Kent muttered. Ordinarily if he beat Stan by this much, he’d be elated. Now he only focused on the force of his arm, the slap of the ball against wood.
Why hadn’t he taken time to look at the boy’s chart more carefully yesterday? He’d rushed in from the airport with barely enough time to read the test results, so he hadn’t glanced at the parents’ names. He’d gotten a monumental shock when he’d recognized the mother.
Stan missed a ball, then another.
“Game over.” Kent caught the ball and bounced it, then tossed it and the racquet into his gym bag.
“Hey, good buddy, you’re on a tear today,” Stan said as they walked off the court. “Letting out some anger, are we?”
Kent managed a laugh as he stared straight ahead. “Remind me never to play racquetball with a psychiatrist.”
“We can’t help noticing displays of emotion. One of the drawbacks of the profession. Last time I saw you murder the ball that way was when you and Lisa divorced.”
“Spare me the psychoanalysis.” Kent swiped a towel over his sweaty face. “What you saw isn’t anger, it’s athletic skill.”
They halted in front of the showers, and Stan gave him a penetrating look. “Well, if you ever want to talk about your newfound ‘skill,’ you can have a discount.”
“Not necessary, but thanks.” He pulled the damp T-shirt over his head. He’d feel foolish spilling his guts about an affair that ended years ago.
“Have time for lunch later?” Stan asked.
“Not today. Too busy.” Kent tossed his shorts aside and stepped into the shower. He turned the water on full force and let it pour over him. Damn, he hated being so transparent, but running into Mallory after all this time brought back memories and emotions he thought he’d put to rest years ago.
Getting over her hadn’t been easy. No, it had been tough facing the fact that she’d played him for a fool, used him as bait to snag Dean Brenner. Remembering his last phone call to her, he shut his eyes as icy water droplets stung him as if they were needles.
He’d called from the hospital in Rome, three weeks after he’d planned on returning to Valerosa. She’d have been back at school in Lubbock by then. But when he called her dorm, he learned she wasn’t enrolled that semester. Surprised and worried, he tried her at home.
“Mallory?” A deep, rich laugh sounded over the wire and Ophelia, the Rosemans’ housekeeper, said, “She’s not here. That girl’s done gone and got herself married.”
Staggered, he gasped, “Married? When? Who?”
“Few days ago. Married Dean Brenner. I always knew those two’d wake up someday and see they was meant for each other. Been hangin’ around together since they was little tykes.”
She paused. “You want their number in El Paso?”
For some reason, he wrote it down, hung up, then sat back and stared unseeing out the window. After a minute he glanced at the slip of paper in his hand, crumbled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash.
Kent opened his eyes. Didn’t matter now. Couldn’t. Both of them had one very sick kid to worry about. Nick was their only connection.
The next night, Mallory tiptoed out of Nick’s room and made her way down the hall to the waiting area. She bypassed an armchair, sat on the window ledge and stared into the night. It was 1:00 a.m., and lights were still on all over the medical center. Hospitals never slept.
She leaned her forehead against the glass. Today had been the worst day since Nick had gotten sick, even worse somehow than the afternoon Dr. Sanders had told her he had leukemia.
She’d felt so optimistic when she awoke this morning. Kent—Dr. Berger—had explained that AML was nearly always amenable to chemotherapy. The transplant, whether of bone marrow or stem cells, would come later, but first things first. The chemo would begin immediately.
She was proud of the way Nick reacted. He said he and his mom planned to beat this disease, then asked when he’d be out of the hospital. His grin broke out when Kent—Dr. Berger—said probably in a few days, as soon as they saw how he tolerated the chemo.
Tolerated? Mallory thought bitterly. Such a bland word. The nurses had told her reactions to chemo could vary from mild to severe, but only now did she realize what “severe” meant. Nick had first developed an excruciating headache, then nausea so fierce he screamed every time it gripped him. The nurse said the doctor would adjust the dose next time. How could they have been so far off? How could Nick—and she—endure a next time?
Oh, it hurt to see her baby so sick. And not to be able to help. All she could do was hold his hand.
For the first time she wondered if they’d come to the right place. Maybe they should have gone to Sloan-Kettering in New York or another big cancer center. At least there she wouldn’t have the added stress of wondering if Nick’s doctor had noticed the boy’s birthday and done the math.
Tears slid down her cheeks and dampened the window-pane. She was homesick. She wanted someone to lean on.
A hand touched her shoulder.
Startled, she turned. And met Kent’s eyes.
Damn, Kent thought, he hadn’t meant to touch her, but he’d seen her at the window, shoulders slumped. Her son’s reaction to his first dose of chemo had to be tough for her. He’d decided to stop and reassure her, as he’d do for any parent. A brief word of explanation and sympathy, and he’d be on his way.
She’d been crying. He saw the sheen of tears in her eyes as she turned.
For the first time in his medical career, he couldn’t think of the right words. He settled for, “Rough day.”
“Too rough.” Pain and accusation shone through her tears. “He shouldn’t have to be so sick. Can’t you tell ahead of time what dose he needs?”
“No, reactions vary. Sometimes a child will tolerate one dose, then the next time react poorly to the very same one.”
“So we can expect more of the same?”
He sighed. “Maybe.” He saw her swallow, and added, “I won’t sugarcoat this, Mallory.”
She bit her lip. “No, of course not.”
“Once Nick is out of the hospital and you’re settled at the apartment complex, you’ll meet other families. You’ll have a built-in support system.”
She brushed away the tears that stained her cheeks and nodded. “That’ll help.”
It would, of course. And he shouldn’t get personally involved. He should leave it right there, turn away from her, go home and crash. But he found himself saying, “Walk down to the doctors’ lounge with me. I bet you haven’t eaten. We’ll find you a snack.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t eat a thing.”
Another opportunity to back off. Instead he said, “Join me then, while I have something. Come on.”
She glanced back down the hall toward her son’s room. “But what if he—?”
“He won’t wake up. He’s sleeping like a log.” At her questioning look, he said, “I looked in on him.”
“Oh, well, then…” She rose and brushed her hair back from her face. It was a gesture he remembered from long ago.
They walked down the hall silently, Kent automatically adjusting his stride to hers.
The lounge was dim and empty. Kent didn’t bother turning on the overhead light. Instead he flipped on a small light over the counter. They’d only be here a few minutes. He’d make himself some tea, insist she have a cup, too, then get out of here. That’d be five…okay, seven minutes tops.
He