The Nurse's Pregnancy Miracle. Ann McIntosh
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the elderly man and preteen boy David was escorting out paused at the entrance to the examination area David continued. “The hydrocortisone cream will help with the itching, but if you go back to the old detergent and the rash doesn’t clear up in about a month, you’ll need to have him examined again.”
The old man nodded, then held out a gnarled and wrinkled hand to shake.
“Thanks, Doctor.” He shook his head and grumbled, “Darn kids. That new brand is cheaper than the old one. Wouldn’t you know one of them would be allergic?”
But, despite his grousing, he slung his arm around the boy’s shoulders as they walked away, and the youngster looped his own arm around the waist of the man he’d called “Grandpa.” Clearly there was genuine affection between the pair.
It was funny, David mused, how freely people talked about their lives in the short period of time they had with him in this clinic setting. Already today he’d heard myriad stories about difficult circumstances—like Mr. Jones and Tyrell, the pair now making their way to the dispensary. Mr. Jones wasn’t even the boy’s blood relative, but was married to Tyrell’s great-aunt, who’d taken Tyrell and his two sisters in after their mother went to jail. A sad story in a way, and yet a testament to people’s innate goodness.
David could relate to many of the stories of poverty. After all, he’d lived it, and it really wasn’t that long since he’d broken away from the grinding cycle of just trying to survive.
Sometimes it felt as if it were yesterday he’d been patching his shoes with newspaper and wearing clothes donated to the family by charitable organizations. Often he caught himself reverting to type—hesitating to buy something he could definitely afford because the price was still shocking to him on an almost visceral level, or rinsing a jar to save instead of putting it into the recycling. Some habits were definitely harder to break than others when they’d been acquired at a really young age.
About to call for the next patient in line, he glanced toward where Nychelle was working, just in time to see her trying to get his attention. He stayed where he was for a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the sight of her hurrying toward him. Even in a pair of pink scrubs printed with pictures of bunnies and teddy bears under a generic white lab coat, her face bare of makeup except for a slick of lip gloss, Nychelle was beautiful.
The only thing missing was her habitual smile. Instead her mouth was set in a firm line, and noticing that had him moving to meet her in front of the examination area that separated their assigned areas.
“Dr. Warmington, if you’re free I’d appreciate your assistance.”
Her voice was level, without inflection, but David searched her eyes, saw the hint of deep emotion she was trying hard to subdue.
“Of course. What’s the problem?”
“I have a toddler—male, three years old, underweight—with jaundice and an elevated temperature, and a Haitian mother who doesn’t speak much English, so I can’t get an accurate history.”
She turned to lead the way to her area.
“What are you thinking?”
Nychelle sent him a worried glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know how long they’ve been in the country, so until I do I can’t rule out malaria or Hep A—although it would be unusual for a toddler to show symptoms of hepatitis.”
Children that young, he knew, were usually asymptomatic when they contracted Hep A, and quickly recovered without treatment. The real danger would be the chance of the child passing Hepatitis A on to others around him, especially if they were living in less than hygienic conditions.
“Without a history I can’t rule out sickle cell anemia or Gilbert’s syndrome either.”
She paused outside the curtain surrounding her examination area, and David could hear the little boy fussing and the sounds of his mother hushing him without success.
Nychelle shook her head, her frustration patently clear for an instant. “I’m pretty much dead in the water without knowing more.” Then she squeezed his wrist—just a quick, strong clasp of her long fingers—and said, “I’m so glad I have you to call on.”
Then she slipped between the curtains, leaving him there trying to catch his breath and get a grip on his suddenly wayward libido.
Who knew that one little touch could be as effective as a striptease?
Cursing himself, he ruthlessly pushed away all imaginings of what it would be like to have Nychelle Cory’s fingers on other parts of his body, and then followed her through the curtain.
The mother looked harried, and instinctively David held out his arms to the little boy. Big brown eyes widening, the toddler stopped crying and gave David a considering look. Then, after a hiccup, he smiled and tipped forward right into David’s grasp.
As he caught the little boy, and then settled the slight weight against his chest, David took a quick inventory. The little fellow was definitely warm, and the sclera of both eyes had a distinctive yellow tint. Time to figure out what was going on.
So, putting on his most calming smile, he turned to the little boy’s mother. “Bonjour, madame. Puis-je vous poser quelques questions?”
NYCHELLE SIGHED AS she stepped into the kitchen of her South Fort Lauderdale bungalow and pulled the door closed. Putting down her tote bag, she toed off her shoes, appreciating the cool air indoors, so different from the heat of her garage. Twisting her head first one way and then the other, she tried to work out the tension tightening her neck muscles.
Although each of the medical personnel were only asked to work a three-hour shift at the free clinic, she knew extra hands were always needed at the patient intake booth, or as troubleshooters for the other medical practitioners, and she’d offered her services.
The afternoon had flown by, and before she’d even realized it the clinic had been winding down, so she’d stayed until it ended at five. She was tired—maybe even more so than she’d usually be—but as she yawned widely a feeling of accomplishment made the weariness bearable.
Barefoot, she wandered into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water from her fridge, grabbing a handful of grapes at the same time.
The day had been a resounding success, as usual, yet a nagging sense of discontent dogged her every move, and she wasn’t able to put her finger on the source. Stifling another yawn behind the water bottle in her hand, she considered having a nice soak and an evening of watching some of the myriad TV shows she’d recorded.
Usually there would be some wine thrown into the mix for good measure but, of course, that wasn’t in the cards right now. Hopefully wouldn’t be for another thirty-nine weeks.
There was no stopping the grin stretching her lips to the maximum, nor the little thrill trickling down her spine. No matter what else was bothering her, the prospect of a baby—her baby—made it all okay.
She was still smiling as she put the grapes in a bowl and then headed across the living room toward her bedroom to prepare her bath.
When her cell phone rang, the distinctive sound of Beethoven’s Fifth made her good humor all but evaporate. A little groan escaped before she could stop it, and the immediate wave of guilt that brought had her shaking her head.
Reversing course, she strode back toward the kitchen, hurrying so as not to miss the call. Dumping the water bottle and bowl on the console table, she launched a frantic rummage in her bag to find her phone. Locating it under her wadded-up lab coat, she swiped the screen and brought it up to her ear.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Nychelle. How did the clinic go?”
Not How are you? or What are you up to? Nope—straight to work. Sometimes