A Heartbeat Away (17 page)

23

Christian Mitchell, MD, placed a cool washcloth on the forehead of his bald little chemotherapy patient, Brian Phillips, and resumed his vigil holding the boy's hand. On the nightstand were Brian's favorite things, including a baseball signed by Baltimore Oriole great Cal Ripkin Jr.

“Baltimore plays Atlanta tonight,” Christian said. “We should be able to pick up the game on MASN.”

Brian nodded but didn't speak or open his eyes.

Christian looked up as his resident walked in. Toby Henson, a West Point grad who was letting the government pick up the tab for his education in exchange for future service, shook his head and said, “There you are. The phlebotomist can't get blood on the Yarborough kid. I need you to do a femoral stick.”

“Okay.”

Henson stared at him. “Now?”

Christian squeezed the hand of his little patient. “I'll be back after a while and check on you again.”

“Don't leave,” he whispered.

“Sorry, sport. I'll be back soon.”

In the hallway, Henson turned and pointed at Christian's chest. “I can't have you sitting here all day holding hands with the patients while there's work to be done.”

“I finished all my admissions. Dr. Smith knew where I was.”

He leaned forward. “And what is it with you? Your eyes are wet.” He shook his head. “You can't expect to be able to help these kids if you get so attached.”

“Brian was having a bad day, that's all. His mother had to leave for a few hours, and I had—”

“Get a spine, Mitchell. If you really want to help kids with cancer, you can't be crying over each one.”

“Empathy can be helpful. When the patients know I care, they respect my recommendations.”

“Yeah, well, if you let your emotions get involved, you'll never be able to be objective. And that's your job,” he said, pointing again at Christian's chest. “You let these kids get under your skin and you'll never sleep at night. Bad things happen, Mitchell. Kids with cancer die every day.”

“And maybe they should die with someone holding their hand.”

“Let a nurse do that. You've got to make the hard decisions to use chemotherapy to give them a chance.”

“But I—”

“No arguments from you. Now get to the ICU and draw that blood. And don't cry about causing your patient a little pain.” Henson sighed. “What is it with you? First I find you praying for a patient; now I find you holding hands and getting tearful. If you want to pass this internship, you'd better start acting like a real doctor.”

Chris nodded and held his tongue.

I am.

That afternoon, Tori carefully prepared Caribbean chicken with pear and cranberry chutney, using a rub of allspice, fennel, and cloves. At six, she'd just begun to fry chicken breasts in fresh ginger and chopped onion when the doorbell rang.

She checked her appearance in the foyer mirror and smiled. She'd found the perfect little black dress, one that covered her sternal scar and contained a side slit just high enough to keep things interesting. She wore a single pearl necklace, positioned so that the pearl fell right at her suprasternal notch. Not extravagant. Just right in a classy sort of way.

She took a deep breath and opened the front door.

Charlotte stood between two suitcases, obviously surprised at Tori's appearance. “Well, well, aren't we fancy?”

Tori stepped forward. “I wasn't expecting you.”

“Obviously.” She held up her hands. “I brought your stuff.” She lifted the bags and entered. “Something smells wonderful.”

“I'm planning a little dinner.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Jarrod coming over?”

Tori shook her head. “No.” She wasn't sure she wanted to share the news with Charlotte until she knew there was news to share. Tori needed to figure things out a bit first.

Charlotte barged her way forward, following her nose to the kitchen. “Wow. What smells so good?”

Tori shrugged and turned the burner down to low. “Caribbean chicken. I got the recipe online.”

“Since when do you cook?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Since now.”

“You could have told me you were moving out.”

“I didn't think you'd approve.”

“I don't.” Charlotte looked around. “But obviously you're doing okay.” Charlotte dabbed the end of her index finger into a small bowl of chutney and returned it to her mouth. “Mmm. Maybe I was cramping your style.”

“It's not that. I just needed for things to get more normal.”

“This is normal?”

“Not exactly. But here I'm in control.” She put her hands on her hips. “Regaining control is an important part of recovery.” She lifted the lid off the frying chicken. “I really need to pay attention to this.”

Charlotte waved her hand in the air. “I'll get out of your hair, then. Do I need to camp down the street to find out who's coming to dinner?”

“Phin.”

“Your counselor?”

“It's not what you think. He's a friend.”

Charlotte stomped toward the front door. “I'm your friend and you don't dress that way for me.”

“I'll tell you about it later.”

“Be careful, Tori. You're going through a stressful time. Don't—”

Tori held up her hand. “I'm a big girl,” she said, shooing Charlotte toward the door. “I need to work.”

She watched Charlotte crossing the lawn and Phin arriving at the same time. Charlotte gave an exaggerated wave with an even more exaggerated grin. Tori stayed at the front door and opened it a moment later.

Phin stood there like a model out of an L.L.Bean catalog. He held a bottle of wine. “Wow,” he said, looking at Tori.

Good start.
She smiled and took the bottle. “Come in.”

“I hope that's okay. I wasn't sure what you were fixing.”

“It will be perfect.”

He followed her to the kitchen.

She watched as he inspected the table.

“Tori, you didn't need to do all of this. Really, I just needed to pick up my Bible.”

“Oh, and for that you bring me a bottle of wine?”

“You mentioned dinner. I just thought …”

She turned the chicken and looked back at him. “I'm glad you decided to come. I thought you would.”

He shifted his weight back and forth. “Look, I guess we should talk about this—”

She stepped toward him and placed her index finger against his lips. “Not now. Let's have dinner first. Then talk.” She pointed toward a drawer in the island. “I have a corkscrew around here somewhere. Why don't you open the wine?”

Phin worked on the bottle. Tori walked into the other room and came back holding his Bible.

“Can I ask you a few things?” she said.

“Sure.”

She opened the worn Bible. She smiled slyly. “I liked seeing the things you underlined.”

“Those are meant for me.”

“I know.” She paused, hoping he was okay with it. “That's why I liked seeing them.” She pointed to a verse he'd underlined. “This bit about not leaning on your own understanding—does that mean Christians just blindly trust and put their brains in neutral?”

“No. I've chosen to believe the claims of Christ because I've examined the proof and I think they're true. But I haven't abandoned my mind.” He hesitated. “I underlined that after my wife died. Her death wasn't something I could understand. Why would God allow my wife to be taken from me?” He took the book from her hand. “So I just had to hold onto the things I believed, like ‘God loves me.' I just had to believe he knew best.”

Tori turned around. “I want to know more about the proof,” she said. “But right now, I think this chicken is ready. Let's eat.”

During dinner, they talked about their trip to Baltimore and Tori's upcoming interview with the psychiatrist. They talked about hobbies, Phin's work with Habitat for Humanity, and Phin's church. They talked about everything … except their relationship. That's the way Tori had planned it. She didn't want Phin to feel anything but at ease.

After eating, they retired with their wine glasses to a couch in the den. Tori didn't wait for Phin to speak. She took their glasses and set them on a coffee table. Then, she positioned herself so that she faced him on the couch. She stroked his cheek with her hand and leaned forward until her lips touched his.

She felt her breathing quicken. The kiss was heaven, tenderness wrapped in softness, wrapped in longing. But soon Phin put his hands on her shoulders and gently held her away.

“What's wrong?”

“I … I,” he said, twisting away. “It's just that I can't.”

“But we're just beginning to click. You understand me. I thought we were ready to take—”

“It's not right. I can't do this.” He disentangled himself from her arms and stood. “I'm sorry. I don't want to lead you on.”

“Phin, talk to me. You don't like me in that way?”

“No. Yes, I mean, no, it's not that.” He shook his head. “Missy.”

Your wife.
“She's gone, Phin.”

He stuttered. “I should go.”

“No, we should talk,” she said. “What did I do? Did I move too fast? We can go at your pace.” She touched his hand. “Tell me about Missy.”

“I … I—” He shook his head.

“Have I misread you? Have I completely lost my ability to read men?”

“It's not you.”

He walked toward the door. When he reached the front foyer, he turned. “Dinner was great. Thanks.”

She couldn't quite believe he was leaving just like that. For a moment, she watched. Stunned. But then, just as he closed the door, she called his name. “Phin.”

He paused.

“Take this,” she said, reaching into the kitchen. “Your Bible. I wouldn't want to give you an excuse to come back.”

She dropped the book into his hands, slammed the door after him, and began to cry.

24

Thursday morning, psychiatrist Mary Jaworski sat on the leather couch in Tori's den and smiled. “I don't want you to feel anxious about this.”

Tori studied the petite woman in front of her. Her long, straight hair was streaked with gray. Not highlighted, streaked. Mary didn't seem the type to care. She wore a denim wraparound skirt, a plaid blouse, and one of those yellow “Live Strong” wristbands that indicated she'd donated money for a cancer cure. Her eyelashes and complexion weren't completely inadequate, but Mary hadn't used an ounce of effort to augment her natural strengths. Her build was slight and the knuckles on her hand seemed too prominent. On top of everything else, her smile revealed a set of clear braces, the kind that are supposed to be invisible but capture your attention and make you look even closer to see what's wrong.

“I'd like to start with some general questions. Later, if we conclude that it will help, I'll do the trance induction. I'll need to videotape it all, just in case the captain needs it for evidence.”

“Will I remember what I reveal under hypnosis?”

Dr. Jaworski pushed her shoulder-length hair behind her ears. “You may not. If there are important discoveries, you and I can watch the video at a later time when we can process it together.

“I'd like to talk about your background. Childhood, education, that sort of thing.”

Tori reclined in her favorite leather chair with her feet on the matching ottoman. “Is that really necessary? What I really want to know is the meaning of the transplanted terrors.”

“I need to know about your own past, so that I can distinguish between the two. If you've got memories from two different lives, I need to know yours first.” She paused and smoothed the denim skirt over her legs. “I've done some reading about transplanted cellular memories. This is really a fascinating area. If what you tell me can be documented, I'd say we have a reportable case.”

“Wonderful.” Tori let the words drip with sarcasm.

When the psychiatrist looked hurt, Tori explained, “I couldn't care less about whether medical science benefits from this. I just want to assist in bringing justice if someone was really trying to hurt Dakota Jones.”

“Okay,” Dr. Jaworski said, “let's begin.” She opened a laptop and poised her fingers over the keyboard. “Tell me about your earliest memory.”

Pastor Randy Slaytor folded his hands in his lap and looked at Phin. “It doesn't sound like you're being fair. You're leading her on by your actions.”

“That's just it—I don't
want
to lead her on. In fact, it doesn't feel that way. When we kissed, it was something that I really wanted to do. It's just …”

Randy hesitated and finally finished the sentence for him. “You just don't think it's right.”

“She's a great lady, don't get me wrong. But we don't share the same faith. She's a scientist. She believes in what she can see and feel.”

Randy leaned back. “And did you tell her that the faith issue is what's holding you back?”

“No.” Phin shook his head. “I didn't want to see her exploring faith out of a motivation to get on my good side.”

“So you really think you have that much influence?”

“I think it's pretty clear that she liked me. But now I'm not so sure.”

“She sounds hurt.”

Phin nodded. “My fault, bro.”

“I think you know where I stand on this. I'm concerned about whether you're being fair to Tori.”

“I know.” Phin paced around Randy's small office. “I should never have let things go so far.”

“You need to give her space.”

“Oh, believe me, that's no problem. I'm not sure she'd want to see me at all anymore.”

Randy sighed. “Maybe that's best.”

Phin stared out the window across the empty parking lot. “I think it is. But it doesn't really
feel
best.”

Kesha watched Mike limp over and plop onto the couch. “Are you hurtin', baby?”

“A little.”

“We need to take you back to the clinic.”

“But my doctor's dead.”

“There are other doctors, silly.”

“Can you call that lady doctor, the one that was looking at Dakota's place?”

“She works in Richmond, Mike. That's a long ways.”

“But she told you she'd see me, right?”

“She said ‘if' I could get you to Richmond, she'd make sure you were taken care of.”

“We can take a bus. Willie did it.”

“Willie has money.”

“You have money. I've seen the jar under your bed.”

“You need to stay out of my things.”

“Call the lady doctor. I don't want to go back to the clinic. They just want to give me drugs.”

“The drugs helped, didn't they?”

“The pain, maybe, but the lump is still there.”

Kesha opened her purse on the kitchen table and began to search. A moment later, she lifted a small card. “Here it is,” she said, reading the card. “Victoria Taylor, MD, FACS, Department of Surgical Oncology. I wonder what all those initials mean.”

“That's her degrees or something.”

Kesha nodded. How did her son get to be so smart? “Go bring me that jar,” she said. “I'll see if we have enough for bus fare.”

Her earliest memory?

It was to be
the
trip of her young life. A trip to Walt Disney World. Breakfast with Mickey Mouse. The Magic Kingdom.

But somewhere in the throngs of people, six-year-old Tori Taylor stood in line with her mother so she could ride on the spinning teacups. Again. Tori looked at the park map and tightly gripped the sleeve of her mother. But when she looked up, the sleeve she held wasn't her mother's after all.

Little Tori stumbled backward from the line and began calling her mother's name. Back and forth along the line, then back to the bench to see if her Dad was waiting.

No Dad.

She squinted at the sun.

She was alone in a crowd. She studied the people walking hand in hand and others eating ice cream.

How will they find me?

Have they left me?

Was this the plan all along?

Tori felt for the bulge in her pocket, the silver flip-open lighter that her Dad let her carry for him. He'd even showed her how to use it.

She could get their attention.

She walked to a large trash bin, casually lit the paper map in her hand and tossed it into the open trash container.

In a few moments there were screams of “Fire!” Park visitors scattered. A man in a uniform grabbed her by the arm; another wielded a fire extinguisher.

The man released her arm and knelt to eye level. “What are you doing?”

“I don't know where my mommy is.”

Later, after she'd been taken to what she forever after thought of as the lost-and-found building, she saw her parents through the window in the door to the small room where she'd been waiting. Her mother talked with a uniformed man, covered her mouth with her hand, and cried. Tori remembered hearing her father's comment, “We should have expected something like this.”

Her parents escorted her from the park.

Tori cleared her throat and looked at the psychiatrist.

“Wow,” Dr. Jaworski responded. “What did you feel? Scared?”

“I don't remember.”

“Did you cry?”

“My mother cried.” Tori looked at her hands. Her knuckles had whitened as she gripped the edge of the recliner. “I remember how she looked at me. Not like she was glad to see me, but like she pitied me.” She shook her head. “I didn't cry,” she responded, her voice just above a whisper.

“Come on, all lost little girls cry.”

Tori shrugged. “Not me,” she said. “Not me.”