Chapter 2

chapter

two

Owen

I’ll wait all day to see Dr. Daisy Allen.

Graham, on the other hand…

The odor of a recently filled diaper reaches my nose after I walk away from the reception area. Well, at least it’s not a blowout like he used to have when he was an infant.

I’ve learned that putting moments like this in perspective helps to preserve my sanity as a single parent.

Honestly, I do not know how my mother survived while raising me and my three sisters on her own after Dad left.

I quickly change Graham’s diaper in the waiting area’s restroom, wondering if now is a good time to start potty training. The most recent parenting book I read says now is a good time to introduce the idea.

God, that sounds like a nightmare I’m not ready for.

After I get the kid changed, we head to the little play area the doctor has set up in the corner with blocks and picture books. I sit on the floor with Graham in my lap, flipping through a duct-taped copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

It’s not long before Graham begins to whine, so I find his sippy cup of milk from his diaper bag.

He had a rough night last night, so it’s no surprise to me when the kid eventually falls asleep on my chest. And now, I’m not sure how I’m going to stand back up.

“You’re very good with him.”

The comment comes from the town busybody, 87-year-old Ernestine, who sits nearby, sporting a cast on her arm. Her opposite hand holds open a paperback.

I nod and smile politely. “Thank you,” I say.

The older woman doesn’t smile back, but she’s not what I would call a warm-and-fuzzy grandmother type. Still, I don’t dislike her. Ernestine is a frequent visitor to the feed store’s fledgling garden center that I’ve been trying to get established. “I know it’s hard, but under the circumstances, you’re doing great, honey.”

My eyes fall to the cover of that book she’s not reading. The illustration shows two naked people, a man and a woman, covered by nothing more than a bedsheet. The dark-haired man hovers over a red-haired woman, whose head is thrown back in the throes of passion. The man’s arm is placed in such a way that hides the woman’s bare breasts. I don’t know why Ernestine is so interested in my life when she’s got a far more fascinating book to read, but I would never say that out loud to her.

“That’s very nice of you to say,” I reply.

“Nothing nice about it. It’s the plain truth,” she says. “When I had my first baby at 17, I didn’t know which end was up. You look like you got a much better handle on things than my generation.”

This surprises me. I’ve never heard anyone older than me cop to being clueless. “To be fair, parents my age have the internet.”

“Hm,” she says, sniffing and adjusting in her seat.

“How’s the arm?” I ask, nodding to her injury.

She clucks, “It’s fine! I don’t know why I gotta keep coming back for more X-rays! I’m a busy woman and I just need to get this cast off already so I can get back to my cucumber patch. It’s going crazy and I don’t have enough hands to haul it all to the farmers market this weekend.”

I know for a fact that she broke it by falling off a ladder while trying to install a cistern on her own, so that arm is anything but “fine.” And if Dr. Allen says she needs to keep the cast on, then by god, that’s gospel in my eyes.

“I’ll be happy to stop by and pick up your veggies for you so you can rest.”

“I don’t need a rest,” the older woman snaps.

With a chuckle, I reply, “I’ll even share my table at the farmers market with you and split the profits. You won’t have to lift that arm.”

She points at me, “Split the profits my eye! You know damn well my cucumbers are the best in three counties. Don’t you dare.”

“Just teasing, Ernestine.”

With a gleam in her eye that her stubborn ways can’t hide, she sniffs again and says, “Sixty-forty.”

“It’s a deal.”

Satisfied that I’ve done my duty to help the elderly in the community, I look around the room, wishing that Trisha would call my name already before I bamboozle myself into another job to do.

“Is the boy feeling alright?”

I thought the older woman had gone back to reading, but when I turn toward her, she’s peering at me over the top of that paperback.

“Yes, ma’am. Why do you ask?”

“You’re here about as much as I am, if not more.”

I shrug.

“I like to take precautions. I get up in my head with questions about toddler milestones, and Dr. Allen is much better at putting my mind at ease than Google.”

Ernestine squints at me. “You don’t say.”

I smile awkwardly.

“The previous doctor would just send me away and tell me to stop worrying. Having a decent doctor in town feels like … I’m making up for all the information I missed out on with the old doctor. Or something like that.”

Ernestine studies my face for a moment, her expression undressing. “No. That’s not it.”

“It’s not?”

“Son. Can you think of a reason why you seem unsatisfied with the Google?”

I like how she says “the Google,” but I resist the urge to tease her about it.

“Graham had a rough start to life. I want a human doctor to reassure me I’m doing okay. That’s it.”

This is only partly true. But I’m not about to tell the town busybody the real reason I’m here.

“Son, the only thing you are in danger of messing up is missing your chance with Dr. Allen.”

I blink at the older woman, then bark out a laugh. “That’s not it.”

In fact, that is it. She hit the nail on the head and I’m now a bald-faced liar. I guess old Ernestine heard all about what happened on New Year’s Eve. There’s nowhere to hide in Fate, I suppose. I just wish everyone would get over what they saw that night.

“If you say so,” I say dumbly, wincing at the cramp in my lower back from sitting on this hard floor for more than two hours now.

A door opens and a voice filters into the room. “Graham Mosley?”

Thank God for Trisha.

Ernestine clucks at me, then says, “Would you like me to hold him while you figure out how to stand up?”

I don’t know. It’s like hauling around a giant feed bag when he falls asleep like this.

In my experience, though, it’s better to let the older women in this town hold the kid instead of trying to look like you don’t need any help.

I hand the sleeping Graham over to her. She snatches the toddler with surprisingly strong arms. I then clamber to my feet jerkily, one foot asleep. By some miracle, Graham doesn’t wake up while being handed off twice before we head into Dr. Allen’s office.

The relief at our name being called is soon replaced with panic as I remember what I’m about to do. The walk from the waiting room into Dr. Allen’s office is like an eternity.

My mouth is dry. My forehead is slick with sweat.

I never cared one way or another about what doctor was serving this town before Graham came along. If I broke a bone after falling off a horse, I would rub some dirt on it and get on with my life.

But when fatherhood happened—as unexpectedly as a car wreck—I started to care a lot about the person administering medicine and doling out advice.

Before Dr. Allen came to Fate, I had no choice but to see the previous town physician, Dr. Smyth, who should have retired decades ago.

Not only am I overjoyed that we have a normal doctor in our midst—one who doesn’t prescribe Kentucky bourbon for teething gums—but this woman takes my breath away.

Graham adores her. Even when he’s angry, teething, or has an ear infection and has been screaming all night, he lights up when he sees Dr. Allen. I have always liked how she speaks to Graham—not in baby talk, but in everyday speech.

Her beauty is secondary, but I won’t lie and say she’s not pretty. Dr. Daisy Allen is not simply pretty; she’s otherworldly gorgeous. Her hair falls in gentle, golden waves around her shoulders, and her gray-green eyes see into my soul.

“The doctor will be right in to see you,” Trisha says after she shows me into Dr. Allen’s office. I thank her and sit down with sleepy Graham on my chest. Trisha closes the door, and I have a look around.

Unlike the pediatric exam room, there’s no cutesy wallpaper here. The walls are a soothing light green, and a couple of house plants are in the corner, reaching toward the light filtering in from her window. African violets—that’s something we have in common.

On her desk is a framed photo of what looks like Dr. Allen and some friends dressed in unrecognizable costumes. A small bookshelf in the corner has volumes you would expect: anatomy books, tomes on geriatric medicine, parenting manuals, and medical journals. But there are also interesting knickknacks and souvenirs. One looks like a dragon made out of Legos. There’s another one of that baby Yoda character. I don’t know what he’s called because I stopped keeping up with Star Wars after Phantom Menace.

On the wall are her credentials. Boston University. Johns Hopkins Medical School. A certificate from a residency at Tennessee University Medical School. I know all about that — she rattled it off so fast at that blind date a while back that she made my head spin.

A plaque on the adjacent wall reads, “Have you tried napping about it?” It’s unexpected for a doctor’s office, but Doc doesn’t seem like a “Live, Laugh, Love,” type of girl.

The door opens, and closes behind me. Graham startles in my arms, and I think he’s going to whine for a moment, but mercifully, his little head plops back down against my chest.

The doctor’s sweet scent reaches me before I see her.

She beams down at me.

“Aw, he’s all tuckered out,” Dr. Allen whispers.

“Yeah,” is the super eloquent thing I say. “But you can speak normally; he’s trained to sleep through it.”

“What can I help you with today, Mr. Mosley?” Dr. Allen says, taking the chair against the wall, adjacent to where I’m sitting.

Why didn’t she simply go and sit at her desk? She’s so close; her white coat brushes against my knee when she leans forward and studies me.

“It’s…” I start to say. “Nothing serious.”

“Serious enough that you waited for hours to see me privately.” She smiles at me in that mercifully nonjudgmental kind of way.

“It’s hard to get the words out. I just need a second,” I say.

This is it. I’m definitely doing this. Finally. I messed up several months ago when I had my first chance to get to know her, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since.

Her gorgeous eyes widen expectantly.

“Okay. Take your time. Just know that this is a safe place and a judgment-free zone.”

I blow out a breath. “The thing is, I was wondering if you might like to go out with me.”

Dr. Allen says nothing for several seconds, making no sound. Only blinks at me.

“Go out with you? On a date?”

I nod and fidget with my ballcap. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Again?”

The word hangs in the air like a clang of a bell. We both know what she means. We both have cringe-worthy memories from the night of the New Year’s Eve.

“Um, yes,” I reply. Boy howdy, I’m winning at speech today.

Dr. Allen sits up straighter, surveying me. “Let me see if I understand correctly. You waited for hours, with your young child, in a waiting room full of sick people, because you wanted to ask me out on a date?”

I’m not sure where she’s going with this, but I’m hoping she’s so blown away she says yes.

“I sure did,” I chuckle, elation and relief within my grasp.

“Do you have any idea what is going around out there?” Dr. Allen asks, pointing a finger over her shoulder, indicating, I suppose, everywhere outside this office.

“Well, uh, no, ma’am. I do not.”

She nods lets out a short sigh. “Somehow, this year’s flu strain has shown up early, and I’ve treated seven cases this week alone. One case of pneumonia. Five sinus infections.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I say.

“In fact, I’d say we’re having an unusual summer when it comes to bacteria laying people out, but then this would be my first summer in Fate, so who knows. To know that for sure, I’d have to finish sorting through the files Dr. Smyth left me, but I’m still in the weeds cleaning up his mess, to be perfectly frank.”

I believe it.

Dr. Allen opens the small laptop she always carries and taps the keys. “I see that Graham had a double ear infection just last month. He hasn’t had enough time to build up his immunity to be around sick people. Let alone a room full of them. Tell me where your head is right now, Mr. Mosley?”

Gee, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Here I was, thinking she would admire my dogged nature and moxie. And possibly be moved by this adorable kid in my arms—not that I would use Graham as a prop but if the opportunity strikes? Heck, why not?

However, I never thought that plan would backfire this badly.

Where is my head at? If she knew the thoughts I have about her late at night when I fall in bed, exhausted after a day of parenting, working at my regular job, and tending my small vegetable farm, she would be appalled.

“You see…” I start, then falter.

“I’m flattered, Mr. Mosley, but I’m going to have to say no.”

I let out a grunt of agreement even though I’m heartbroken. I tip up my ballcap and scratch my forehead. I should have planned this better.

Maybe I should have asked my mom to watch Graham. Maybe I should have brought flowers.

My eyes scan the room for signs of what Dr. Allen likes. The African violet, a few green plants, and a little statue of that dancing tree with a face from a movie I didn’t see. Dang, I should have led with some small talk about violets. I know all kinds of shit about plants.

“I’d better let you get back at it,” I say, gingerly standing while keeping one hand on the back of Graham’s head to keep him from jostling around.

“Are you sure everything’s okay with Graham?” Dr. Allen asks, her voice softening.

“Yep. I’ll be going. To get my head examined. Thanks for your time, Doc.”

I leave without looking back, knowing that if I had a tail, it would be between my legs.