Out Of The Shadows. Loree Lough
Patrice whirled around, eyes wide and smiling, and, puppet balanced on her forearm, stepped up to Emily’s bed. “And just who do you think you are, li’l missy, the Spelling Bee Queen?”
“No, silly,” she giggled, “I’m Emily Kirkpatrick.”
“Pleased t’meetcha, Emily Kirkpatrick!” The monkey tickled her chin. “My name is Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey.”
“That’s a long name!”
Mort did a little jig on the edge of Emily’s bed, then tapped a paw to his chin. “Yes, it is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it. Tell you what…you can call me Mort.” The monkey’s hands rested on its hips. “Now tell me, cutie, how’re you doin’?”
“I had a op’ration yesterday.” She gave Wade an adoring look. “Dr. Cameron fixed the hole in my heart.”
The puppeteer met Wade’s eyes. For a moment, no one spoke…not even Mort McMonkey.
“Yes, so I heard,” Miss Patrice said at last.
The puppeteer had the most expressive face Wade had ever seen. The short, reddish-brown curls topping her pretty head reminded him of the elves on those cookie packages. He wondered why she allowed it to cover one eye; it seemed to him those big brown eyes were so warm, they could thaw an igloo.
She looked vaguely familiar, and he was about to admit it when she moved Mort aside enough to expose her name badge. Patrice McKenzie, it said.
“Will you be having supper with us tonight, Emily?” Mort asked.
Wade was too stunned to hear Emily’s response. He’d met a Patrice or two since that night, but how many Patrice McKenzies could there be? Can’t be that Patrice, he told himself.
Could it?
She blinked, confused, he presumed, by his scrutiny.
It had been fifteen years since he’d shared a bleak ER waiting room with a teary, terrified girl, but he’d recognize those big brown eyes anywhere. If the young woman on the other side of Emily’s bed wasn’t the same Patrice, he’d eat his stethoscope.
Mort started hip-hopping again. “Well, well, well,” the monkey said, “it looks to me like your Dr. Cameron is a real live hero, Emily Kirkpatrick!”
The girl’s mother stepped into the room just then. “Yes, yes he is,” she said, standing beside him.
Hero? The very idea was laughable! Wade wanted to warn them all that, in the first place, though Emily’s condition was much better than it had been at this time yesterday, she was far from out of the woods. And in the second place…
The train fiasco that had sent him to the ER all those years ago flashed through his memory. Heart pounding, Wade checked his watch. “So, are you ready to show me your incision, Em?”
She nodded. “Okay, I guess.”
Because of her heart condition, Emily wasn’t as big as other girls her age. The operation made her seem even smaller, frail, vulnerable. Wade finger-combed golden locks from her forehead. “Say goodbye to Mort,” he said gently, “’cause we need to close the curtain.”
She shook the monkey’s tiny, hairy hand. “G’bye, Mort. See you later?”
“You betcha!” The puppet waved at Emily, at the child in the next bed, at Mrs. Kirkpatrick, then at Wade. “See yas later, ’gators!”
As Patrice started for the door, Wade grabbed her elbow. “Mind hanging around a minute? I have something to ask you.”
Her dark brows rose slightly, as if to say, What could you possibly want to ask me?
“Okay,” Mort answered in Patrice’s stead, “but it’s gonna cost ya, Doc.”
For a reason he couldn’t explain, Wade abandoned his all-business demeanor. “Name your price, monkey face.”
The kids and Mrs. Kirkpatrick laughed as Mort slapped both fuzzy hands over his mouth. “Monkey face? Well, I never!” He shook a furry finger at the doctor. “It was gonna be just a cup of coffee, but after that remark, you’ll hafta throw in a slice of pie, too!”
Small price to pay, Wade thought, for a private session with Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey…and his handler.
“I’ll be in my office,” Patrice said.
For the second time in as many minutes, she’d used her own voice. Like everything else about her, it was adorable.
But wait—had she said her office? “Since when do hospital volunteers have offices?”
Patrice laughed, the sound reminding him of the small copper bells that used to hang on his mom’s back porch.
“Technically I’m not a volunteer,” she explained, walking backward toward the hall, “But I am the person who makes sure there are volunteers for the children. I’m the pediatric social worker who heads up Child Services.” She opened the door. “You know where the Zoo Lobby is?”
Wade didn’t like admitting that he hadn’t a clue. “Ellicott General is like a small city, and I’ve spent most of my time in the ‘heart’ of town, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Mort came to life again. “I get it, Doc,” the monkey said. “Cardiologist…heart…. Ha-ha-ha.” Mort patted Wade’s shoulder. “First-floor elevators to the giant stuffed animal cages, left down the hall, office on the right.” Clapping, the monkey added, “The sign above the door says Child Services. Got it?”
Wade was about to echo “Got it,” when Patrice winked and ducked into the hall.
“She spreads such joy wherever she goes,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick said as Wade pulled the curtain around her daughter’s bed. “And isn’t she just the cutest thing?”
“Yeah, cute,” he muttered halfheartedly, opening Emily’s file. He’d never been a big advocate of non-family members meandering in and out of the hospital, overstaying their welcome, leaving behind their germs. And Patrice McKenzie had built a career of inviting them to do just that.
He wondered how much joy she’d feel like spreading if he gave her his two cents worth on the subject.
He pictured the long-lashed, dark eyes, heard her lilting voice in his memory, and found himself fighting an urge to rush through Emily’s examination so he could make his way past the Zoo Lobby to the Child Services office…
…and the lovely lady who’d breathed life into Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey.
She caught sight of her reflection in the silver frame that held a photo of her father, taken before the fiery car crash. Instinctively, she fluffed her hair, effectively hiding the scar. The hideous, horrible welt coiled from just below her right earlobe to the corner of her eye, like a rope that tied her, permanently, to the accident that had paralyzed her father.
Patrice sat back and squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t until her knuckles began to ache that she realized how tightly she’d been gripping the chair’s wooden armrests. It had taken several sessions with her pastor to realize why she refused to get rid of the picture…and the scar. Flexing her fingers, she sighed. “Someday,” Pete Phillips had counseled, “you’ll give them both to God. Until then—”
Footsteps, just outside her office door, cut short the memory. Grabbing a pen, she hunched over the papers piled high on her desk and feigned hard work.
“Knock, knock….”
She recognized the charming baritone: Dr. Wade Cameron.
Patrice looked up and smiled. “Hi,” she said, standing. “Come on in.”
He placed a partitioned cardboard tray on one of the chrome-and-blue upholstered chairs in front of her desk, then sat in the other. “All they had was cherry,” he