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Her calls took a good fifteen minutes. She had so much to say, and yet so little. But she could give the people waiting at home some reassurance. She’d brought Nick to a good place. She hung up and, trying to ignore her aching feet, headed back to his room.
A nurse hurried out of his door. Was something wrong? Propelled by fear, Mallory dashed forward, then halted in the doorway, unable to take another step, as a hauntingly familiar voice reached her ears.
He sat by the bed, his head bent close to Nick’s. He was talking baseball and he had the boy’s full attention.
He must have come directly from the airport because he wore a white dress shirt that contrasted starkly with his tanned skin. His shoulders were slightly broader than she remembered, his chest wider, but no gray marred the thick, dark hair. The hand that lay lightly on the bed rails was the same, too—lean, strong.
He hadn’t changed. And oh, God, she’d never realized how much Nick looked like him. The shape of his face, the way he cocked his head to listen, even the half smile. She’d never let herself notice. Would he?
Please, no, she begged. She must have made a sound of supplication, because he looked up.
And for the first time in eleven years, she stared into his eyes.
Chapter Three
He didn’t recognize her.
His expression was cordial, but she saw no hint of awareness in his gaze.
What made her think he would remember? What made her believe she’d meant enough to him to remain in his mind? Pride forced her to square her shoulders and step into the room. She’d deal with her feelings of hurt and anger later. What mattered now was Nick.
As she came into the room, Kent smiled and extended his hand. “Mrs. Bren—”
His hand froze in midair. He glanced at the chart on the stand beside him, then up again. “Mallory Brenner…Mallory Roseman?”
Her breath backed up in her lungs. He did remember her after all. Silently, she nodded.
“You…cut your hair,” he blurted, his words seeming to surprise him as much as they did her. His cheeks flushed, and abruptly his eyes swung back to his hand, still suspended. He reached out and, reluctantly, Mallory did the same.
Their hands met above the bed where Nicholas—where their son—lay staring at them with curiosity. “You guys know each other?”
“We did, years ago,” Mallory muttered and managed a casual shrug. She hoped she communicated that whatever had happened between them was inconsequential and done with long ago. Realizing she still grasped Kent’s hand, she let it go and stepped back. What she needed now was his medical skill. “About Nick—” she began.
“Yes. Why don’t you sit down,” Kent suggested, “and we’ll talk about what happens next.”
His voice was calming, and Mallory remembered again the little boy he’d spoken to at the pool that long-ago summer morning. She took a chair beside the bed.
Kent turned to Nick. “Nick, you’ve had some people sticking you today, and they tell me you’ve been very brave.”
“Is the sticking over?” Nick asked.
“I’m afraid not. Tomorrow morning you’re going to have a spinal tap.” Gently, matter-of-factly, he explained the procedure.
Nick’s hand slid to Mallory’s and clasped it tightly, but his eyes were glued to Kent’s. When Kent asked if he understood, he nodded. “I won’t cry,” he said. “At least I’ll try not to.”
“Good,” Kent said, smiling at him. “And I won’t spring any surprises on you. Whatever we have to do to lick this illness, I’ll tell you beforehand. Is that a deal?”
“Deal,” the boy said, and Mallory saw with relief that Kent had won his trust.
Kent turned to her now. “The usual course of treatment for AML, Nick’s type of leukemia, is several rounds of chemotherapy, then a transplant…”
“Transplant?” She didn’t know much about transplants except that there was always a chance of rejection.
Kent seemed to sense her fear. “Transplants are getting to be commonplace in many types of cancer,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll meet lots of kids who’ve had them and are doing quite well.”
Calmer now, Mallory nodded.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Kent continued, “I’ll go over the results of the tests and talk more about the treatment with you and Nick…and Nick’s father.” He glanced toward the door. “Is he here with you?”
Mallory didn’t allow herself to wince at the phrase Nick’s father. “My husband died three years ago,” she said flatly.
Something flashed in Kent’s eyes, disappeared. “I’m sorry. I met him, I believe.” Without glancing at the chart, he said, “Dean,” and Mallory nodded.
He picked up Nick’s chart. “See you tomorrow, pal,” he said and ruffled the boy’s hair.
When he left, Mallory let out a long breath. She was over the worst. She’d survived the first meeting. From now on she’d be fine, as long as they didn’t dredge up old memories that might lead to dangerous questions. And why should they? They were doctor, patient and patient’s mother. She suspected Kent would want to keep it that way as much as she did. Besides, he surely had a life beyond the hospital. Eleven years had passed. He must have a wife and…and children.
“Mom.” Nick’s voice brought her out of her reverie.
“Yes, hon.”
“How do you know Doctor Berger?”
Trust her inquisitive son to ask. “He, uh, spent a summer in Valerosa a long time ago. I met him then.”
Nick eyed her with interest. “Was that before I was born?”
About nine months, she thought with a pang. “Uh-huh.”
“Did you like him?”
Mallory felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Yes, he was very nice.”
“I like him, too,” Nick said. “I’m glad he’s going to be my doctor.”
On that, she could agree. “Me, too.”
“He’s going to make me well,” her son said, with total confidence.
Mallory bit her lip. Oh, God, she hoped so. “Yes, he is. Now, why don’t you get some sleep? You have a big day tomorrow.” She bent to fluff his pillow and drop a kiss on his forehead.
He caught her hand. “Mommy.”
Rarely did Nick call her Mommy anymore. He’d pronounced himself too big for that several years ago. She squeezed his hand. “Yes?”
“Will you sit here by me till I get to sleep?”
“I’d like that,” Mallory said, “and maybe we could hold hands, okay?”
“Yeah.”
Mallory kept watch as he shut his eyes and fell asleep.
Only when the room was still did she allow her thoughts to drift back to Kent. He’d turned out to be the doctor she always imagined he’d be, with a bedside manner worthy of Albert Schweitzer. But why did he have to look like every woman’s fantasy lover?
Why couldn’t he have lost his hair or developed a paunch? That would make things so much easier.
Whack.
Kent served the ball against the wall of the racquetball court and when Stan Ferguson returned the shot, whipped it back with another satisfying smack. He slammed the ball again and again, the whoosh of air loud in his ears.
Mallory. Why did she have to be as pretty as ever, her mouth still so enticing, so kissable? Why couldn’t she have turned into a hag?
“Point,” Stan called. “Hey, man, you’re killing me. You’re up thirteen-two.”
“Yeah,” Kent muttered. Ordinarily if he beat Stan by this much, he’d be elated. Now he only focused on the force of his arm, the slap of the ball against wood.
Why hadn’t he taken time to look at the boy’s chart more carefully yesterday? He’d rushed in from the airport with barely enough time to read the test results, so he hadn’t glanced at the parents’ names. He’d gotten a monumental shock when he’d recognized the mother.
Stan missed a ball, then another.
“Game over.” Kent caught the ball and bounced it, then tossed it and the racquet into his gym bag.
“Hey, good buddy, you’re on a tear today,” Stan said as they walked off the court. “Letting out some anger, are we?”
Kent managed a laugh as he stared straight ahead. “Remind me never to play racquetball with a psychiatrist.”
“We can’t help noticing displays of emotion. One of the drawbacks of the profession. Last time I saw you murder the ball that way was when you and Lisa divorced.”
“Spare me the psychoanalysis.” Kent swiped a towel over his sweaty face. “What you saw isn’t anger, it’s athletic skill.”
They halted in front of the showers, and Stan gave him a penetrating look. “Well, if you ever want to talk about your newfound ‘skill,’ you can have a discount.”
“Not necessary, but thanks.” He pulled the damp T-shirt over his head. He’d feel foolish spilling his guts about an affair that ended years ago.
“Have time for lunch later?” Stan asked.
“Not today. Too busy.” Kent tossed his shorts aside and stepped into the shower. He turned the water on full force and let it pour over him. Damn, he hated being so transparent, but running into Mallory after all this time brought back memories and emotions he thought he’d put to rest years ago.
Getting over her hadn’t been easy. No, it had been tough facing the fact that she’d played him for a fool, used him as bait to snag Dean Brenner. Remembering his last phone call to her, he shut his eyes as icy water droplets stung him as if they were needles.
He’d called from the hospital in Rome, three weeks after he’d planned on returning to Valerosa. She’d have been back at school in Lubbock by then. But when he called her dorm, he learned she wasn’t enrolled that semester. Surprised and worried, he tried her at home.
“Mallory?” A deep, rich laugh sounded over the wire and Ophelia, the Rosemans’ housekeeper, said, “She’s not here. That girl’s done gone and got herself married.”
Staggered, he gasped, “Married? When? Who?”
“Few days ago. Married Dean Brenner. I always knew those two’d wake up someday and see they was meant for each other. Been hangin’ around together since they was little tykes.”
She paused. “You want their number in El Paso?”
For some reason, he wrote it down, hung up, then sat back and stared unseeing out the window. After a minute he glanced at the slip of paper in his hand, crumbled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash.
Kent opened his eyes. Didn’t matter now. Couldn’t. Both of them had one very sick kid to worry about. Nick was their only connection.
The next night, Mallory tiptoed out of Nick’s room and made her way down the hall to the waiting area. She bypassed an armchair, sat on the window ledge and stared into the night. It was 1:00 a.m., and lights were still on all over the medical center. Hospitals never slept.
She leaned her forehead against the glass. Today had been the worst day since Nick had gotten sick, even worse somehow than the afternoon Dr. Sanders had told her he had leukemia.
She’d felt so optimistic when she awoke this morning. Kent—Dr. Berger—had explained that AML was nearly always amenable to chemotherapy. The transplant, whether of bone marrow or stem cells, would come later, but first things first. The chemo would begin immediately.
She was proud of the way Nick reacted. He said he and his mom planned to beat this disease, then asked when he’d be out of the hospital. His grin broke out when Kent—Dr. Berger—said probably in a few days, as soon as they saw how he tolerated the chemo.
Tolerated? Mallory thought bitterly. Such a bland word. The nurses had told her reactions to chemo could vary from mild to severe, but only now did she realize what “severe” meant. Nick had first developed an excruciating headache, then nausea so fierce he screamed every time it gripped him. The nurse said the doctor would adjust the dose next time. How could they have been so far off? How could Nick—and she—endure a next time?
Oh, it hurt to see her baby so sick. And not to be able to help. All she could do was hold his hand.
For the first time she wondered if they’d come to the right place. Maybe they should have gone to Sloan-Kettering in New York or another big cancer center. At least there she wouldn’t have the added stress of wondering if Nick’s doctor had noticed the boy’s birthday and done the math.
Tears slid down her cheeks and dampened the window-pane. She was homesick. She wanted someone to lean on.
A hand touched her shoulder.
Startled, she turned. And met Kent’s eyes.
Damn, Kent thought, he hadn’t meant to touch her, but he’d seen her at the window, shoulders slumped. Her son’s reaction to his first dose of chemo had to be tough for her. He’d decided to stop and reassure her, as he’d do for any parent. A brief word of explanation and sympathy, and he’d be on his way.
She’d been crying. He saw the sheen of tears in her eyes as she turned.
For the first time in his medical career, he couldn’t think of the right words. He settled for, “Rough day.”
“Too rough.” Pain and accusation shone through her tears. “He shouldn’t have to be so sick. Can’t you tell ahead of time what dose he needs?”
“No, reactions vary. Sometimes a child will tolerate one dose, then the next time react poorly to the very same one.”
“So we can expect more of the same?”
He sighed. “Maybe.” He saw her swallow, and added, “I won’t sugarcoat this, Mallory.”
She bit her lip. “No, of course not.”
“Once Nick is out of the hospital and you’re settled at the apartment complex, you’ll meet other families. You’ll have a built-in support system.”
She brushed away the tears that stained her cheeks and nodded. “That’ll help.”
It would, of course. And he shouldn’t get personally involved. He should leave it right there, turn away from her, go home and crash. But he found himself saying, “Walk down to the doctors’ lounge with me. I bet you haven’t eaten. We’ll find you a snack.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t eat a thing.”
