the family lounge. And there’s a whole tray of food over there.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” One fist resting on a curvy hip, she said, “And how much of it did you actually eat?”

  It was the sort of concerned, caring question a wife might ask. A wife? Knock it off, Baker. You’re supposed to be looking for her flaws, not her strengths.

  Emily slid a brand-new coloring book and an unopened box of crayons from her bag. “Here’s a little something to keep you busy while I make sure your dad has a proper meal.” Aiming the remote at the TV, she tuned in to the cartoon channel. “We won’t be long.” She winked, then grabbed a handful of Phillip’s shirt. “Promise.”

  Part of him wanted to plant his feet and refuse to follow. But only a small part.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the cafeteria. Heard through the grapevine that they’re serving lasagna for lunch.”

  Hands pocketed, he fell into step beside her. “It was good to see Gabe enjoying his breakfast.”

  “It sure was.”

  Small talk. Again. But this time, it didn’t annoy Phillip. This time, it felt right.

  “Does it seem to you that we spend a lot of time in elevators?” he asked.

  “And waiting for elevators.”

  “Getting on and off of elevators.”

  Their laughter echoed in the car. But it was short-lived, because Phillip was trying not to enjoy her company.

  Before he knew it, they were sharing a table near the windows, poking their fork tines into their lasagna.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick,” she said. “Gabe came through surgery really well, and he’s getting better with every passing minute. So relax, will you?”

  Tell me it’s over between you and Williams, he thought, and that you could live on a forty-acre parcel of farmland in Amish-land. That you’ll let them baptize you. Then I’ll relax.

  Her cell phone buzzed, and as she read the screen, a furrow formed between her brows.

  “What? Bad news about a patient?”

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure.” She turned the device so that he could read the message:

  Hope the little boy is doing well. Call me ASAP. Something really important to tell you.

  Mike

  “Any idea what he’s talking about?”

  “Only one way to find out.” She hit the Return Call button and sat back, fingertips drumming the tabletop, the toe of one tiny, pink-sneakered foot tapping the green-flecked floor. “Rats,” she muttered, “it’s connecting to voice mail.” Several seconds later, she perked up, smiling as if the male nurse was seated with them. “Mike. Hi. It’s Emily. Emily White? Sorry I missed your call. Get back to me as soon as you can. Thanks.” Pressing the End Call icon, she looked from his bowl of fruit to his eyes. “Do I need to spoon-feed you?”

  “Look, Emily, I appreciate your looking out for me, but—”

  Now, her phone rang, startling them both.

  “Mike. Hi. What’s up?”

  She listened for a moment. Scowled. Got to her feet so fast that she nearly overturned her chair. Phillip considered following her, but if she had wanted him to hear her side of the conversation, would she have stormed off that way?

  Emily returned a minute or two later, red-faced and breathing heavily.

  “Bad news?”

  “No. Yes. Well, it could be. I guess. But I hope not.”

  Chuckling, Phillip pushed his tray to the center of the table. “All right. I admit it. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She sat down, dropping the phone into her pocket. “Someone saw us,” she said from behind her hand, “and she’s bringing me before the AMA’s ethics board.”

/>   “You’re the most ethical person I know. So, who’s doing that? Better question is, why?”

  “Barbara Evans. One of the nurses. She saw us, Phillip.”

  Not just one of the nurses, Phillip remembered, but the nurse who’d convinced herself Emily had caused Mike’s lack of interest in her.

  “Wait a minute here. Did you just say she saw us?”

  She nodded.

  “Saw us . . .” He looked right, then left, and satisfied no one was listening, quietly said, “. . . kissing?”

  Another nod.

  She looked miserable. Embarrassed. Scared.

  And he shared every emotion.

  Because what she was going through, what she might yet have to go through, was all his fault.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Half a dozen times as they made their way west on I-68, Phillip said he was sorry. He’d said it silently, with his amazing sapphire eyes. By dry-washing his hands, as if the action could cleanse his conscience of some abstract sin.

  Now, he lowered his voice to say, “I more or less knew that doctors shouldn’t get involved with their patients—”

  “Phillip. Please stop doing this to yourself. It’s as much my fault as yours. More mine than yours, to be honest.”

  His gaze shifted from Gabe’s peacefully sleeping face to her eyes. “How do you figure that?”

  From the driver’s seat, Pete had leaned slightly right, making it easier for him to hear every word. Later, Emily knew, he’d get her alone and, whether she asked for it or not, share his opinion about Phillip’s sincerity.

  “Pete’s listening,” she mouthed, then said aloud, “Maybe we can find a quiet place to talk about it, once we get Gabe settled in at home.”

  “Sure. I get it.” And with that, he leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “Bet you’ll be glad to get home.”

  “Good thing we don’t have pets, right?”

  “An animal in the house? With Sarah Baker in charge?” He chuckled. “No way.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was raised by the Old Amish code. Don’t get me wrong, she takes good care of her goats and geese, the cow and horses, even the chickens.”