The Medic's Homecoming. Lynne Marshall
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was six years old.
This was the Lucas she’d always seen. The bighearted guy he’d fought to conceal. She’d never let him get away with putting himself down. Not on her watch.
Before Lucas knew it, the two-hour practice came to an end. He finished wrapping an elastic bandage around the little runner who’d twisted her ankle and sent her home with RICE instructions—rest, ice, compression and elevation. Somewhere along the line, he’d abandoned his everyday thoughts and had become completely engrossed in being outdoors, enjoying the sunshine and coaching track. It felt good.
But as he thought of heading home with no particular plans other than helping out his parents, a huge dreary cavity opened up deep inside. He’d tried meeting one of his high school buddies for a beer one night, but they couldn’t relate to each other anymore. Lucas’s world had expanded to include faraway deserts, death and mayhem and his buddy had finished college and spent most of his time at the bar complaining about not yet finding his dream job. Not once did the guy ask what it had been like to go to war, and Lucas sure as hell wouldn’t bring up the topic. He went home feeling even more alienated—and then he had another crazy dream. Maybe tonight he’d have better luck sleeping.
“You were such a big help today, Lucas,” Jocelyn said, jogging his way. “I can’t thank you enough. I think you really got the runners to buckle down.”
Little Miss Sunshine, acting like he was the greatest gift on earth. Didn’t she get it? He was messed up. Always had been, but even more so now. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere, and he really didn’t want to be forced to be around Jocelyn, the perennial cheerleader.
“No problem.” His jaws locked, and the old and familiar tension in his shoulders returned. “I’ll put the hurdles away, then I’ve got to get back home,” he muttered, feeling as though the leftover ashes from the big fire hovered around him—like that character from Charlie Brown, Pig-Pen, but instead of a cloud of dirt and dust, his was gloom.
“You know, I’m barely holding it together,” she said. “Your dad always works wonders.”
He stopped, turned and gave her his full attention.
“I guess what I’m saying is, I can’t wait for the big guy to get back, but in the meantime, I’m really glad you’re around to help.”
He wanted to ignore her, wanted to disappear. But he knew she was insecure about taking on the job, and from the unruly lot of athletes she’d inherited, she sure as hell could use some back up.
“Why wait for my dad? Why not work your own wonders?”
She pulled in her chin as if the idea were preposterous. After a moment or two of obvious consideration, switching weight from one hip to the other, opening her mouth once or twice as if to speak but nothing coming out, she shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“There you go.” He winked, turned and, back on task, jogged toward the storage bin where the lanky kid with possibilities waited with the practice hurdles to help put them away.
“I’ll see you Monday at four?” she called out.
“Yup,” he said, over his shoulder.
“Ah, the magnificent smell of formaldehyde,” Jocelyn said to herself, opening up her classroom lab at Whispering Oaks High on Sunday afternoon as the stale, toxic wave hit her nostrils. “Think I’ll leave the door open.”
The empty room stood forlorn, in need of filling up. Rows of student desks seemed eerily vacant. She’d come in to set up for the big anatomy test on Monday. She hadn’t been at all sure she wanted to be the anatomy instructor a year ago when she’d transferred over from her substitute teaching job at Marshfield High. When she’d blown her free-ride athletic scholarship, she transferred to the state college and got her teaching degree in science. Then Whispering Oaks needed an anatomy teacher, so here she was teaching elementary science and college prep anatomy/physiology.
No longer a fill-in for a teacher on maternity leave, but a full-time science teacher, she was track coach, too.
She went about setting up for the test in quiet serenity, random thoughts popping in and out as she did. Yesterday, Lucas had been a natural at coaching. He was young, buff and gorgeous enough to keep the attention of all the girls, yet jock enough to challenge and command respect from the guys. He’d also accidentally discovered the natural talent of redheaded Brian Flaherty. Who knew the kid was a hurdler waiting to be outed?
Jocelyn shook her head. She’d spent far too much time thinking about Lucas since he’d gotten home a week ago, and it hadn’t been that long since she’d broken off her engagement. What a disaster that had turned out to be … She stuck a red-tipped pin into the gastrocnemius muscle of the lab specimen, near the Achilles tendon. The poor stiff cat bore the expression of the famous Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. They all did—all ten of them—in various stages of dissection. Sometimes she preferred biology labs to anatomy. Dissecting frogs wasn’t nearly as grotesque as the cats.
Before Jocelyn realized it, two hours had passed as she painstakingly pinned numbered paper markers inside the formaldehyde-fixed innards of the cats for the midterm anatomy test. The smell had given her a headache, and she still had one cat left to label. Tomorrow morning she’d come in early and place the numbered note cards with the test questions by each pan.
She needed to get things set up for the non-honors basic anatomy class, too. Every year she’d have the students outline themselves on butcher paper, and as they studied each organ, they’d place it inside the body outline where it belonged. The life-size study aid could be rolled up and taken home, too.
Her eyes burned and got teary beneath the mask. If she wasn’t wearing surgical gloves, she’d blow her nose. Being an anatomy teacher might be an unglamorous profession, but it was her job and she gave it her best effort. She’d learned her limits at the university when she couldn’t give one hundred percent to her athletic scholarship and still manage to keep up with the academics. Although it was the hardest decision of her life, she knew that a sports career would be short-lived, whereas her education would last a lifetime. That had to come first.
How many other people at age twenty-seven could say they were content with their jobs and mean it?
But was she really happy, or was she just settling for content?
Why not work your own wonders?
Lucas’s challenge jarred her. She’d been settling for stand-in status with track while subbing for Coach Grady, merely holding things down and waiting for him to get back. Was it because of her painful failure in college? She’d matured now, could focus more. Maybe it was time to own the position, put her name on it.
Work your own wonders.
Yeah, that’s exactly what she’d do … that is, if it was okay with Mr. Grady. Uh, Kieran.
After a few more finishing touches, and meticulous hand washing, she was ready to leave for home. Her parents’ house held a lot more appeal since Lucas had come back last week. If she were lucky, she’d get to see him again today.
Hmm, maybe Beverly needed her hair done…
An hour and a half later, after she’d washed and blow-dried Beverly’s hair while hatching her plan, she knocked on Lucas’s bedroom door with determination.
She needed his help. Honestly.
Minutes later, Lucas glanced down at Jocelyn sprawled out on top of a long sheet of butcher paper on the hardwood floor of the Howards’ family room. She handed him a pencil.
“I need you to trace my body.”
Three seconds ago he’d watched her on all fours with her backside up in the air, while she unrolled and smoothed out the thick brown paper. Now, her long legs lay beneath him in form-fitting jogging shorts. His gaze trailed upward, grateful she’d put on a T-shirt over the black sports bra, which was outlined through the thin white material. One slender arm reached