Bobby Hutchinson - The Family Doctor

Undaunted, Kate went on. “That error was intentionally concealed. And not a single person has apologized.”

Tony felt his temper begin to simmer. She couldn’t be accusing him of unethical behavior, could she?

“I’m not trying to avoid a lawsuit and I resent that you’re even suggesting I am. What I’m saying is that you’re overstepping hospital boundaries….”

“I’m not laying blame here, Tony. All I’m saying is that when a mistake has been made an apology is in order.”

The frustration he was feeling pushed him over the edge. “For God’s sake, Kate, stop being a bleeding heart and get practical about your job or you’ll lose it,” he thundered.

She looked up at him with huge, wounded eyes. “Are you threatening me, Dr. O’Connor?”

“Of course I’m not,” he growled. “We’re simply having a discussion.”

“No, we aren’t. We’re having a fight.”

The pain in her voice made him ashamed of himself, but this had gone way too far for him to back down now. “I’m sorry, Kate, but the fact is I think you’re wrong.”

Dear Reader,

Families! We love them, but there are times they make us crazy. What always intrigues me about families is the myriad ways they force us to grow, to adapt, to reluctantly accept traits in them that we’d reject in acquaintances. Family members have the capacity to push all our buttons, to make us question our belief systems, reevaluate our boundaries. If life is a school, maybe they’re our best teachers.

Always, I learn from each book I write. It’s as if the people I create are actually my teachers, saying with a smile, “C’mon, Bobby, you’ve avoided looking at this part of your personality. It’s time you took a peek, uncomfortable as it might be.” This book taught me a lot about anger, and forgiveness, and the unlimited number of ways there are to live a life. I hope it makes you laugh—and maybe cry a little, the way it did me.

Thank you, readers, for trusting me enough to take you on another journey from beginning to end.

With my love and gratitude,

Bobby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for Patricia Gibson,

dear wise friend and mentor, who teaches by example

that for every problem there is a solution, and we get there

by giving up blame. For your constant encouragement

and assistance, I am humbly grateful.

Thank you to a charming young lady, McKensy Balch,

for the use of her beautiful name.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

DR. ANTONY O’CONNOR’S mother was making him crazy.

The shouting match they’d had before he left the house this morning was also making him late for the 7:00 a.m. meeting of the ethics committee, which was embarrassing because he was the one who’d insisted the committee convene at that early hour. Tony had only been chief of staff for four months, and punctuality was something he prided himself on.

The meeting was being held in the main boardroom at St. Joseph’s Medical Center, just off the lobby. He jogged in from the parking lot, squinting irritably in the glare of the rising sun. He ignored the softness of the June morning, and he was oblivious to the slight breeze that carried the salt tang of the sea up from Vancouver’s inner harbor. Shouldering his way through the revolving doors he hit the lobby at full, impatient stride.

“Morning, Doctor. Nice day, huh?”

The cheerful greeting came from his left, and he turned in mid stride to see who it was. The leather sole of his right loafer hit something slippery on the linoleum and he stumbled. Flailing wildly, he twisted to catch his balance, and felt his ankle turn painfully in the instant before he hit the floor. Instinct from years of playing rugby made him break the fall with his shoulder, but the wind was knocked out of him. For a dazed and breathless moment he lay prone, watching assorted feet rush toward him.

“Hey, Doc, you okay?” The news vendor from the lobby kiosk, in peacock blue trainers, was the first on the scene. Tony could hear exclamations of alarm from the elderly volunteers behind a nearby desk, and he sensed the beginnings of a general stampede.

To avoid it, he rolled to one side, got up on his knees, then pushed smoothly to his feet, ignoring the bolt of red-hot pain that shot from his ankle to his groin. On the floor was the foil candy wrapper he’d slipped on. He bent and picked it up, swearing under his breath, and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he assured two nurses and a clerk who’d joined the kiosk attendant. “Twisted my ankle a bit, nothing serious.”

Before anyone could dispute that, he brushed off his trousers and straightened his jacket, and in spite of the pain that streaked through his leg and made him catch his breath, he headed down the corridor.

ST. JOE’S ER WAS HAVING a memorable morning, and triage nurse Leslie Yates was doing her personal best to sort out sufferers in the order in which they needed treatment when the admitting clerk called, “Les, line three’s for you. I think it’s your mother.”

She hurried to the desk and snatched the phone. “Hi, Mom, thanks for calling back. Listen, I won’t be able to break off at noon to take you to your doctor’s appointment. You’ll have to call a cab. You wouldn’t believe the scene down here this morning. Think Shriners convention and food poisoning. Yeah, I will. You, too. Talk to you later, Mom. Bye.”

As Leslie hung up, she glanced around and shook her head in utter amazement. It was barely nine in the morning, and the place resembled a war zone. Stretchers were lined up, every cubicle and examining room was filled, and men with urgent, utter desperation etched on their faces stood in front of every bathroom.

Sounds of retching and moaning filled the air, and the putrid odors of feces and vomit hung over the area like a pall. Nurses trying to get the attention of overworked ER doctors raised their voices as they hurried from one bed to another, keeping a wary eye out for puddles on the floor.

“Bed four has a pacemaker and he’s hyperventilating.”

“Did you get the antiemetic into seven?”

“Where are the commodes we asked Geriatrics for? Marvin, get on to Housekeeping and tell them we’re frantic down here, they have to send more staff to clean up this mess. Oh, and, Marvin, try the rehab ward again. They must have commodes we could use.”

Technicians drawing blood cultures and taking stool samples bumped into one another as they hurried from one sufferer to the next while doctors searched for veins and nurses hung more and more IVs of Ringer’s Lactate.

As if elderly Shriners with gastroenteritis weren’t enough, the ER would have to be short staffed. It was late June, and many of the medical staff were already on holiday, while others had succumbed to a particularly vicious strain of bronchial flu currently doing the rounds.

Leslie questioned still another suffering Shriner who’d attended the annual banquet the day before, filling in information as she listened carefully to the all-too-familiar recounting of symptoms. She slotted him in the lineup for treatment. It was days like this, she muttered under her breath, that reminded her she was fifty-three years old, twenty-two pounds overweight, and had bunions.