New York City Docs. Tina Beckett
“We need to do so some more—”
“Tessa.” That single word came from Clay.
Mr. Phillips looked from one to the other. “I’ve been around the block a couple of times. Something’s eventually going to get me. Why not this? I’ve outlived most of my friends. My brothers and sisters. My wife. So just give it to me straight.”
Swallowing, she nodded. “Yes. We’re pretty sure it’s cancer that has spread from your leg. We’re going to get a treatment team together and see what we come up with.”
He looked at her for a minute or two. “You do your talking. But if it doesn’t look like an easy fix, I’m going to have to turn you down. I can’t do that to my daughter and son, and she’s traveled a long way to see me already. At least I’ll have time to say my goodbyes.”
Mr. Phillips’s wife had died almost ten years ago of a massive stroke. She’d been dead before she’d hit the ground.
Tessa wasn’t sure which was worse for those who were left behind. Watching your loved one wither away before your eyes or having them snatched in an instant.
“Do you want me to speak with your daughter?”
“She’ll probably want to talk to you herself, but I’d rather break the news to her.” Mr. Phillips reached out and gave Tessa’s hand a squeeze. “It’s okay, honey. I’ve been ready for a while now.”
She wrapped her fingers around his for a few seconds. “As soon as I know something more, I’ll let you know.”
“I know you will.” Rheumy eyes moistened. “I don’t mind telling you, I miss my wife. I’ll be glad to see her.”
Clay’s hand landed on her shoulder, whether in support of her or Mr. Phillips she had no idea. But she was glad he was there.
“Don’t make your reservations just yet, Mr. Phillips.” If she could will someone’s cancer to go up in a puff of smoke, this would be the person she did it for. But she couldn’t.
“Can I talk to you outside, Dr. Camara?” Clay’s low voice made her nod.
But before she got up… “Is there anything you need? How is your pain level?”
“I think it’s better than yours right now.” Her patient let go of her hand and gave her a smile. “Don’t be sad for me, honey. It’s going to be okay.”
She gave one more nod, unsure she could force another word from her mouth, then stood to her feet, following Clay out of the room.
Once there, he turned to face her. “You okay?”
What was it with male doctors asking her if she was all right? She was a professional, just as they were. Her head went up, along with her temper. “Fine. Why?”
He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t get to you. Especially with some patients.”
“Brian seemed just fine.” Her face felt carved out of stone.
A frown appeared on his face. “You saw him?”
“Um, yes. He’s my attending. We just finished discussing this particular case.”
“That’s not what I meant. Did he mention them?”
“Them who? I don’t understand.” Sadness morphed into confusion.
“You don’t know about the jars.”
She blinked. “Jars?”
Taking her elbow, he led her a few feet away from Mr. Phillips’s door. “It seems some collection jars have been set up at some of the nurses’ stations.”
Okay, now she was getting irritated. “They always put up jars before the festival. The staff contributes to whatever charity the hospital has chosen this year.” It seemed a little weird for him to have pulled her out of a patient’s room to tell her that. Unless he was trying to spare her feelings.
“Yeah, I don’t think these are the kinds of jars they normally have out.”
Glancing across the space, she saw the nurses’ station was empty of personnel, but it did indeed have a jar. In fact, there were a pair of them. That was strange. Why would they need two?
She walked toward the containers and squinted at the writing on the first one. Someone’s name… Her thoughts fell off abruptly.
No, not someone’s name. Her name.
The second jar. Oh, Lord! Clay’s name.
“What’s going on?”
“It appears that news travels around West Manhattan Saints as quickly as it did at my former hospital.” His voice came from behind her. “They’re betting on who’s going to come out ahead during our exhibition match.”
Her head whipped around to look at him. “Our exhibition? But that hasn’t even been announced yet.”
“Oh, it’s been announced, all right. And it looks like there’s no getting out of it at this point. I have a feeling Peter Lloyd isn’t taking any chances. If this is as big a draw as he claims it will be, it’ll be something for him to crow about.”
All Tessa heard was the part about there being “no getting out of it at this point.” Had Clay been trying to think of a way to not go through with the demonstration? She thought he’d resigned himself to it, just as she had. Evidently that wasn’t the case.
“He can’t do that. Besides, what’s the point?”
“It seems he can and he did. All the money is still going to charity. It’s just an internal bet with no actual payout. I’ve even heard talk of the hospital matching the donations of the winner’s jar, although that would have to be approved by the hospital trustees.”
How had he heard all of this when she had known nothing? “Maybe it was Marcos.”
“Possibly, but I would lay odds on Lloyd. And so far it looks like you’re ahead by a long shot. It seems you’ve engendered some loyalty, Dr. Camara.”
She had? That was news to her. She was normally so busy she barely had time to throw a hello here or there. Which explained why she’d missed noticing those jars this morning.
Her sadness over Mr. Phillips was still hovering in the background, but even she could see the humor in this situation. “Well, you know… I think I’ve won every match we’ve ever fought.”
“Because we weren’t actually supposed to be fighting.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
She smiled. “Because I’m not.” Gesturing at the jars, she shrugged. “If this earns more money toward a good cause, then we’ll just have to make sure we really do put on that good show we talked about.”
“Are you saying you’re going to take me down?”
Reaching into her side pocket, she took out a few bills and peeled off a ten. Walking over to the jars, she stuffed it inside the one with her name on it. She turned back to look at him. “Oh, yeah, mister. You are going down.”
Dodge, dodge, dodge…retreat.
When was she going to miss a beat so that he could gain some ground?
Time and time again Tessa had pushed him to the very edge of the circle with no more than a twist of her body. She wasn’t aiming to hit him, since that wasn’t the goal of this match. But she was making him move his feet. And they sure as hell weren’t moving forward.
They were supposed to be putting on a show, but not one that had him stepping backward for the whole fifteen minutes of their exhibition.
Cut