by Lyz Kelley
She turned her gaze forward. Both sides of the street littered with multi-story brick buildings with air conditioners protruding from each window drew her attention. Graffiti scarred the buildings. Anorexic trees fought for their existence on cracked sidewalks while black plastic garbage bags lined the edge of the curb. She followed him across the street.
A few blocks down, he retrieved a piece of paper from his pocket and glanced at the address before heading up the cement walkway. The entrance door opened while they were on their way up the stairs, and two rambunctious boys, a dog, and a pony-tailed woman too young to be their mother blasted out the door and pelted down the stairs, barely missing them. They entered.
Beneath their feet, a mosaic-tiled floor announced the year 1918. Rows of antique mailboxes lined both walls. After a whiff of the stale, musty smell, she inhaled through her mouth. The stairs on the right ascended several stories, and the sign on the elevator to the left said “out of order” in English, Spanish, and what looked like Russian.
He moved to the staircase and looked up, his head falling back. “I’m getting the feeling there are mysterious forces aligned against us today.” He turned back to her. His perusal began at the top button of her business blouse and ended at her three-inch heels. “You sure you don’t want me to find you a ride home?”
The frown convinced her of his sincerity. She couldn’t tell him about the demons of her past, but she didn’t want him to think she was a frail flower who’d never been to Brooklyn.
“I got overwhelmed. I’m okay, now.” She hoped he’d let the embarrassing subject drop.
“I can understand if you’re uncomfortable. You’re not dressed for this hike.”
“Are you saying this because you’re visiting someone who lives on the eighteenth floor and wondering if I can huff up those stairs in a skirt?” Her tone remained playful and light.
“Fourth. Only the fourth floor.”
“If I had a pair of tennis shoes, I’d challenge you. The last one up the stairs gets stuck with paying the cab fare home.”
Relief and a touch of wonder crossed his face. “Is that right? Ladies first. I insist.”
The approving smile resembled her father’s when she won her first spelling bee. Her family often underestimated her stubborn determination, just as he did now. After surviving her captivity, they no longer questioned her survival instincts.
Reaching the last step, she leaned against the railing and let him take the lead. The doctor’s sage green khakis and coffee-cream polo molded to his sculpted body perfectly. She allowed a soft, tingling sigh to escape while she recovered her breath. At least she could still appreciate a good-looking man.
He glanced at the piece of paper. “403,” he puffed, and knocked on solid wood. “Ms. Yankovich? It’s Dr. Branston.” He waited and then knocked again. “Ms. Yankovich?”
The metal door opened only the width of a tube of lipstick. A quarter-inch chain prevented the paint-chipped door from opening farther. Large innocent eyes appeared through the chained door. “Irina, is your mom home?” he asked in a gentle adult tone, not one of those sickly sweet voices some people use with children.
Smoky quartz-brown eyes darted to McKenzie, and then back to the doctor. Irina nibbled on her lip for a second before responding, “She’s at work.”
“Is your grandmother with you?”
Her little headshake and fear-filled eyes tugged at McKenzie’s heart. A muffled argument heard from down the hall in apartment 410 activated her safety alarms. Just as she was about to suggest they call social services and report the child neglect, the stubborn doctor shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned in.
“Katrina missed her appointment this week. Your grandmother left an urgent phone call this morning, but my office hasn’t been able to contact her or your mother. I came to see how your sister’s doing. May I come in?”
“I’m not supposed to let anyone in.”
“I understand. That’s a good rule, but I’m not just anyone. I’m Katrina’s doctor. You remember me from the hospital, don’t you? I helped your sister feel better.”
McKenzie hoped the girl’s stranger training would override her reaction to the doctor’s friendly tone. Allowing an uninvited male into an apartment was never a good idea—at any age.
When the door closed and then opened again seconds later with the chain removed, a pinch of disappointment caught in her throat before an ounce of protectiveness settled in her chest. She followed Garrett inside, already formulating what she would say to the mother when she arrived.
She expected to see pizza boxes, ashtrays, dirty clothes, and beer bottles. Instead, she found a sparsely furnished and orderly apartment. A heavy-framed picture of Christ hung above the worn blue denim couch. A multi-colored braided rug covered the tiled floor, and a round oak table nudged against a picture frame window. The schoolbooks littering the table must be Irina’s. On the way to the first bedroom, she noted the clean counters and freshly washed glasses, plates, and pans neatly stacked in a dish rack, and a clean scent of Lysol still hung in the air.
She hovered by the bedroom door while Garrett lifted his stethoscope from his backpack. “Katrina? It’s Dr. Branston. How are you feeling?”
Katrina rolled her head in his direction. McKenzie noticed Irina’s troubled face, and she rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Dr. Branston’s a really good doctor.”
“That’s what my grandmother said.”
“Where is your grandmother?”
Irina’s round, porcelain face tipped up, and a distraught explanation spilled out about how her mother had to work and her grandmother had gotten sick and couldn’t be around Katrina because her heart was broken, and she needed to finish her homework and promised to watch her sister. Sentence after sentence ran together until teddy bear eyes lifted to McKenzie’s, and she said, “You won’t tell, will you?”
The apartment fell silent and McKenzie realized both Irina and Garrett were waiting for her response. She struggled with an answer, knowing it was illegal for young children to be left home alone, yet something in her could sympathize. A single mother with a sick child needed help, and the overwhelmed and understaffed Child Protective Services might not be the best solution. She reflected on Katrina’s frail body, tucked safely beneath a clean white sheet, and the handmade quilt helped provide an answer. Caring people surrounded these children. They were loved. Nurtured. In safe hands.
“No, I won’t tell. Your secret is safe with me,” she said, before patting Irina’s shoulder and guiding the young girl to the table. “Why don’t we let the doctor do his thing, and we see how you’re doing with your homework? It looks like you’re working on long division.”
Irina’s sour-lemon face made her laugh, and Garrett’s amusement gave her a warm, satisfied feeling, one she hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. His look was curious, yet cautious. The look gave her the impression he wanted to say something, yet waited for another time and the right place to say what had crossed his mind.
A few minutes later the apartment door opened and a tall, frail-looking woman stumbled into the apartment carrying bags of groceries.
Irina rushed to help.
The woman’s eyes met McKenzie’s, and then swept toward the doctor, who had appeared. Fear dilated her tired eyes. An animated Russian conversation ping-ponged between mother and child before the mother dropped the groceries on the coffee table and rushed toward Katrina’s room.
“Katrina is fine, Ms. Yankovich. I got your urgent message for an appointment. Your mother told me I needed to come.”
“My mother. My meddling mother. She wants a doctor in the family. She needs to stop matchmaking.”
“I see.” His irritated tone shredded any idea of a possible interest.
“No. You don’t see. The insurance. They won’t pay. I can’t afford medical bills, plus food and rent. I can’t pay for a house call. You must go.”
“Ms. Yankovich, you may qualify for
assistance,” McKenzie said before Garrett could respond.
“No, no assistance.” The woman waved her hands frantically. The rest of her statement got lost in translation when she switched to Russian.
Garrett matched her sentence for sentence, a passionate volley of emotions going back and forth until they were nose to nose, hands waving, shouting to get their point across. Irina shriveled into the corner behind the kitchen table, covering her ears. The girl’s tears and panicked expression broke something in McKenzie.
“Enough!” McKenzie hollered to get their attention. “You’re scaring the children.” She walked to the center of the room and in a soft muted voice asked, “How can I help?”
The doctor’s frustration oozed into the room. “She’s afraid if she applies for assistance they’ll take her family away, and she’ll never see her children again. I’ve told her it’s not true, but she won’t listen.”
Hearing a small sob from behind her, McKenzie turned to assure Irina when a plaque hanging above Irina’s tear-streaked face drew her attention. The words Engineer and College and the name Petra Yankovich stood out among the many words.
“Ms. Yankovich, is this yours?”
The woman’s shoulders rose, and then fell. “Yes, but it does no good in America. I’ve tried. My English is not good. They not hire me. I must work two, sometimes three jobs. They say land of opportunity. I say, not so much.”
“May I ask what type of work you did in Russia?”
“I fix large machines for manufacturer. When Katrina got sick, my husband took a job here to help Katrina. My husband…”
Petra’s voice cracked, and she couldn’t finish her sentence. Evidence the man wasn’t in the picture any longer. McKenzie’s mind raced, remembering pieces of previous boardroom conversations.
“I have an idea.” She retrieved her organizer from the ragged backpack, and then slid out a business card to write the name of Carver International’s operational recruiter on the back. She handed the card to Petra.
“If you’re willing, this gentleman will help find you a better paying job. Please be sure to give them my name when you call. You might have to take English classes at night, but you will be reimbursed. And you will have health insurance to pay for Katrina’s needs.”
Petra looked at the card, looked at McKenzie, and frowned. “Why you do this?”
“Because someone recently told me life is less about agendas, meetings, and timelines and more about helping people. And your little girl needs help to get well. Are you willing to give it another try?”
“Yes, I do it.” Petra stood straighter, shoulders squared.
McKenzie couldn’t help but close the distance and wrap her arms around Petra. The mother didn’t respond at first, too worn down by life, then her hands criss-crossed over McKenzie’s shoulders. Given the loving support of her own family, McKenzie could never fully comprehend the desperation in the woman’s eyes. But she could imagine. A new country, a sick child, mouths to feed…a tremendous burden for one person.
Petra struggled to keep her tears from falling. McKenzie redirected her by offering to help put away the groceries. The offer, of course, was refused. Petra picked up the bags and rushed to the kitchen, chattering away to her eldest as she shoved items in cupboards.
“You did something good here, McKenzie,” Garrett said.
“I can’t stand by and not help.”
“Like I said, seems we have a few things in common. Speaking of helping, I need to finish examining Katrina. Unnecessarily prolonged and repeated care happens when hospital administration and insurance companies pressure doctors to release patients before they are ready. Since you like to solve problems, maybe you can work on that one. Katrina wasn’t stable enough to leave the hospital, but administration said they needed the bed. Next time…. Never mind. There won’t be a next time.”
Now, he needed a distraction and a change of subject. “So you know Russian.”
“Only broken Russian,” he shrugged, “and some German. I’m pretty good with Spanish and French. LA is a virtual melting pot, and it’s easy to learn a language when you can practice. When I was growing up, Mrs. Vodianova lived next door. She used to make these beef and onion piroshki with flaky crust and stuffing inside. My room faced her kitchen, and when she baked, the smell of fresh bread and spices would make my mouth water. By the time I was eleven, I would run groceries, paint, do about anything for her cooking, even learn Russian.”
“She sounds like a nice lady.”
“Nice?” His intense expression softened. “Maybe strict, and a little demented after having lost her parents in the war and her only child to Gaucher disease at age three. She never could let go of her past, and became a lonely, embittered woman.” He scratched his head almost as if he wanted to scratch away the memory. “I’d better check on Katrina,” he said before disappearing through the doorway.
Letting go of the past.
If she didn’t let go, would time warp her into a lonely shell of a person?
No. She refused to let that man take her life. Stubbornness made her refocus. She’d solidify her future plans right after she got the obstinate doctor pointed in the right direction.
Who knew the inflexible, fire-breathing surgeon had a soft underbelly and kind heart? Her fake fiancé might not have wanted her help, but he needed it. And she would make sure he got whatever he needed, and quickly, so she could move on.
Chapter 4
McKenzie maintained a stranglehold on the broken robotic arm and scowled at the project manager. “How long will it take to get a replacement?”
The man’s complexion turned yellow, the color of a bowl filled with corn flakes soaked in milk too long.
“We must order a new sensor from China. The supplier’s telling me Tuesday is the earliest we can get the part,” he said a bit faster and more defensive than necessary.
She turned away, forcing herself to focus on the new cabinets, freshly painted walls, and already-installed operating room monitors. “That’s just perfect. Liam has a board meeting this afternoon. Instead of telling them we’re ready to go, he gets to tell them there’s been another delay.” She rubbed her forehead, hoping to ease the pounding ache. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. Would you mind going to emergency and checking on the mover who crushed his hand? I want to make sure he’s being taken care of.”
Relief washed over the guy’s face. “I’ll be back as soon as I have more information,” he said, and then disappeared faster than a plate of cookies at the nurse’s station.
Relieved to have space to think, she groaned when her phone vibrated in her hand. She twisted her wrist and checked the screen, and then slid her thumb across the glass. “Where are you?”
“Hello to you, too.” Liam’s sarcastic tone came through loud and clear.
“Hold the attitude for your contractors. You need to know they broke the robot when installing it, and the replacement part won’t arrive until next week.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.” Her heels click-click-clicked the five paces to the counter, and then back. “We need to figure out what to tell the board.” Thank goodness her father sat on the advisory committee and had the ear of the Chairman.
“Let me cancel my next two meetings. I’ll be there shortly so we can put our heads together.”
She stared at the surgical bed, remembering what Garrett had said about the safe-haven infant. She needs her heart repaired, and her odds of survival improve with robotic surgery.
Running through a list of logistics, she remembered the baby’s surgery was scheduled for Monday.
Well, crap. Could the operation wait a few more days?
A bullet point list of to-dos for the project’s unveiling swirled in her mind:
Contact the press.
Move the opening ceremony.
Reprint the announcements.
What a mess. Take a deep breath. Count to ten.
“Mac, you sti
ll there?” Liam’s voice focused her scattered thoughts.
Still in firefighting mode, she gnawed on her bottom lip, contemplating the next most critical action. “I’m here. Are you going to call Dad?”
“Flip a coin for it?”
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll see if I can catch him before he leaves for the hospital. I hope the meeting doesn’t go on forever today. I have to be home by six.”
The word six caused her mind to skid to a stop. What? A Carver never thinks about leaving work until at least eight. Habits never changed, especially Liam’s. A woman. It must be a woman. Only a woman could drag her brother out of his workaholic rut.
“Sounds like you’ve got a date. Who’s the lucky lady?”
Liam’s pause lasted too long. Busted.
“It’s that new secretary, the one in legal, isn’t it?”
“If you must know, it’s Janet Benson.”
“C’mon. I asked you not to date my friends. I have to deal with them when you lavish them with affection for a month or two, and then break their hearts. You’re getting a reputation. The Carver Catch is turning into the Carver Heart Crusher.”
“That’s not fair. I give them what they want. Career-enhancing introductions. Designer labels. Zagat-rated dinners. European trips. I haven’t met a girl yet who wanted the one thing I would give for free.”
“What’s that?”
“Me. Just me, hanging out on a Sunday afternoon, eating gluten-free pancakes and watching cartoon reruns.”
“You don’t watch cartoons.”
“No, but I wouldn’t mind watching South Park. That show’s so…”
“Off?” Her initial puff of humor changed into a full belly-laugh. “I’ll give you the show has great characters, but it’s a little…out there.”
“There’s my Bug.” The smile in his voice filled her with a whole lot of happy.
Layer after layer of trouble stacking up all day cracked, and she registered that Liam had annoyed her on purpose about dating Janet. She should have guessed. In a few quick seconds, he’d shrunk her worries into manageable, bite-size chunks. Her shoulders eased and a deep, refreshing breath filled her lungs. “Thanks,” she said simply.