Bobby Hutchinson - Good Medicine

She could tell by his expression that he hadn’t expected any of this.

“My lawyer will handle the details,” she said in a quiet voice. “Call her if you have any questions.” Exactly what Marcy had told her to say. She’d practiced so that now it came out smoothly, without revealing the effort it took her to speak.

“Where the hell are you going? You come back here!” She heard the panic in his voice as she headed for the door. “We haven’t finished talking yet. What if I need you for something? You could at least give me your new address, Jordan.”

It was tragic to recognize that the only thing he’d need her for was money. Prescriptions and money were all he’d needed from her for months.

“You have my cell number.” And Marcy had already suggested she get that changed if his calls became too frequent or abusive. “And I’d rather you didn’t come to St. Joe’s again, Garry.”

“Last I heard it was a free country,” he snarled. “I can go wherever the hell I choose.”

“Okay, then I’ll alert security.” She prayed she wouldn’t have to carry out the threat. She opened the apartment door. “Goodbye, Garry.”

“You’re making a big mistake, you dumb bitch!”

She closed the door and hurried to the elevator. Her legs were shaking as she made her way down and out of the building. She was crying when she climbed in her car. Some of the tears were for the dreams she’d forfeited, but mostly they were tears of relief.

She’d taken a first and much-needed step toward finding out who Jordan Burke really was, and she was learning fast what she didn’t want in her life anymore. If that was a negative positive, so what? She’d take what she could get.

She blew her nose hard and for the first time in days, she smiled wryly. But the smile went just as quickly as it came.

Now she had to figure out what it was she did want.

IT WAS THE FOLLOWING WEEK when the notice on St. Joe’s computer bulletin board caught Jordan’s eye.

Resident GP wanted for isolated First Nations village, Vancouver Island’s west coast. Ahousaht, Clayoquot Sound, Flores Island. Applicants must be willing to work with Tribal Community Services. Access by boat or floatplane only.

There was a Web address and a phone number, and Jordan scribbled them down. She wasn’t sure why. She knew nothing about native villages, and not much about First Nations people. The ones she was most familiar with were the ones who ended up in the E.R., most of them unfortunate residents of Vancouver’s troubled Lower East Side.

She was on the early shift, and when she was finished work she had an appointment with Helen, who once again asked the question that was becoming a mantra between them.

“What is it you really want, Jordan?”

“I want to move away.” The words came of their own volition, surprising her. “I’ve always lived in Vancouver. I grew up here, went to university here, trained at St. Joe’s. This is the only hospital I’ve ever worked at. I think I’d like to leave the city, go somewhere where no one knows me, maybe give general practice a shot. Make a fresh start.”

Somewhere Garry isn’t. She didn’t say the words aloud. She didn’t have to. Helen understood.

“Maybe that’s what you need to do, then. Just keep in mind that you take all your emotional baggage with you, along with your underwear, no matter where you travel,” Helen reminded her. “Wherever you go, there you are,” she quoted with her teasing smile. “Any idea where you want to go?”

Jordan shook her head. “I’ll have to find a job before I make any changes. There’s the legal bills to think about.” It was too soon to speculate.

But later that afternoon, she explored the Web for Ahousaht. Photos showed a wild and windswept village surrounded by the Pacific Ocean. She learned that until now medical care had been provided by the nurse at the local clinic and a doctor who flew in twice a week. Emergency cases were transported by medevac to the hospital in Tofino on nearby Vancouver Island. But the community’s requirements had changed, and now the Tribal Council needed a full-time doctor. The salary wasn’t what Jordan earned in the E.R., but neither would there be shift work. And housing was included.

Impulsively, Jordan took out her cell phone and dialed the number she’d copied down.

The number rang and rang, and she was about to hang up when a man answered.

“Hello?” There was a note of impatience in the man’s deep and resonant tone.

“Oh, um, yes, hello.” Damn, now she was losing her confidence. Her hands were sweating and she could hear the strain in her voice. “My, um, my name is Jordan Burke, Doctor Burke, and I’m calling about the medical position. Is it still available, or have you found someone?”

There was a moment’s silence. “I don’t know for sure. Call back another time. The office is closed for the day.” His tone was brusque, bordering on rude.

“Well, can you just tell me—”

“Nope, I can’t. You need to speak to Bennie, he’s the rep from Tribal Council.”

“Bennie? Bennie who? Does he have a last name?” Jordan was over feeling nervous and well on the way to being annoyed. Surely he could be more helpful?

“Just Bennie will do fine. He’ll be here in the morning.”

“And you are—?” This person should never be answering a business phone. She’d say so, in the nicest possible way, when she talked to this Bennie, Jordan decided.

“Silas Keefer. And I’m hanging up now, Jordan Burke. There’s a celebration I need to attend.”

“Oh. Sure. But first can you just tell me—”

The line clicked and a dial tone sounded. The bloody man had hung up on her.

Jordan pushed End and shoved the phone into her bag with more force than was necessary. Whoever, whatever Silas Keefer was, he’d succeeded in discouraging her from applying for the position.

SILAS HAD FORGOTTEN about the call by the time he took his place in the welcoming circle. When his turn came to hold the fragile baby, he cradled him against his heart. The tiny boy seemed too small to bear the weight of his sturdy name.

Hello, Cameron Michael John. Welcome, Nuu-chah-nulth warrior.

Cameron was barely a week old. Silas gazed down into the little face. The baby’s skin was golden and downy, and he looked up at Silas through big dark eyes. One minute fist, curled into itself like a seashell, flailed and then came to rest on the front of Silas’s flannel shirt, and his man’s heart swelled in his chest. He never got used to the miracle of new life. He hoped he never would.

You, young Cameron, have plenty of time to grow into your name—and you’ll be growing up right alongside your parents.

Alice Pettigrew, Cameron’s mother, was barely sixteen, hardly more than a child herself. And his father, Hogan John, had two full years to go before his twentieth birthday.

Children, raising children. At least here in Ahousaht, Cameron and his parents were surrounded by family, mothers and aunts and fathers and grandfathers. Most of them were here today and Silas knew all of them were willing to help in any way they could.

The shy young parents sat side by side holding hands as the members of the welcoming circle cradled the newborn to their hearts and hummed the traditional ahhhh nook, ahhhhh nook deep in their chests. Conveying love and welcome and support. Then they sang the welcoming songs, the dancers up and moving to the beat of the drums. Silas said a prayer, and as soon as the blessing was complete, got to his feet and headed toward the door.

His half sister, Christina Crow, caught him just before he escaped.

She gave him her wicked wide grin. “Hey, Silas, you’re coming to Mom’s birthday party tomorrow night, right?”