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Wade leaped to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
He knocked on the nurses’ station desk. “Um, excuse me…I hate to bother you, but that little girl over there,” he said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder, “has been waiting three hours to hear about her brother. Do you have any idea what’s going on back there?”
The lady he’d talked to earlier leaned to the right and peered around him. “Poor li’l thing,” she said, clucking her tongue.
“She’s getting to be a regular fixture around this place,” the woman said. She looked at Wade. “Let me see what I can find out.” Then, “Say, Marsha, why don’t you see if you can scare up an o.j. or something for these kids.” She winked at Wade and hurried into the ER.
Marsha rooted around in a small refrigerator. “Here y’go,” she said, handing him two tiny cartons of chocolate milk. “Need straws?”
Wade accepted the milk. “I don’t,” he said, glancing toward the waiting room, “but she might like one.”
“You’re a nice boy,” Marsha said when he took it from her.
Nice. Yeah, right, he thought, remembering what had happened to the engineer. But “Thanks” is what he said.
Sitting beside the girl, Wade peeled back the spout of one carton and slid a straw into its opening. “You want me to see if I can get ’em to cough up some doughnuts or something?”
She sent him a hint of a smile. “No, I’m not hungry.” After taking a tiny sip, she looked straight into his eyes and said, “You’re very nice. Thank you.”
Wade nearly choked on his chocolate milk. All his life, he’d been hearing what a loser he was, and twice in as many minutes, two people had told him the exact opposite. What a joke, he thought, because if they knew him…if they’d seen him earlier tonight, at the cemetery, they wouldn’t think he was so nice!
“What’s your name?” the girl asked.
“Wade,” he said, nervously opening and closing the milk carton. “Yours?”
“Patrice McKenzie.” She tilted her head slightly. “Do you live near the hospital?”
He shook his head. “Ellicott City. How ’bout you?”
“I live in Freeland, on a farm.”
“A farm? With cows and pigs and horses and stuff?” He grinned. “No kiddin’.”
That made her laugh—just a little—but it made Wade feel good to have brightened her mood, even slightly.
The ER doors swooshed open, interrupting his thoughts. “Patrice?” a woman wailed. “Patrice, baby, where are you?”
The girl jumped up so fast, she nearly spilled her chocolate milk down the front of her pink sweatshirt. “Right here, Mom.”
Wade figured the man and woman who bundled her into a group hug must be her parents. From the looks of them, the news about her brother wasn’t good. Then Patrice started to cry. The misery seemed to start deep in the core of her, ebbing out one dry, hacking sob at a time and racking her tiny body.
As Patrice’s family trudged out of the ER arm in arm, Wade realized little Timmy must have died. He hung his head. Maybe he should’ve tried to scare up something sweet for her to eat, even though she’d said she hadn’t wanted anything. Because the way things looked, no telling how long it might be before—
“Hey, kid.”
Wade got to his feet. “Yeah?”
“Sorry, but we lost Mr. Delaney, ’bout fifteen minutes ago.”
Wade pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
The nurse he’d spoken to earlier put a hand on Wade’s shoulder. “The cops are on their way now, to tell the family. You might want to get over first chance you get, see if there’s anything you can do for ’em…since you’re a friend of the family and all.”
Friend. Shame burned hot in Wade’s gut. Funny, he thought, that until the nurse said “friend,” he hadn’t understood what the word hypocrite meant.
“How’d you get here?”
“Walked,” he fibbed, knowing if he said “hitch-hiked,” he’d probably be in for a safety sermon. The nurse seemed like a nice enough woman, but Wade was in no mood for a lecture, no matter how well intended.
“So, how you gettin’ home?”
Wade shrugged. “Same way, I guess.”
“I could call you a cab….”
Shaking his head, Wade got to his feet. “Nah. I’ll walk. It’s not far.” You’re gettin’ awful good at fibbin’, he told himself. Better watch it.
Truth was, there were thirty miles between here and his house, but he’d walk every step of it. It’d do him good, having all that time to think.
The nurse frowned. “This isn’t the best neighborhood, so you keep your eyes peeled, y’hear?”
Wade fought the impulse to exhale a sarcastic snicker. Nothing was going to happen to him; bad things only happened to good people.
“Okay, then, if you’re sure….”
He nodded, and the nurse headed back into the ER, leaving Wade alone in the waiting room.
Alone, and feeling more lost than he’d ever felt in his life.
Chapter One
Present day, Halloween Eve
As he stepped off the elevator, Wade glanced at his watch, then ran a hand nervously through his hair. He’d never honed the ability to keep an emotional distance from his patients; especially when the patient was a kid.
Knowing it would be the toughest visit of his rounds, he’d saved this patient for last. Just outside her hospital room, he took a moment to get his head on straight. Then, one hand on the door handle, he froze as a whisper-soft voice from inside the room said, “And may God bless Emily and speed her recovery.”
Wade grimaced. Fat lot of good your prayers are gonna do, he silently scolded this patient’s mother, ’cause if the Big Guy exists, He ain’t listening.
Only yesterday, Wade had spent nearly eleven hours in the OR with little Emily Kirkpatrick. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of God would stand idly by as a six-year-old endured such intense and constant pain. Now, shaking his head, he forced a bright smile and shoved his way into the child’s room.
“Dr. Cameron,” Emily’s mom said, hands still clasped in prayer, “how good to see you.”
Humbled by the gratitude on the mother’s weary face, Wade felt himself blush. “How goes it, Mrs. Kirkpatrick?” He grabbed Emily’s chart from the plastic slot attached to her door, tucking it under his arm as he met the woman’s eyes. “Get any sleep last night?”
“Oh, I managed to catch a few winks. How about you? You’re the one who spent eleven hours in the operating room.”
Long ago, he’d accepted that now and then, he’d run across someone who seemed to have turned nurturing into an art form. Mrs. Kirkpatrick was one of those people. “Slept like a baby,” he answered.
Laughing, Emily’s mom grabbed her purse. “If you don’t mind, I’ll run down the hall and grab a quick cup of coffee while you’re examining Emily.”
“Take your time,” Wade said, dragging a chair closer to Emily’s bed.
Emily opened sleepy eyes. “Hi, Doc.”
He perched on the edge of the chair. “Hi, yourself, kiddo. How y’doin’?”
Emily managed a wan smile. “Hurts,” she said, pointing to her chest.
“Sorry to hear that, sweetie.” Gently, Wade laid her chart beside her on the mattress. “You’re due for a little medicine soon, so by suppertime, you’ll be feeling much better.”
She gave a weak nod.
“So how’d you sleep?” Gently, he touched a finger to the end of her upturned nose. “Did those busybody nurses keep you awake, taking your temperature and stuff?”
Her smile broadened a bit. “Yeah, but it’s okay. Mommy says they’re just trying to help me get better.”
He took her tiny hand in his. “What’s this?” Wade asked, grinning.
“A ladybug, crawling on a daisy,” she said. “This nice man came in and painted it on me.” Her blue eyes darted around, then settled on something across the room. “Miss Patrice brought him here.”
Wade followed Emily’s gaze to where “Miss Patrice” stood, entertaining Emily’s roommate. If the young woman had seen him enter, she gave no sign of it; her attention was fixed on her one-child audience.
Which was fine by Wade; volunteers had good intentions, what with their puppets and face paints and musical instruments, but in his opinion, their main contribution was to wear out his patients and generally get in the way.
“And if Nurse Joan tells me you don’t eat your supper again tonight,” Miss Patrice made her monkey puppet say, “I’m going to tell my best friend.”
The child snickered. “Yeah?” the girl demanded, grinning. “Who’s your best friend?”
“Why, Santa Claus, of course!” Miss Patrice manipulated the sticks controlling the puppet, making it tousle the child’s hair. Wade would have bet the kid’s peals of laughter could be heard all the way to the bank of elevators down the hall. He couldn’t help but notice that her merriment had crept to Emily’s side of the room, too.
“If Santa finds out you’re not taking proper care of yourself,” said the puppet’s gravelly voice, “there’s gonna be T-R-O-U-B-L-E.” She made the monkey wiggle a hairy finger under the girl’s nose. “And you know what that spells!”
“Trouble!” Emily answered, grinning from ear to ear. For the moment, at least, she appeared to have forgotten her pain.
Patrice whirled around, eyes wide and smiling, and, puppet balanced on her forearm, stepped up to Emily’s bed. “And just who do you think you are, li’l missy, the Spelling Bee Queen?”
“No, silly,” she giggled, “I’m Emily Kirkpatrick.”
“Pleased t’meetcha, Emily Kirkpatrick!” The monkey tickled her chin. “My name is Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey.”
“That’s a long name!”
Mort did a little jig on the edge of Emily’s bed, then tapped a paw to his chin. “Yes, it is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it. Tell you what…you can call me Mort.” The monkey’s hands rested on its hips. “Now tell me, cutie, how’re you doin’?”
“I had a op’ration yesterday.” She gave Wade an adoring look. “Dr. Cameron fixed the hole in my heart.”
The puppeteer met Wade’s eyes. For a moment, no one spoke…not even Mort McMonkey.
“Yes, so I heard,” Miss Patrice said at last.
The puppeteer had the most expressive face Wade had ever seen. The short, reddish-brown curls topping her pretty head reminded him of the elves on those cookie packages. He wondered why she allowed it to cover one eye; it seemed to him those big brown eyes were so warm, they could thaw an igloo.
She looked vaguely familiar, and he was about to admit it when she moved Mort aside enough to expose her name badge. Patrice McKenzie, it said.
“Will you be having supper with us tonight, Emily?” Mort asked.
Wade was too stunned to hear Emily’s response. He’d met a Patrice or two since that night, but how many Patrice McKenzies could there be? Can’t be that Patrice, he told himself.
Could it?
She blinked, confused, he presumed, by his scrutiny.
It had been fifteen years since he’d shared a bleak ER waiting room with a teary, terrified girl, but he’d recognize those big brown eyes anywhere. If the young woman on the other side of Emily’s bed wasn’t the same Patrice, he’d eat his stethoscope.
Mort started hip-hopping again. “Well, well, well,” the monkey said, “it looks to me like your Dr. Cameron is a real live hero, Emily Kirkpatrick!”
The girl’s mother stepped into the room just then. “Yes, yes he is,” she said, standing beside him.
Hero? The very idea was laughable! Wade wanted to warn them all that, in the first place, though Emily’s condition was much better than it had been at this time yesterday, she was far from out of the woods. And in the second place…
The train fiasco that had sent him to the ER all those years ago flashed through his memory. Heart pounding, Wade checked his watch. “So, are you ready to show me your incision, Em?”
She nodded. “Okay, I guess.”
Because of her heart condition, Emily wasn’t as big as other girls her age. The operation made her seem even smaller, frail, vulnerable. Wade finger-combed golden locks from her forehead. “Say goodbye to Mort,” he said gently, “’cause we need to close the curtain.”
She shook the monkey’s tiny, hairy hand. “G’bye, Mort. See you later?”
“You betcha!” The puppet waved at Emily, at the child in the next bed, at Mrs. Kirkpatrick, then at Wade. “See yas later, ’gators!”
As Patrice started for the door, Wade grabbed her elbow. “Mind hanging around a minute? I have something to ask you.”
Her dark brows rose slightly, as if to say, What could you possibly want to ask me?
“Okay,” Mort answered in Patrice’s stead, “but it’s gonna cost ya, Doc.”
For a reason he couldn’t explain, Wade abandoned his all-business demeanor. “Name your price, monkey face.”
The kids and Mrs. Kirkpatrick laughed as Mort slapped both fuzzy hands over his mouth. “Monkey face? Well, I never!” He shook a furry finger at the doctor. “It was gonna be just a cup of coffee, but after that remark, you’ll hafta throw in a slice of pie, too!”
Small price to pay, Wade thought, for a private session with Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey…and his handler.
“I’ll be in my office,” Patrice said.
For the second time in as many minutes, she’d used her own voice. Like everything else about her, it was adorable.
But wait—had she said her office? “Since when do hospital volunteers have offices?”
