Cari Lynn - The Doctor's Recovery

Only one blink interrupted Helen’s slow study of Mia, as if Mia squatted under a microscope. “He cannot be your doctor, dear, as he only treats patients in the emergency room.”

“He saved my life the other night,” Mia confessed. Wyatt required no boost to his ego. Yet his mother should know the depth of her son’s medical skills. “Although we’d already met several years ago in Africa.”

Helen winced, as if in pain, but never reached to massage her tender hip or sore side. Only that flinch of discomfort pinched her skin, flexing the age lines across her face. “Do you volunteer with Wyatt’s organization, too?”

“No,” Mia said.

Helen’s face cleared and her mouth softened, as if the phantom pain receded. Her wispy eyebrows lifted above her glasses, her only encouragement for Mia to continue.

“I’m a documentary filmmaker.” Mia sank into the older woman’s open gaze, recognizing the flicker of loneliness in the hazel depths. Mia knew all too well about feeling alone, even in a crowd. Helen’s gaze hooked inside Mia and prodded her to keep talking. “One of my crew fell from a cliff, and the locals told us to take him to Wyatt in the neighboring village. They were convinced only Wyatt could help him.”

“And did he live?” Robyn finished writing her notes and tucked the paperwork in the back pocket of her scrubs.

“Thanks to Wyatt.” Mia maneuvered her walker next to Helen’s.

“Like I said before, Helen, you raised him right. And a boy raised right always needs his mama.” Nettie set her phone on the counter and turned away to answer a patient’s call on the intercom system.

“That’s kind, but it’s utter nonsense.” Helen’s quiet laughter failed to mask the sadness that burned into the dark rims around her eyes.

Robyn stepped up beside Mia. “Okay, ladies, we’ve rested and it’s time to walk.”

Helen’s PT joined them. “Ready to head back, Helen?”

“I suppose it’s my only option, unless you’re going to let me make my escape.” Helen pointed her thumb over her shoulder at the main elevators. “You’d only need to look the other way for five minutes.”

The women laughed. “You can rest in the chairs at the end of the hallway until Occupational Therapy arrives. There’s a good view of the elevators from there. You can run on OT’s watch.”

Helen set her hand on Mia’s walker. “They’re not going to let you leave either, dear. You might as well tell me about this filmmaking while we walk. You’ll save me from answering more questions about my pain level and bathroom successes.”

“It’s a family business,” Mia said. “Or was until my father passed last fall.” She always remained detached in the retelling. Always. Until now. With Wyatt’s mom. Now the grief cinched around her lungs like some medieval corset, replacing air with tears. Save the emotion for the film reel, Mia.

“I’m sorry.” Nothing false slipped through Helen’s words. “Now you’re left with the burden to carry on alone.”

The sincerity in Helen’s voice crested through Mia, and the understanding in her gaze loosened several tears. Helen knew loss. She also recognized loneliness. The similarities between mother and son clearly ran only skin deep. Mia brushed at her damp cheek. “My dad taught me everything I know, and I can’t fail him.”

“Of course you won’t, my dear.” Helen squeezed Mia’s arm with the same confident strength that bolstered her voice. “Now tell me, what do you film?”

“My father started with human rights before transitioning into environmental issues. His last two series covered endangered wildlife around the world and the effects of urban sprawl on their habitats. I’m finishing the final film in the series about the human impact on the environment for the Nature Wildlife Network.” Mia inhaled, searching for air to clog the wheeze in her throat. Walking and talking had never before left her winded.

“If you’re traveling for your films, where do you call home?” Helen asked.

Lately wherever her tent stakes stuck in the ground. “I’m a bit of a nomad.”

“Or perhaps you haven’t discovered that one place you want to settle in,” Helen suggested.

Nothing relaxed inside Mia at the idea of living in the same place. Her mother had established herself in New York. But Mia wasn’t a stayer like her mom. She wasn’t made for settling. Her father had taught her to live her passion. Documentary films weren’t made behind a desk, scouring the internet for video footage. To be a success she must embrace her father’s lifestyle and not settle for anything less. “I’ve settled into being a nomad.”

“My husband never liked to travel.” Helen paused and held out her hand, curving her arm like a graceful ballerina. “I always wanted to dance through a field of heather or touch a red ginger flower in the wild or collect seashells along a white-sand beach.”

Mia had dug more than her toes in the white sand in the Gulf of Mexico. She’d crawled across the beach on her stomach, filming the rare Kemp’s ridley hatchlings emerging from their nests to crawl home to the ocean. Sand stuck to places it never should’ve been weeks after they’d wrapped filming. She hadn’t exactly danced through the field of heather; more like trampled the purple flowers, tracking the sea eagles on the Isle of Skye. Yet the cloud of midges and her severe allergic reaction to the bites from the hundreds of tiny bugs downgraded the trip from cherished to agonizingly itchy. If only she hadn’t followed her father up the mountainside for a shot that had never made the final film cut.

However, she could envision a younger version of Helen Reid sashaying through that same field, pausing to greet each flower like a garden fairy from the ancient myths. The images clicked through her mind, vivid stills of moments captured and preserved. But Mia wasn’t creating a memory book for Helen. “You could celebrate your full recovery by traveling to Scotland with Wyatt.”

“He has other important commitments and I have my gardens. At least for now.” The steel in Helen’s tone gave the sadness in her quiet gaze a backbone.

“Have your doctors restricted you from gardening when you get home?”

“My doctors like to tell me I’ve a bionic hip now.” Helen patted her leg. “I may need to replace the other one so it can keep up with its new-and-improved partner.”

“When will you be back to your gardens?” Mia asked.

“As soon as I can convince my doctor to sign off on my get-out-of-jail paperwork.” Helen’s therapist guided her into the chair. After ensuring Helen’s comfort, the woman disappeared into another patient room. Helen shifted to look at Mia. “When do you get to leave?”

“As soon as Dr. Hensen agrees to close my wound and any doctor signs my discharge papers.” Mia lowered herself into the chair beside Helen and swallowed her sigh of relief. She refused to look at Robyn, who scribbled across her paper notes before checking over Mia one last time and rushed off.

Helen tugged her walker closer to rest her arm on. “We both need someone to recognize we’re more than capable of handling our own affairs and seeing to our own health.”

“You’ll let me know when you’ve found that person, won’t you?” Mia tipped her head against the windowsill behind her and inhaled around the throbbing in her leg.

“As long as you promise to do the same,” Helen said.

“Wyatt must’ve noticed your progress,” Mia said. “Surely he wants you back home.”

“My son is not the person we need,” Helen said. “He doesn’t believe I’m safe in my gardens.”

“Wyatt wants you to give up your gardens?” Mia asked. Wyatt wanted Mia to give up on her film to focus on her recovery, as if she couldn’t do both successfully.