Love's Healing Touch. Jane Myers Perrine
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her parole and because they just plain needed that income.
He thought how tired and how much older she’d looked when she got off the bus, about her joy at seeing her clothes and her art. Then he shook his head as he remembered her tears. His mother never cried.
Maybe he’d wait a few days before he suggested she find work.
Chapter Three
Almost midnight a few days later, and a moment of quiet during a long shift in the E.R.
Mike headed outside and leaned back against the wall of the hospital. He took a deep breath, held it and let it out. Sometimes he was overwhelmed by the smell and the stress of the E.R. Tonight it was more than he could handle. After a few minutes and more cleansing breaths, he turned to go inside, walking back through the waiting room and the door into the E.R.
“When did you come in today?” Williams, the big orderly, asked as he pushed an empty gurney.
Stretching, Mike answered, “Three.”
“Double shift, huh? You must need the money.”
“Don’t we all?” He covered a yawn before he went back into Exam 5 to clean the empty room.
“Why are you doing that?” Williams said. “Housekeeping’s supposed to do that.”
“Because they’re running behind and I don’t have anything else to do.”
“You make us all look bad.” Williams headed toward the central desk.
As he dumped the paper bed cover in the trash, Mike realized how beat he was after nine hours of the double shift. With his mother back home, Mike could work longer hours because he didn’t have to worry about Tim. Before her arrival, Mike had covered only the night shift, eleven to seven. That way he could get his brother dinner, make sure Tim got up in the morning, and push him out to look for a job. Hard to do all that between a couple of naps.
Now Mike could work more hours to cover his mother’s expenses until she got work. Maybe earn enough to catch up with the bills.
“You said last week your mother was coming back to Austin. How’s that going?” Mitchelson came into the room.
“Okay. She got here Wednesday and is settling in.” He pulled on a new pair of gloves and began disinfecting the counters.
“Where was she?”
“The women’s prison in Burnet.” When he turned to throw a paper towel into the bin, he saw Dr. Ramírez standing next to the curtain. Her mouth was open a little. She had obviously heard what he’d said.
Actually, it was a good thing she’d caught the conversation. She might as well know he wasn’t the man she thought he was. Maybe she’d stop nagging him and leave him alone. A mother in prison wouldn’t fit into her idea of what a doctor should be or the kind of man she’d date.
A man she’d date? Where had that thought come from? The one cup of coffee last week hadn’t been an invitation, wasn’t meant to be a date of any kind. No, there wasn’t any chance of a relationship between them other than doctor-orderly. But, even if the smallest possibility of that existed, the information about his mother would completely scuttle it. An ex-con in the family tended to do that.
“Transfer, Fuller.” Dr. Ramírez moved back to the other operating room.
Five minutes later, the injured from an automobile accident and two gunshot victims came in. All needed immediate stabilization and surgery.
He was working calmly until he saw one of the injured was a four-year-old girl, her pink T-shirt smeared with blood and her leg at an angle he didn’t like. He forced himself to grin at her as he untied her little sneakers. They had kittens on them, kittens covered with blood.
“Hey, kid,” he said. “My name’s Mike. Your shirt says you’re Naomi.”
“My leg,” she whispered. “Hurts. A lot.”
“I bet it does, buddy. The doctor will be out in a few minutes. She’ll help you.”
“Fuller,” Dr. Ramírez called.
Mike started to move away when Naomi grabbed his hand. “Don’t go,” she said.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He wished he had something to give Naomi to keep her company. He took a clean towel, tied it in a knot and handed it to Naomi. “This is Whitey, the friendly polar bear who lives in the hospital and keeps little girls company.”
Naomi took the towel and hugged it.
“Nicely done, Fuller,” Dr. Ramírez said from the doorway. “Have you thought about working in pedes?”
He faced her. “Need a transfer?”
“Yes.” Dr. Ramírez strode toward Naomi then gently pushed the hair from the child’s forehead. “Move this gurney into Exam 4 and take her mother upstairs.”
By 5:00 a.m., the hospital had quieted again. He’d transferred four victims to the operating room then to their rooms once they came out of recovery. And he’d taken one body to the morgue. His least favorite transport.
Not a hard night in the E.R., but two shifts added up to a backache and the need to relax for a few minutes. He wished he had time for a nap, but when he got to the break room, another orderly snored on the sofa.
He took a thermos from his locker and poured the last of the coffee into his cup. With a groan, he settled down in the only comfortable chair in the room and leaned his head back.
Barely a few breaths short of falling asleep, he opened his eyes to see Dr. Ramírez put a can of soda on the table and drop in the chair across from him. She seemed to be favoring her right leg and was rubbing her thigh almost surreptitiously.
“Old football injury,” she said with a slight smile before she nodded at his thermos and asked, “Saving money?”
“I can’t take the coffee someone makes in the E.R.”
“I know.” She held up her Coke. “Tastes like it’s spiked with old motor oil.”
“My mother makes terrific coffee. I’d rather have it than pay for it in the cafeteria.”
“I heard you say your mother is home from prison.”
He nodded and shifted in the chair.
“What was she in for?”
“Forgery.”
“Checks?”
“Paintings.”
“Oh, an artist.” She took a drink of Coke. As she lifted her chin, Mike watched a wisp of hair that had come loose to curl on her neck. He’d never thought of Dr. Ramírez as having curls or long hair…and he’d better not think about that.
She put the can down and licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue. The motion wasn’t meant to be seductive, just cleaning up after the last drop, but all Mike could think of for a few seconds was her lips, round and soft and pink. She’d spoken for several seconds before Mike realized she’d said something.
“I’m sorry. I’m falling asleep. What did you say?”
“My uncle was in prison.” She stood and put the can in the recycle bin.
“Oh?” He swiveled to look at her.
“It was really hard on his family.”
That was all she said. She didn’t offer sympathy or platitudes or advice or dig further into his life. She only commented on a shared experience. And she didn’t say, “I know how you feel.” Because no one really did.
“Thank you.”
“Fuller,” came a male voice from the hall. “Transfer.”
“And the