Dr. Dad To The Rescue. Jodi O'Donnell
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going to raise this child, given his cynical view of life. Maybe that’s what made him feel so world-weary. There were a thousand hurts he could heal, but what was that power if he couldn’t heal the human spirit? Because his was next to lost. The dearth of hope and trust in him seemed so deep a debt, it would take a miracle to replenish it.
Edie had never seen a person look more forsaken, like he’d just lost his best friend.
The little boy stood in the doorway cradling his injured forearm, the faded-to-gray color of his jeans shorts echoed in eyes so like his father’s. He held the support crossed on his chest, fist on his heart, as if he were set to swear an allegiance and waited only for someone to tell him to whom. And if no one did, he’d bolt at any moment.
In that instant, he owned her heart.
All the cautions given her by the clinic supervisor not three hours ago—that she could not be the world’s rescuer and continue to work in health care—flew right out of Edie’s head. How could she not respond to such a silent cry for help?
He was a handsome child, with those enormous eyes and that spiky dark-brown hair begging for a hand to smooth it down. She wondered what his mother was like, and what kept her from being here in her child’s time of need.
Her heart squeezed painfully.
Edie tossed a reproachful glance at his father, whose own eyes—more gray-green than strictly gray—looked as bleak, his face carved from stone. Thank God he’d checked his tongue before completely demoralizing the boy. Even she had flinched at the gloom and doom in his voice. At least he seemed to perceive his blunder, for she saw the doctor’s jaw bulge with the gritting of his teeth.
Reluctant sympathy stirred in her. She’d give him credit for his remorse, even if she had a feeling the damage had already been done, in so many ways.
She’d have to do the best she could with what was left.
“So you’re Sam,” Edie said, bending at the waist so she was on a level with the boy. Her action worked. Sam shifted his gaze from his father to her.
Edie smiled her warmest smile. “I’m Edie Turner, your physical therapist, which means I’m going to see if we can make that arm of yours better so you can get back to playing all your games. Why don’t you hop up here on the table and we’ll take a look at your arm?”
Sam complied, his climb-up made awkward by his continued grip on the white plastic splint. The padded surface sighed as he stoically settled on the edge of the plinth in front of her, sneaker-clad feet dangling. Yet when Edie moved to take a cursory look at his forearm, he recoiled.
She knew immediately to drop her hand. This would take some delicate maneuvering. Perhaps it would be best to get more acquainted first.
Edie pulled a pen from the pocket of her lab coat, flipping to the history portion of Sam’s file. “How’d you injure your arm, Sam?”
“He took a fall from the top of the stairs to the landing,” the doctor interjected from behind her.
Edie turned to find him a few feet away in a rather commanding stance, with fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers, coattail flipped back behind him. He nodded toward Sam. “His injury involved a bone forearm fracture, completely displaced and the fragments overriding, which required closed reduction of Sam’s arm and eight weeks’ immobilization. Because of the nature of the fracture, the orthopedic surgeon decided to err on side of caution and recommended therapy.”
He spoke to her as he would a class of first-year medical students, and with the same patronizing delivery.
Edie stifled a sigh. On the whole, the physicians she knew were a pleasure to work with. Yet despite his assertion to the contrary, Dr. Holden McKee seemed to be in firm possession of a power complex, divine or otherwise. Would it have killed him to drop the doctor-in-charge act and go stand near his son, give him a little moral support?
“So you accidently fell, Sam?” Edie pointedly asked the boy.
“Not ’xactly,” he admitted. “I didn’t fall. I sorta... jumped. I-I was trying to fly. You know, like David Copperfield.”
“Aha. I guess that’s where the landing part comes in. Not so smooth, was it, Sam?”
To her delight, Sam gave one of those deprecating, all-in-a-day’s-hard-play shrugs.
She chuckled. “So I’d say it wasn’t exactly a fall, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess.” He looked at his father over her shoulder. “I mean, no, ma’am. I didn’t fly, I just fell.”
“Oh, please call me Edie, will you?” She drew Sam’s attention back to her with her request. “I want to be really comfortable with you.”
“Okay—Ee-dee,” he said, enunciating each syllable.
“Thanks. I appreciate it. So, how many steps were you aiming to soar over?” Nonchalantly, she reached out and adjusted one of the Velcro straps on the splint. “Five, six...more?”
“Eight,” Sam owned. He threw another glance, this one guilty, over her shoulder.
“Eight!” she exclaimed, cocking her head to the right and into his line of vision. “I bet there must’ve been at least a second or two when you really did feel like you were flaying.”
He blinked at her. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
Edie felt encouraged enough to ask, “Think I could have a look at the souvenir of such a feat?”
“Well...okay.”
This time when she reached to remove the molded plastic splint, Sam allowed her to undo the straps and set it aside. His forearm and wrist were pale and somewhat atrophied from their weeks in plaster, yet looked to have healed well, with only a slight thickening still present.
Sam swallowed and averted his gaze. He seemed almost repelled by the sight of his own frailty.
“Why, you’re mending just fine, Sam,” she reassured him.
He squinted one eye. “Really?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes, of course. Did you think you wouldn’t?”
He gave another shrug of his small shoulders, but there was nothing devil-may-care about this one. “I-I guess I didn’t know.”
Once more, Edie felt her heartstrings wrench as she realized he’d been protecting his injury not just from her sight. The worry he must have been going through! Apparently he hadn’t felt he could ask his father, the doctor, for an assessment—and an assurance.
The man wasn’t exactly increasing in her estimation.
“Well, you are getting better, champ,” she said. “We just need to keep up the good work that’s already been done.”
With infinite gentleness, Edie took Sam’s forearm in her hands. But even that merest touch made the youngster flinch.
She felt another twist of her heart. He was obviously terrified. “I’m sorry, Sam. Does it feel uncomfortable just touching it?”
“Naturally he’ll have some tenderness, with or without moving his arm, because of the nature of his injury,” his father again broke in, finally stepping around to the other side of the examining table, next to his son. Yet he was as stiff as ever as he placed his hand on the brown leatherette surface next to Sam’s hip, then seemed to recall himself and withdrew it
She began to wonder if anything could penetrate that impassive shell of his.
He cleared his throat. “But it’s important to begin moving the joint at this point so that its range of motion isn’t permanently restricted and full function is recovered as soon as possible.”
Edie wondered if this particular explanation was for her benefit or his six-year-old son’s. All right, this time she’d try