3. Stuck Together

STUCK TOGETHER

MADDY

I just stare at Dr. Lane for a minute. So that's who he grew up to be. I remember the night we met. It was one of those crazy parties with loud music and lots of dancing.

I wasn't drinking alcohol or partaking in any of the smorgasbord of other substances being passed around, but I was more than half-drunk on the deep rhythm of the tribal drums and the sensual nature of the wailing flutes and other instruments all around me.

I joined a conga line, and discovered I was dancing with him . He's older now, of course, and his skin has been burned to the ruddy tan color that fair-skinned Caucasian men get after years of working outdoors.

There are lines at the corners of his eyes, and a sad droop to the corners of his mouth which is new. When we spent our fateful week together so long ago, he had been cocksure, bossy from time to time, and had smiled a lot.

That week we spent together, we talked about our plans for the future. He was going to Africa, to work with Doctors Without Borders. He didn't say much about his assignment, but he did talk about his hopes for when he returned to the States.

We had bonded. Or at least I thought we had. Then, one day, he boarded a plane. Instead of writing or calling, he just disappeared.

Later, I was told he had died, and the hope that he would come back and sweep me off my feet had died at the same time. I hadn't known I was a romantic until the silly dream of one day marrying him had been stolen away from me.

There is not a flicker of recognition on his face as he looks at me, not even after hearing my name. I yank myself out of the past, and say, "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Lane. Your family has made quite a splash in the news lately." I do not offer him my hand. I just can't.

He grimaces. "Unfortunately. However, we can hope that everything will calm down and reach an equilibrium."

I noticed that he did not say get back to "normal". The last few years had seemed very far away from "normal", whatever that was. Between global warming, pandemics, and small wars here and there all over the world, it is hard to imagine anything that approached equilibrium. That's no excuse for forgetting a girl that you shared all your dreams with for a week in college. I certainly remembered him.

Am I really that easy to forget? Have I aged that much that he just doesn't recognize me?

These musings won't help either of us, or change the situation, so I set my features into my professional mask, and ask, "Do you prefer children or adults as patients?"

He smiles at me for the first time, in that way that I had found so attractive when we first met, and the tired lines at the corners of his mouth turn into laugh lines. "Either, or both," he says.

His mouth still has the elegant lines of a polished recurve bow, with deep dimples flashing in each cheek, just as I remember. He could charm the socks off a platoon of hardened army nurses with that smile. Maybe he has and that's why he doesn't remember me.

"Then we'll just set up two stations and trade back and forth as we go, until there are no more people to treat. Ramey will be your assistant. She knows where everything is kept."

"I appreciate that," he says. "Nothing worse than searching for supplies, even for simple injuries or illnesses."

Ramey looks up at him, clearly charmed by the blue eyes, dimples, and wavy blond hair that is gently touched with silver at his temples.

I turn away. It was surreal to see a man I thought was dead administering a soothing lotion to a bad sunburn case. My weary mind even starts to question if I ever actually met him at all. However, my son is proof enough that he was real, and that he has apparently risen from the dead to show up on my doorstep so many years later.

There must be a reason why he has not acknowledged me, although I cannot imagine why he would not. Is he just trying to be professional? I stamp out this flare of hope viciously. I saw his complete lack of response when we were introduced. He has no idea who I am.

As I start preparing for my next patient, I think about when I'd discovered a little over a month later that forgetting a condom really does mean that one time really is enough. I remember my heart beating wildly in my chest as I dialed the number he had put in my phone when we met. I was greeted with the monotone announcement on the other end of the line that the number was out of service.

I remembered my panic all too well. I'd first gone to the university's on-campus clinic. The doctor there told me that they did not usually handle maternity cases, but gave me a referral.

Meeting with the gynecologist's financial specialist quickly let me know that I did not have the money to cover the care my baby and I would need. She kindly referred me to Family Services on campus, and the Health and Welfare office. "They can help you with your financial planning," she had said.

There was an online portal for applications, but a lot of it didn't make sense to me. I went to the office in person, hoping to see someone who could answer my questions.

The waiting area was large. People of nearly every sort were gathered there. Some were women with children, some were pregnant. A few were men. All looked sad-eyed and weary.

The room didn't help. The walls were industrial pale blue, the carpet a worn, threadbare beige. It was clean, in a hopeless sort of way. Say what you will about government spending, very little of it had been focused on decor for this location.

It was a long wait. When I finally got in, a sweet-faced woman with tired eyes asked, "How may I help you?"

"I'm pregnant," I had said. "My parents are dead, so I don't have family I can ask for help. I'm a student."

"Scholarship?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Student loans?" I nodded again.

"I can't help you," she said, pushing my application back across the desk. "Unless I miss my guess, you've got too much money in the bank to meet our income guidelines. Your best bet is to find the father and start the process to secure child support."

"But," I stammered. "I don't know where he is. I've got his phone number, but it says it's disconnected. He said he was going out of the U.S.. That was about six weeks ago."

The woman looked at me steadily, as if she'd heard this story about a million times before. "We might be able to help you find him." She picked up a form, jotted a scribble on it, checked a couple of boxes, and sent me down the hall to another office.

Several offices, and a taxi ride later, I found myself standing in front of a massive mahogany desk. Behind it sat a huge bear of a man. His hair was completely white, and his skin had a pasty, unhealthy pallor. He wore an immaculate shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, revealing tattoos from his knuckles to underneath his sleeves. There seemed to be a lot of chains and flames involved.

"I'm Rodri Andrew Aims. Is there some particular reason you are looking for my grandson?"

I swallowed hard. "If your grandson is named Andrew, and has a flaming crown tattooed on his right forearm, he is the father of my child."

He looked me up and down. "Unlikely, but possible. You don't look pregnant. How far along are you?" His voice was gruff. I felt as if each word was sandpapering away at my skin.

"About six weeks," I almost whispered. Suddenly, I had a feeling that this was not a good place to be. He cleared his throat. I would not have been surprised if he had hawked and spat. But he simply took a lozenge from a container on his desk and sucked on it, looking at me as if I'd crawled out from under a rock or was something he wanted to scrape off his shoe.

"My grandson is dead. I was fond of him. If your child can pass a DNA test for paternity when it is born, I'll pay all your medical expenses and give you a small stipend, on one condition."

He paused, waiting for me to ask the question he wanted to hear. "What is that?"

"I'll adopt the child, and you will disappear from our lives. You'll be free then to return to your life, and to do as you please."

"But I don't want to give up my baby," I said, starting to panic. "Why would you ask that?"

"Isn't that what all you girls want? To be free and easy, no responsibilities?" he sneered.

"No!" I said. "I just need help with the medical bills, and maybe childcare. I'm planning to be a doctor. My grades are good. I'll be able to support both of us, I just need a chance . . ."

My voice trailed off under his withering glare. "The only way you'll get money from me is if you give me the kid, then take off. Because I'm not giving one red cent to a floozy too stupid to use birth control."

His words stung more than they should have. I suddenly thought about Andrew saying he didn't get along with his family. I was starting to see why.

"I'll have to think about it," I said. I knew this was an offer I would never take, but right then I would have said anything to get out of his office.

"You do that," he said. "Give me a call when you have an answer."

By the time I managed to get out of his office and onto the street, I was in a state of blind terror. So I called the most sensible person I knew: Kate Emory, the roommate who kept all the rest of us sorted out and on track.

I dropped out of college and gave up my scholarship. I got a job in the Spindizzy post office, working for Kate's aunt and uncle.

They encouraged me to go back to school, so I enrolled online. I worked days at the post office, and interned at the local hospital at night. Kate's aunt took care of Paul while I was at the hospital. He attended the Spindizzy daycare from seven in the morning until five-thirty at night. It wasn't a good life for him, but I was with him as much as I could manage.

I completed my LPN training, then the RN program. Not long after Charles Emory purchased Spindizzy, I got my license to be a nurse practitioner, and took over the Spindizzy clinic. That first clinic became a chain of clinics. When the branch in Freedom, California opened, it gave me the chance for added responsibility and a substantial increase in income.

I've not been at the Freedom location very long. I am anxious to do well here. What will this complication do to my career options?

All of this passes through my mind in a flash, memories and old terrors flooding my system with adrenaline.

David is my assistant. He is a gentle, sensitive young man who quickly picks up on moods around him. Some of my shock must have registered on my face. "Everything all right, Ms. Northernfield?" he asks.

"Fine and dandy," I assure him, trying to project cheerful confidence. "Cece got hurt, so we have medical royalty to help us today."

David flashes me a look that says he isn't buying what I am selling, but he is far too polite to say so. "Gotcha," he says. "Bring in the next?"

"Please do," I tell him, hoping that the rhythm of work would quell the fear, anger, and reborn attraction roiling inside me.

Dr. Lane has come a long way from the newly minted M.D. who wined, dined, and bedded my undergraduate self, then vanished without a trace.

I wondered if Kate recognized him. She'd met him before the party, but had declined to attend, claiming she had an exam the next day.

Kate was like that. Even as a freshman, she was always working or going to school. Even now, when she has plenty of money and could hire as many servants as she needs, she stays busy. Charles runs a billion-dollar, multi-faceted business, but she remains the farm girl and early childhood teacher she had been when we first met.

My mind tumbled over old memories and new fears as I worked my way through the long line of minor injuries and illnesses. At last, the line has cleared.

"Can I buy you lunch?" Dr. Lane asks, smiling with all the devastating charm I remember from that amazing week. "You're bound to be hungry."

I shake my head. Since he doesn't seem to know me, the farther I stay away from him, the better. I think of the goodies I grabbed from the breakfast bar. "I brought lunch, so, thanks, but no."

He shrugs. "Suit yourself. I thought I would ask. The sun is brutal, and it would be bad form for the nurse in charge to pass out from heat exhaustion or hunger."

"Scrubs are cool and comfy," I say. "David and Ramey will keep an eye on the front, and I'll just chill out in the air conditioned room for a little while."

"Can I bring you back something?" he asks.

"Something cold to drink would be nice, as long as it is not from any of the vendors here," I say.

His eyebrows fly up in alarm. "Is there a possibility of food poisoning?"

"No," I say. "I've just had to scrub second-hand food off too many people today. Chili dogs, lemonade, and tilt-a-whirls are a lethal combination."

He laughs at that. Oh, God, he has such a nice laugh. I feel myself melting, remembering his touch and the things that mouth could do.

I grit my teeth and remind myself that I needed a love ‘em and leave ‘em Lothario like I needed a case of chlamydia. Lotharios are always charming and sweet — right up until the time that they're not.

Had his grandfather truly believed him to be dead, or was that a lie he told a scared young mother to get rid of her or to trick her into giving up her child to his rich family?

"I had a narrow miss, myself," he says. "I'll see if I can find something tasty that isn't lemonade."

"Thank you," I say.

He leaves, and I heat up my second breakfast burrito in the lounge microwave, then get an iced tea from the dispenser. I place my food on a table in the cool room, and flop onto an anti-gravity lounger beside it. I adjust the chair so that my feet are up, but I can still enjoy eating. The chill air seeps through the mesh back of the chair, cooling me down and letting my loose cotton top dry.

Idly, I wonder what Paul is doing. I'm sure he is having a good lunch. Julia is in charge of the kids, and she would never stand for less.

I sit up, and throw away the wrapper from my burrito and my empty ice tea cup. I check the supply of various brands of electrolyte drinks. Then I check the ice in the cooler by the first aid stand. It is getting low, so I go to the tent flap to see who I can flag down to get more.

I see six men bringing a stretcher toward me. They aren't running, but they are moving at a brisk walk. A quick glance shows what looks like a kitchen knife sticking out of the stretcher occupant's abdomen. It moves with every breath he takes.

"Examining table, in here," I say, pulling aside the curtain that hides the operating space. "Easy, try not to jostle that thing around. Did you see any other wounds?"

"No, miss," says one of the crew, a stocky dark-haired man with a broad face. "We found him behind the cook tent during a routine patrol. No idea who the assailant might have been."

The patient is a large man. He is a little overweight — not bad, just well - padded. With luck, the knife has only penetrated the fat layer, not gone all the way in. Ramey and David hurry in behind the security team.

"Let's get his clothes off, and check for other injuries," I say. "David, please page Dr. Lane. This looks like one for him. Then, if you will, please take the front, and keep the minor casualties moving."

"Will do," David says, heading back out.

"Giles, Henry," the stocky security guard said, "go with him. Just in case someone decides it would be a good idea to finish the job, or to carve up someone else. Until we know why this man was injured, we need to be on alert."

A man with a surfer tan and a shaggy mullet, and a lanky guy with close cropped hair, both in Moor Security uniforms, ease out of the room, closing the curtain behind them.

Ramey snaps on gloves and approaches the patient with a pair of medical shears while I'm busy directing traffic. Starting at the neckline, she begins cutting away the man's white dress shirt and his under shirt.

"What are you doing?" he protests weakly. "This is my good suit."

"You can get another," I soothe, giving the area around the knife a quick visual. He's not bleeding much, so I leave the knife in place until Dr. Lane can see him. "Right now, we're worried about what someone did to your birthday suit. Looks like they put a hole in it. Any idea why?"

"I told ‘em I wouldn't do it," he says. "I told ‘em they couldn't pay me enough to pull off shit like that. So they says, ‘Hey, we'll just take it outta your hide. We can tan it for shoe leather.'"

"That's terrible," I say, holding the cloth so Ramey can cut it without jiggling the knife. "Did they do anything else?"

"They hit me with their fists," he says. "At first, I thought that was all they'd done—hit me with their fists. But then it hurt like fire and I went down on my knees, and I couldn't get up."

"That's dreadful," I say, thinking furiously. Would a knife wound to the gut cause him to fall? What else might be wrong?

I might not have wanted Dr. Lane back in my life, but at that moment, I hoped he would hurry and show up. This man was in a bad way, and an extra pair of hands would be more than welcome.