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“Dr. LaValley? She’s presently administering to a patient in surgery.”
“I need to see her. Elizabeth...LaValley,” he enunciated as best he could, but his words were slurring.
“That’s my aunt!” a voice piped up. It was the kid. The boy who’d recognized Jon.
“Brandon,” the nurse said to the boy, “you know you’re supposed to be in the day care center.” She picked up her telephone and made a call.
“Leave him,” Jon muttered weakly. He still felt so...sluggish yet full of purpose. He supposed dreams did that to people.
No, not a dream, a vision. And it was so clear. He had to get out of here. Had to get started.
The kid trotted over to his gurney. Jon blinked at him. Whatever medication they’d pumped him full of, he would be shaky for a while. He squinted, concentrating as hard as he could.
The kid was about eight, Jon estimated, with sandy hair and those sneakers kids wore that lit up when they walked. He shrugged out of his backpack and grabbed for a pen.
“Can I get your autograph?” the kid asked. He was missing one of his front eyeteeth.
Or maybe Jon was hallucinating. “How do you know who I am?”
“Everybody knows Jon Farell. You have twelve wins, eleven losses, a four-point-one-five season ERA, and one hundred forty-two strikeouts.”
Huh. Jon didn’t even know all that. He usually ignored his stats.
Those numbers weren’t great, though. He should be doing better. If he were honest with himself, he’d slacked off this summer. The playoffs had seemed a certainty, so maybe the team had socialized and hung out partying together more than they should have.
He had a vague feeling that had been part of his dream. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they had touched on the topic....
He struggled to sit up.
“Hurry!” the kid whispered. “The nurse is coming back.”
“Maybe you should get your aunt,” Jon said.
“She’s in surgery.” The kid looked at him earnestly. “She’s a famous doctor.”
“When I see her again,” Jon slurred. “I’ll give her an autograph for you to take home.”
“You should drive to her house and give it to her there. I’m eating dinner at her house tonight. I’ll tell her you’re coming to see me.” The kid turned around so his back was to Jon. Dangling from the boy’s backpack was a cardboard address label, freshly filled out in blue ink. “That’s where she lives.”
With Jon’s good hand—his pitching hand, which, thank God, felt fine—he drew the label closer, just out of curiosity. Dr. LaValley’s address was in Medford. Huh. That’s where he’d grown up. The vision meant something, but he’d known that before he even saw where Lizzy lived.
He squinted at her street address. He was vaguely certain it was near the school he’d attended as a kid, but Jon’s GPS would know for sure. He dropped back on the bed.
“Brandon! Leave the patients alone!”
Brandon let the nurse take his hand and lead him away. Jon thought the boy might have winked at him.
He still felt so groggy and confused. A second nurse brought him a plastic cup filled with ginger ale, and a packet of saltine crackers that crinkled in its cellophane wrapper.
“Can you ask Dr. LaValley to come here, please?” he asked, pushing away the crackers. “I have a question for her.”
“Let me know the question, and I’ll get it answered for you.” The nurse was speaking loudly. She didn’t need to. He understood her perfectly.
“I want to talk to her,” he said as clearly as he could. The words weren’t coming out so easily. His throat felt sore. Why was that?
“I’ll tell her that you asked for her,” the nurse said.
“I need to talk to her...about the surgery. About what happened to me...” Damn it, he was getting tired. And his finger was starting to throb.
The nurse walked away. Jon peeled back the sheet that covered him. Swung his bare feet to the cool floor. He could feel himself tottering.
In a split second, two nurses were at his side, swinging him back onto the bed.
“He wants to talk to Dr. LaValley,” one of the nurses said to the other nurse.
“Mr. Farell?” The second nurse was in his face now, talking loudly. “Jon?”
“I want to speak to Dr. LaValley,” he repeated.
“That isn’t possible. She’s in surgery. But she left a message for you. She said to say that the procedure went favorably. She said to emphasize the word favorably.”
That was code: Lizzy didn’t think he had cancer. That was good. That was...
Exactly what he’d asked for in the vision. His wish was coming true.
But he still had his end of the bargain to hold up.
Jon leaned back on the pillow. There was so much he could do to improve himself during the off-season. And now that he was out of surgery, he would get right on it.
CHAPTER THREE
JON DIDN’T LET Brooke accompany him in the elevator up to his penthouse, and he remembered to ask for everything back that he’d given her to hold for him: wallet, keys, medallion. He wanted no excuses for her to contact him later under pretext of forgotten belongings. The sooner he was back to focusing on his baseball career and in the care of Max alone, the better off he would be.
Once in his apartment, he crashed on his pillow and slept off the aftereffects of the surgery. He woke at midafternoon, his mouth dry and his finger throbbing with pain, but he refused to take the painkillers the doctor had insisted he leave the hospital with. Instead, he swallowed two acetaminophen tablets with a huge glass of water, before falling back into bed and lapsing into a sleep that felt like a coma. He didn’t wake again until his phone rang.
“Yeah?” he mumbled into the mouthpiece.
“Jon Farell? This is Dr. Morgan from Wellness Hospital.”
“Yes.” Jon sat up, his heart pounding. He held the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he groped for a pen and pad of paper in the drawer by his bed. He didn’t want to miss anything the surgeon said. “Go ahead,” he said, pulling off the cap to the marker with his teeth.
“We expedited the lab work for you. The tumor is benign. Cancer-free.”
The pen cap fell from Jon’s mouth and bounced off the pad of paper. Thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
“Thank you,” Jon said to the doctor, once he was breathing normally again. “I appreciate your taking the time to call me.”
He also appreciated that they’d rushed his test through the system. Another advantage of playing for a big-market sports team.
“I’ll see you next week at your checkup,” Dr. Morgan said on the other end of the line. “We’ll remove your stitches then. Until that time, follow the directions the nurses sent you home with. If you have any questions, you can call me at this number.”
“Will do.” Jon disconnected the call and felt the smile spread over his face. For the first time in weeks, the worry he’d been carrying with him lifted.
He’d told no one about the growth on his finger. He couldn’t, because the season had been still underway, and the Captains were in the hunt for a playoff berth. And then when it officially ended, he’d made an appointment and, less than a week later, was in surgery. He hadn’t told his dad, because he didn’t want to worry him about the cancer scare. Ditto with his brothers.
Jon took care of them, not the other way around.
The only reason Brooke had been with him at the hospital was because at the pre-op checkup, the doctors had insisted he designate a person who would escort him home after the procedure. Of course, he’d called Max. It was Jon’s agent’s job to keep the team informed as to his medical status, but whether Max had done so or not, Jon wasn’t certain. The season was over, and Jon was no longer in day-to-day contact with the general manager and team staff. Things were loose....
They were worse than loose. Jon’s contract was up, and he needed the Captains to offer him a new one. That had been step two, after step one—get his tumor taken care of. Max had warned him to be cautious about discussing injuries or medical issues when he had a contract to re-sign.
Now, especially, Jon wanted to shout his good news about the cancer-free diagnosis to the world, but it just wasn’t possible. He wished, at least, he could tell Dr. LaValley.
She’s waiting for news about her nephew.
Mentally, he smacked himself. He had met the nephew in the recovery room, and it hadn’t even occurred to Jon that the kid was in the same boat he was. What kind of guy was he?
It’s time to get serious.
He strode into the bathroom and took the world’s fastest shower, his nonpitching hand—his cancer-free hand—sticking out the side of the curtain so it wouldn’t get wet. There was probably stuff he needed to take care of in regard to changing the bandage, but he didn’t have time to read the instructions the hospital had given him along with a bunch of bandages and tubes of ointment. He would worry about that when he returned home. For now, he gingerly threw on fresh jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of loafers—seeing as he couldn’t tie shoelaces with one of his fingers bandaged—and grabbed his SUV keys, wallet and phone.
It was dark outside. He’d slept the whole damn day. Some of that was the anesthesia and painkillers wearing off, some of it was just sheer exhaustion from a week of private worry.
He called down to valet parking and had Josh bring his Ford Expedition around front to the curb for him. Jon attempted to put on his medallion, but gave up trying to work the clasp and instead shoved it into his front pocket.
On the way downstairs, he called Max again. As before, the call went straight to voice mail. He shut off his phone without leaving a message.
He’d deal with his agent later.
For now, he was driving to Medford to see how a little kid with a cancer scare, like him, was doing.
And, oh yeah, sign him the autographs he’d promised.
* * *
ELIZABETH PUT HER hands over her ears. Her chest felt constricted and her pulse was elevated. Her living room, usually her sanctuary, blared with jarring music from an overloud children’s cartoon. Her nephew bounced on the couch and hummed to himself. “Brandon, please turn down the television so I can hear myself think.”
The boy gazed back at her with a wide-eyed look that made Elizabeth feel guilty. His mom was staying at an alcohol treatment center in town—unbeknownst to him, thank goodness—and she’d asked Elizabeth to take care of the boy for the next twelve hours. Elizabeth wanted to help them, she truly did.
“It’s only for one night,” Ashley had said. “Brandon loves sleepovers.”
With that, Elizabeth had driven Brandon from the hospital to his house, two towns over, to pick up an overnight bag, and then she’d dropped off Ashley’s small dog with one of her coworkers at the beauty salon Ashley worked at. Brandon had chattered and fidgeted nonstop, playing with the radio dials, and when she’d asked him to stop with the radio, he’d fiddled with her cell phone. She had felt so overwhelmed she’d ended up giving in. She just didn’t know what to do with a young boy in her busy life. Not even for one night.
In no universe would Elizabeth ever be called a nurturer. She was the absolute wrong person to have an active eight-year-old boy spend the night with in her small condominium.
“Brandon, please,” she asked.
Blinking, he took the remote and turned down the volume exactly one notch.
“Thank you.” She sighed.
“Auntie, what’s for dinner?” He jumped back on the couch and put his feet up on her formerly pristine cushions.
“I...don’t know.” She stared as Brandon kicked off one sneaker with a thump to the floor. Then his other sneaker dropped onto the magazines on her table.
Her favorite magazines.
She closed her eyes. She was so not cut out for babysitting young boys. This was going to be a long night. And she didn’t have a bed for her nephew, or even a guest bedroom—just her office. She didn’t have a toothbrush for him, either, and he had announced that he’d forgotten his, halfway up the stairway to her condominium unit.
Add that to the shopping list.
She turned back to her dilemma in the kitchen.
Every can of soup and package of cereal was emptied from her cupboard and spread out on her countertop. She had found nothing in her pantry or refrigerator that her nephew could eat.
This was her fault. She’d been so flustered over the fact that her sister had expected Brandon to stay with her—on one night’s notice—that’d she’d forgotten to stop at the supermarket. It was clear she needed to journey outside and brave traffic again. But there was no way she could leave an eight-year-old unattended. What to do?
She needed a babysitter, that’s what she needed.
Sighing, she crossed to the bulletin board where she’d tacked a slip of paper with the scribbled phone number for Mrs. Ham, the widow who lived in a condominium apartment downstairs. Elizabeth hated to ask people for favors—but the elderly lady was the only neighbor Elizabeth knew by name. Mrs. Ham walked with a cane, made it a point to talk to everybody and was home most of the time. Elizabeth remembered her talking about raising two boys, now grown and married and living in other states. Maybe she wouldn’t mind watching Brandon for fifteen minutes in her apartment while Elizabeth ran out to the store.
Before she could agonize over the decision, she made the call. Quickly, like ripping a bandage off a cut.
Mrs. Ham picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, this is Dr. Elizabeth LaValley from upstairs,” she said all in one breath. “I’m wondering if I could ask you a favor for tonight.”
“Tonight?” Mrs. Ham rasped. “It’s not a good time.” A television set blared in the background. “I’m watching the Eastern Series playoffs.”
“The...?” Elizabeth had no idea what the elderly lady was talking about.
“Auntie!” Brandon called from the living room.
“Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Ham.” Elizabeth covered the phone. “Brandon, please, I am on the phone.”
Her nephew picked up the pillow from her couch and tossed it into the air. “Who are you talking to?”
“A babysitter. Put your shoes on, please, you’re going downstairs for a few minutes to watch the, uh, Eastern Series playoffs while I go out to the store.”
“But I can’t go downstairs.” Brandon sat up with an urgent look on his face. “I have to stay here. In your house.”
“You can’t stay here without me.” Elizabeth continued to cover the phone. “You’re eight years old.”
“But I need to. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
And then the buzzer from the lobby rang. Elizabeth blinked, the meaning not registering at first. People did not visit her. She worked long hours, and the short amount of time that she spent at home she kept to herself.
