The Healing Place. Leigh Bale
by Adam Lindsay Gordon, it read, “Life is mostly froth and bubble, but one thing stands as stone. Kindness in another’s trouble; courage in one’s own.”
Emma crossed her legs and clasped the armrests of her chair. Courage? Kindness? She was fresh out of both.
She peered out the window at the evening sky, a darkening blue with tinges of pink and orange as the sun tucked itself behind the western mountains. Hadn’t she tried to do the right thing for Brian? And look what that had gotten her.
The death of her child, followed by a painful divorce.
“It would be so easy to help them,” Sonja prodded, undeterred by Emma’s frown.
“I said no.”
The words dropped like stone. This wasn’t her problem, nor her responsibility. God had put her through enough already.
Emma heard Sonja leave and she stared at the closed door. She couldn’t go through that hurt again. It was that simple.
The next afternoon things weren’t as simple as Emma hoped. Standing in the hallway of her medical office, she paused beside the closed door of an examination room to study the blood readings for her last patient of the day. Over the low hum of the busy office, she picked out Sonja’s voice coming from the front reception area.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Williams, but it’s like I told you this morning on the phone—Dr. Shields has such a heavy patient load already, it wouldn’t be fair to Angie.”
Angie. Was that the child’s name?
Emma paused, listening. She could hear the strain in Sonja’s voice. Sonja didn’t want to reject Mr. Williams, but Emma had given the nurse no choice.
“Have you tried Baker and Calloway’s office?” Sonja suggested another oncologist.
“Yes, and they refused. My neurosurgeon said Dr. Shields is the best, and that’s who I want for my daughter.”
Mr. Williams was here? This fellow was not taking no for an answer.
As she stood in the doorway of her office, Emma saw Sonja sitting at the reception desk, looking up at a man who leaned against the counter. He had his back to Emma, holding an enormous envelope of files beneath one arm. No doubt the envelope contained various pathology reports and MRIs from his daughter’s neurosurgeon. It looked like he had brought everything.
Dressed in navy-blue slacks and a light yellow pinstriped shirt, he was tall and slender, with shoulders wide as Texas. His short, slicked-back hair reminded her of the color of damp sand. He shifted his weight and shoved one hand into his pants’ pocket. His stance tensed. What if he caused a scene?
“I need to see Dr. Shields. If I could just talk to him—” Mr. Williams’s voice sounded low, edged with desperation.
“Her,” Sonja corrected in a kind tone. “Dr. Shields is a woman.”
Mr. Williams lifted his hand in a gesture of frustration. “If I can just talk to her for two minutes, I won’t take more time than that.”
Like a coward, Emma ducked into her office and leaned against the wall. Her pulse throbbed, her hands clammy.
“Please. If I have to beg, I will.”
His beseeching tone touched the deepest corners of Emma’s heart—what little she had left. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Opening her eyes, she swallowed and clenched her teeth. If she said yes this time, it would be harder to say no to the next parent who walked through her door. Brian’s death had cured her of taking any more chances.
She stepped around the corner and pasted a professional look on her face. As she walked toward Mr. Williams, she extended her hand. “Mr. Williams?”
He turned.
She froze. No, it couldn’t be.
“Mark? Mark Williams?” Her voice sounded watery to her ears.
When he saw her, his eyes widened and his features softened with relief. “Emmy! Emmy Clemmons. Wow! How long has it been?”
She tried to pull her hand back, but he caught it and squeezed tight. The warmth of his fingers tingled up her arm.
“Uh, it’s Shields now. Emma Shields.” She emphasized her first name. It had been two years since anyone had called her Emmy.
He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You must have gotten married. So, who’s the lucky guy?”
She ignored the question. “Your daughter has a brain tumor?”
“Yeah, she needs an oncologist. Are you the oncologist?” Amazement creased his brows and finally he released her hand, which she put behind her back.
He rubbed his angular jaw where a day’s worth of stubble showed he hadn’t shaved that morning. He was thinner than Emma remembered, but faint lines around his eyes showed increased maturity and fatigue. Regardless, he was still handsome as ever, with the power to break any girl’s heart.
He looked good. Too good.
“Yes, that’s me.” Her voice sounded strangely robotic.
Oh, why did this man have to be her former high school boyfriend? They’d dated for about a year and then he’d dumped her for Denise Johnson, head cheerleader, a.k.a. The Doll. That’s what all the girls called Denise behind her back because they were so jealous of her long blond hair and perfect good looks. They hated Denise because all the boys loved her.
Mark shifted the envelope of files beneath his arm and shook his head. “You know, I wasn’t surprised when I heard you went to med school. You were such a bookworm in high school and always wanted to be a doctor. I knew you’d go far.”
Yeah, when Brian died and David left, she’d almost gone off the deep end.
“Emmy, we need a good oncologist. We need you.” Mark’s voice sounded firm, insistent.
Emmy. She hated that name.
Overhearing the conversation, Emma’s receptionist threw her a curious glance. As she directed another patient into the treatment room, one of the nurses gave Emma an inquiring look. The attention bothered Emma. Why couldn’t her staff mind their own business?
“Let’s go into my office where we can speak in private.” Emma stepped back to lead the way.
“Okay, but—” Mark shot Sonja a quick look.
“I’ll bring her to you as soon as she’s finished in the bathroom,” Sonja said.
Oh, no. The little girl was here, too. This was not going to be easy.
Mark followed Emma into her office. In anticipation of the arrival of his daughter, she left the door ajar before she rounded the large desk and sat down. She was grateful to put some kind of barrier between her and Mark.
He sank into one of the three chairs facing Emma’s desk and leaned forward, his fingers clasped, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze locked on her and he appeared confident and in control, the same old Mark she remembered from high school.
“You look great, Emma. How’ve you been these past fifteen years?”
She threw a fleeting look at him, then stared at the black stapler on her desk. “I’ve been fine.”
“Do you and your husband have kids?”
She wasn’t about to tell him about her sweet son or her nasty divorce. “What line of work are you in, Mark?”
“I’m a CPA. My firm serves mostly local contractors. It’s busy and lucrative.”
It probably suited him, she thought. As a kid he’d lived in a mobile home on the “other” side of the tracks. With his dad gone, his mother had worked hard to eek out a living for them. All he’d ever talked about was