Christine Rimmer - A Doctor's Vow

“He’s nine years old.” Ryan spoke more gruffly than he meant to. “It’s not his job to be responsible.”

Ryan himself had felt responsible from the age of four. He didn’t want that kind of crushing emotional burden laid on his children. Perhaps he wasn’t as involved with them as he should have been. But he provided well for them. There was no reason they shouldn’t feel safe and well cared for.

“Drew might only be nine,” she said gently. “But his age doesn’t change the way he feels. And as I keep telling you, I don’t think what happened tonight is anything to get too concerned about—unless it’s a part of a pattern.”

“No. I’m sure it’s not. My mother-in-law said it—tonight was completely unlike him.”

“Well, good then. As long as it doesn’t happen again, my advice is…” She paused. “Wait a minute. Do you even want my advice?”

“That’s why I asked you in here.” Or at least, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, it was the reason I gave myself for asking you in here….

She leaned toward him once more. “All right, then. My expert advice is to talk it over with him—and then let it go.”

He couldn’t hold back any longer. He let himself smile. “All right. I’ll do that.” She smiled in return. He looked at her wide mouth, at that dimple. She had a true redhead’s skin—pale, creamy pink, with light freckles dusting her brow and the bridge of her nose. She really did look so young, especially right now with her face bare of makeup, still damp from the rain.

He was staring again. And he shouldn’t be.

Just as he shouldn’t be thinking how cute she was. Shouldn’t be thinking that maybe he’d had more than goodwill on his mind when he’d offered her the guest house for a month.

At the time, right after Marty Heber had introduced them, when she’d mentioned her housing problems, he’d told himself that it never hurt to do favors for other professionals in the medical community. A lot of his job was about raising funds—and funds were always easier to come by when a man had the sense to hold out a helping hand at every opportunity.

Besides, he had reasoned, she would present no inconvenience to himself or his family. The guest house had its own separate access and its own small yard. Other than the occasional polite wave when they met in passing, he’d foreseen no other contact between them.

Yet here they were, on her first night in the little house, sitting across from each other in their pajamas, discussing the uncharacteristic actions of his older son.

And here he was, staring too much. Thinking that he could sit here for a long, long time, just looking at her, just watching her smile.

Dr. Powers must have decided he’d gaped at her long enough. She started to reach for her flashlight.

And he realized he wasn’t going to let her go. Not yet. He said, “You’re finding everything in order, then? Over at the little house.”

She left the flashlight where it was. “Yes. It’s lovely. Thank you for offering it to me.”

“No problem. No problem at all.”

“Good. Well then, I—”

“Tell me more.”

“Excuse me?”

“About Ronni. About how she’s different from Veronica.”

She laughed, a slightly nervous sound. “Oh, come on. It’s very late and I should—”

“I’m interested. I really am. And besides, it’s raining hard out there. Too hard. You can’t leave yet.”

“I can’t?”

“No. You have to wait till it eases up.”

She was watching him doubtfully. “What if it doesn’t ease up?”

“It will. Eventually. And I honestly do want to know all about why you changed your name.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am.” He leaned forward a little. “Come on. The difference between Ronni and Veronica.”

She hesitated—and then she confessed, “Veronica is…a little shy.”

“Shy?” He made the word an encouragement.

And she volunteered a little more. “Veronica lacks confidence. She…worries too much.”

“You were like that? As a young child?”

She tipped her chin at a defiant angle. “Yes. But I got over it.”

“By changing your name?”

“No, the name was just the outward manifestation of the change.”

“Sounds very deep.”

“You asked.”

They laughed together then. And she challenged, “What about you? Didn’t you ever want to change your name, or change something about yourself?”

“Now you’ve got me thinking about it, I believe at one point I really wished my name was Bud.” He pretended to glower at her. “Don’t laugh. When you’re in fifth grade, Bud can sound like the name of a really manly kind of dude.”

“So Ryan wasn’t manly enough?”

“I’ve learned to live with it.”

“Good. I like it a lot better than Bud.”

“Then I think I’ll go ahead and keep it…as long as you like it.”

She blinked—and her expression turned wary. Her hand started edging toward the flashlight again.

Before she could touch it, he commanded, “Forget it. Stay here. It’s still raining hard.”

“But I—”

“Uh-uh. Stay here.” He glanced around at all the gold-tooled leather volumes that lined the walls. “This is a comfortable room. You said so yourself. We might even get a little reading done.”

“Great idea. Two strangers. Reading in your study in their pajamas. In the middle of the night.”

“We’re not strangers. We’re neighbors, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. Neighbors.”

“And I’ve just shared with you my deepest personal secret.”

“You have?”

“Yes. That once I wished my name was Bud—and now you should reveal something about yourself.”

“I already did, remember? Ronni and Veronica? Why I changed my name?”

“I remember. And what I meant was, you should reveal something more.”

“Like what?”

“How about telling me why you went into pediatrics?”

She didn’t have to stop and think about that. “The usual reason. I like kids.”

“As opposed to adults?”

“Not as opposed to. It’s a preference. Children are so…naturally optimistic. I like their sense of wonder, and their simplicity. And they are incredibly resilient.”

“Which means fewer of them die on you.”

It was a hard way of putting it, but she didn’t argue with his assessment. “That’s right—and now it’s your turn. What made you choose hospital administration, of all things?”

“I like being in control.”

She made a face at that. “And that’s all?”

“I like working with people. I enjoy organizing projects, seeing things through from conception to completion.”

“You mean you like running things.”

“That’s right. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not a thing.” She grinned.

A moment passed where the only sound was the rain outside.

He saw her glance at that flashlight, so he asked her another question about her work.

She sat back, getting more comfortable. And for a while, they talked about their jobs, the challenges and the rewards.

Eventually, she got up. He didn’t try to stop her, since she didn’t reach for the flashlight first. She went over to the credenza to look at the family photos there. One by one, she picked up the pictures, studied them, then set them down.

When she came to a studio shot of Patricia, she asked, “Your wife?”

He nodded. “It’s been a little over two years since she died. Acute myelogenous leukemia.”

In her eyes, he saw a doctor’s understanding of the words: cancer of the white blood cells, starting in the bone marrow, multiplying swiftly until they disrupted the production of normal blood cells. And then moving out, into the bloodstream, invading organs and tissues, especially the spleen and the liver.