Between You and Me Page 11

  Caleb looked away. “I thought that was a boy, poor thing.”

  Reese started walking again. “Edwards is a great pediatric oncologist,” she said. “She’s in good hands.”

  “And he’s acquainted with your mother?”

  “They’re colleagues. My folks are both physicians.” She flashed her hospital badge at a passing aide. “They’re strict with security here,” she explained. “Most people on the floor know me. My parents are well known in this department.”

  “Because of their work?”

  “Doctors Joanna and Hector Powell. A fertility specialist and neonatologist. They help couples who have trouble conceiving, and they help the newborns, too. When I was young, I imagined the babies like tiny embers, needing a miracle to fan the life into them. My parents have been able to save babies who were given the slimmest chances of survival—newborns who came too early or were born with problems.” She hesitated. “I was one of those babies, so tiny at birth that I fit in the palm of my father’s hand.”

  When she talked about herself and her family, her deep brown eyes took on an extra spark. “You’d never know it to look at you,” he said.

  She smiled. “I have my parents to thank for that.” The smile darted away, as if she’d caught herself doing something wrong. “You could say I owe them my life—literally. I admired them so much, growing up. I never questioned their plans for me—to be a doctor, join their practice. But every once in a while, I feel guilty when I catch myself wondering if this is the right path for me. Of course it’s the right path. Isn’t it?”

  She would probably be surprised if she knew how often Caleb asked the same question about his own life. “I reckon you need to answer that for yourself.”

  Reese gestured around the ward. “One day, these will be my patients, assuming I follow the path my parents have mapped out for me.”

  “They want you to be a doctor to children, then.”

  “A pediatric surgeon, to be specific. The plan is to expand their practice to include a specialist in pediatric surgery—namely, me. All it’ll take is an extra five years of general surgery residency followed by two more of residency training in pediatric surgery, board certification . . . and then I’ll be prepared.”

  “That’s a lot of preparation.”

  She sighed. “Prepared for what, I sometimes wonder. For my life, or for theirs?”

  “Are they two different things?”

  “Good question,” she said. “I sometimes struggle with my parents’ expectations for me. But I do love pediatrics. It’s hard, though. Being in these competitive programs is a bit like being dropped into a shark tank with a bleeding wound.”

  Stopping abruptly, she said, “I think we’ve found our boy.”

  No balloons or cards festooned the door of Jonah’s room, just a bracket filled with charts with his name on them. There were two beds separated by a pleated blue drape. Bed number one was empty, made up with painstaking neatness, its tautly pulled linens and blankets awaiting the next patient. Reese pulled the drape aside to reveal bed number two. Also empty.

  Caleb felt a stab of alarm. “Where’s Jonah?”

  She studied the heaped linens, the notes scrawled on the whiteboard. “REC stands for recreational therapy.” Stepping outside the room, she indicated a sign pointing to the patients’ lounge. “Maybe . . . Let’s check that out,” she said, leading the way.

  They passed a physical therapist guiding a boy with a thick white belt and metal walker. The boy’s head was shaved, and there was a thick scar curving over his ear. A weary couple stood outside one of the rooms, the woman sagging against the man’s chest. Around the corner was the lounge, an airy open space with tall windows, kid-size furniture, and shelves filled with books, toys, and games. The floor was marked with a hopscotch diagram and cartoon ants marching in a line. Several little ones were curled in the laps of volunteers or family members. Older kids sat at a round table playing a card game.

  “There he is,” Caleb said, pointing to the far corner. Jonah’s haystraw hair stuck out every which way. He wore a type of apron and thick socks, bright green. Caleb touched Reese’s shoulder. “What’s he doing?”

  “Looks like they’re playing a video game,” she said.

  Jonah and the health aide seemed absorbed in the flat screen on the table in front of them. It displayed a superhero character zooming through a maze of some sort.

  Caleb hurried over to him, his heart lifting at the sight of his nephew. “Jonah, you’re up out of bed.”

  The screen froze on a cartoon image. “Hi, Uncle Caleb. They said I can get up if somebody’s with me.”

  The aide stood. “I’m Tammy. Jonah and I were having a game of Dr. Boom.”

  Caleb introduced himself. “Thanks for looking after him.”

  “It’s real good fun,” Jonah said, his blue eyes brighter than they’d been the last time Caleb saw him. The facial gashes—Reese called them lacerations—already seemed to be healing. The thickly bandaged stump rested in a sling. “We’re fighting diseases and winning points.”

  “That sounds cool,” Reese said. “Hey, Jonah. Remember me?”

  He stood up, nearly losing his balance. Tammy gently steadied him. Caleb reminded himself that dealing with the arm loss was going to take time.

  “You were in the ER,” Jonah said politely. “With the black doctor who had a gold earring.”

  She smiled. “That’s Jack. I’m impressed you remember.”

  “And then you came to see me in the other place.”

  “I did. I bet you’re meeting all kinds of new people around here.”

  “Thanks for playing Dr. Boom with me, Jonah,” said Tammy. “I’ll see you later, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s time to go back to your room.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Tammy.”

  After she had gone, Reese gestured at an empty table with some drawing paper and crayons, and they sat down together. In the stubby chair, Caleb had to fold his knees up to his shoulders. “Just my size, neh?” he asked, coaxing a brief smile from Jonah.

  “Just my size,” Jonah said. “Everything here is made for kids.”

  “What was your day like, Jonah?” Reese asked.

  “They brought my food on a tray. They rolled the tray right up to my bed, and a man called an oatie sat with me to make sure I could eat with my good hand.”

  “An oatie?” Caleb frowned.

  “Yep. The letters were sewn onto his jacket—O-T.”

  “I think it stands for occupational therapist,” said Reese. “I’m glad you’re already getting lots of help. Did you like the food?”

  He nodded. “There was a sandwich and some berries and some bright green stuff called Jell-O.”

  “Ah. You probably thought it was an alien life-form.”

  “Like an alien from outer space?”

  “It’s very mysterious.”

  Caleb was glad to see the brightness in his eyes. The boy had a tough road ahead, but for the moment, he was in a pretty good frame of mind.

  “I looked at the TV, Uncle Caleb,” Jonah said in a confessional tone.

  Caleb lifted one eyebrow. “Did you like it?”

  “Yes. And when I didn’t like what was on, I just pushed a button and changed to another program. I watched a story about Robin Hood. After a while, I got tired of looking at it, though. A lady gave me some more books to read. There’s plenty of books here, lots more than programs on the TV.”

  “You like reading books?” asked Reese.

  He nodded. “They gave me a stand I can set the book on so I don’t have to hold it in two hands.” He cut his gaze down and away as if slightly ashamed.

  “How are you feeling?” Reese asked. “Does your arm hurt? Does anything hurt?”

  He held himself very still, keeping his eyes downcast. Finally, he said, “I don’t rightly know. How can my arm hurt if it’s not there anymore?”

  “Well, your brain has to adjust to the idea that there’s been a big
change. While you’re here, lots of people will be coming to see you so they can help you with the healing process, and that includes helping you understand your feelings about it. Does that make sense?”

  Jonah frowned slightly. “I don’t much like talking about feelings.”

  “Then you don’t have to. Maybe give it a try and see if it helps. When people lose a limb, there’s a very big shock at first, and then a lot of sadness. And that’s normal. But I can tell you it gets better. Just not right away. Not as fast as you wish it would.”

  Caleb liked her manner with the boy. She was kind without seeming forced. She was honest.

  “When can I go home?” Jonah asked, finally looking up at Caleb.

  “We have to let the doctors say when. You’re doing real good, so maybe it’ll be soon,” Caleb told him.

  “Is home really far away?” the boy asked. “Did you come in the buggy?”

  “It’s too far for the buggy. I’m staying in the city while you’re here. Reese introduced me to a friend named Leroy who is letting me stay at his place. It’s a real quick walk from here so I can come to see you anytime.”

  “What about the farm?” Jonah’s brow knit. “Who’s looking after Jubilee?”

  “I imagine Hannah can manage your dog for a bit.” Caleb leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The neighbors will help with the livestock. It’s only temporary, little man.”

  “I wish I could see Jubilee. And Hannah.” Jonah hastily added, “And Grandfather, too.”

  “How would you like to write a letter to your sister? I bet she’d be glad to hear from you.”

  Jonah’s face brightened. “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’ll get some writing paper and a pencil,” Reese said. “You can work right here at this table.” She went and rummaged through a bin filled with art supplies and came back with a few things. “So, depending on how you like to write, you might have to make a few adjustments. Caleb said you’re right-handed, but maybe you’re used to holding the paper with your left hand as you write. Here’s some Scotch tape to hold it in place.”

  He studied the roll of tape. “Why is it called Scotch tape? Does it come from Scotland?”

  “Ha! No. That’s a good question. I don’t know the reason, but I’ll find out.”

  “I can tell you what 3M stands for—Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing,” Caleb said.

  Jonah shot him a grin. “Uncle Caleb knows stuff.”

  “Clearly he does.” She set a blank sheet of paper in front of Jonah, then placed a bit of tape at the top and bottom. “How’s that?”

  “It’ll do.” Jonah picked up the pencil. “Thank you, Reese.” He bent over his letter and began to write in careful strokes.

  Reese and Caleb went to the window and stood looking out at the rooftops with compressors and terraced gravel surfaces. Beyond those lay the river, and to the east, the city center with its streets laid out in a grid. She pointed out a few landmarks—the riverwalk and university district, the old town with Independence Hall amid a long strip of greenery in the urban park.

  “I appreciate you talking to Jonah,” Caleb told her quietly. “He and his sister are real close, so this letter will help. He seems a bit more like himself this evening.”

  “I imagine he’ll have lots of ups and downs. He’s a fantastic kid, and he’ll get through this.”

  Though she’d mentioned that she was questioning her parents’ plan for her to be a children’s surgeon, she was good with Jonah. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad plan after all.

  “How do you spell ‘artificial’?” Jonah asked, looking over at them.

  Caleb spelled the word aloud, and the boy gave him a thumbs-up.

  “And how do you spell ‘prosthesis’?” he asked a moment later.

  Caleb and Reese looked at each other. “I’ll give it a shot,” she said and spelled it out for him. “Boynton County Spelling Bee champion, two years in a row,” she added smugly. “You’re looking at her.”

  “Hannah used to beat everybody at school in spelling,” Jonah said. “Even the teacher, sometimes. She got a prize for best speller at her graduation.”

  “Just sixteen, and she already graduated?” asked Reese. “I bet she’s really smart.”

  “Schooling ends after the eighth grade,” Caleb said.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh. That’s . . . I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Too bad?” he suggested.

  “I suppose it depends on what a person wants in life,” she said.

  “In our community, folks don’t believe youngsters need a lot of schooling,” Caleb said.

  “And if they want to continue their education? I mean, I’m not judging, but . . . good lord. Eighth grade?”

  She was judging, Caleb observed. “Further schooling is not prohibited. Not encouraged, either,” he said. He watched his nephew turn the page over and retape it to the table, his one hand working nimbly. “Guess it could have been worse. It could’ve been his right hand.”

  A few minutes later, Jonah held up his letter. “Finished,” he said. “I drew a picture on the back.”

  It was a depiction of a robotic arm like the ones in the brochures someone had left for them to look through. Next to the arm was a person with short dark hair, wearing a short white coat and a stethoscope. She had large eyes with long lashes and her mouth set in a straight line.

  “Is that me?” asked Reese.

  “Uh-huh. I’m not so good at drawing people.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” She touched the paper briefly. “This kind of gives me a twinge in my heart. Do I forget to smile?”

  “No, I’m not so good at drawing mouths, either.”

  “Well, for your sake, I’m going to work on smiling more.”

  Jonah turned the paper over. “You can read what I wrote if you want.”

  “Sure,” said Reese, looking over his shoulder. “You have very nice handwriting.”

  “Thank you. I like penmanship practice.”

  “How about you read it to us?” Caleb suggested.

  “All right.” Jonah sat up straight in his chair. “‘Dear Hannah, my arm got cut off in the hospital. It was so bad hurt in the shredder that it had to come off, all the way off and now there’s a big bandage around the stump. I’m getting a new arm called an artificial limb, or a prosthesis. They say it’s like a robot’s arm and I’ll get used to it. How is Jubilee doing? I miss that dog something fierce and I hope I can see her soon. I also miss you and I wish I could see you. And also Grandfather. Sincerely, your brother, Jonah.’” He finished reading and looked up. “Is that okay?’

  Caleb felt a deep, almost painful affection for the boy. “It sure is, my man. Hannah will be grateful to hear from you.”

  “I can put it in the mail for you right away if you like,” Reese said. “The post office is closed by now, but tomorrow is my day off work.”

  “That would be fine, Reese,” said Jonah. “I’m obliged to you.”

  “What do you usually do on your day off?” Caleb asked. “Besides go to the post office?”

  She shifted her gaze around the room. “I wish I could tell you I take kiteboarding lessons or cook gourmet meals, but the sad truth is, when I’m not practicing to be a doctor, I’m a very boring person. I study for exams, fill out residency forms, and do errands, including going to the post office. It’s kind of pathetic.”

  “What’s kiteboarding?” Jonah asked. “It sounds fun.”

  “It looks fun, but I’ve never tried it. You stand on a surfboard and harness yourself to a giant kite, and the wind takes you on a ride.”

  “I’d like to do that,” Jonah said. Then he glanced at the thick bandage. “Can I do it with one arm?”

  Caleb’s heart ached anew. This would always be Jonah’s first question from here on out—Can I do it with one arm?

  Tammy came back to the lounge. “Hey, Jonah. Time to head back to your room. Your supper’s waiting. Then evening rounds and then
lights out.”

  Jonah caught Caleb’s eye as he stood up, pressing his hand on the table to steady himself. “They never actually turn the lights out,” he whispered. “Not ever.”

  “They’ll dim the lights a bit more than they did in the SICU,” Tammy explained.

  “It doesn’t ever get totally dark in the city. Not like it is at home.” Caleb thought about the expansive feeling he got, standing in the pitch dark in Middle Grove, looking up at the stars.

  Jonah was talkative on the way back to his room. In addition to video games, he had already discovered vending machines, streaming music, Harry Potter books, and televised baseball games. Nearly everything here was new to him. “Ever hear of the Magna Carta?” he asked.

  “I have,” Caleb said. “What do you know about it?”

  “Lots,” Jonah said. “I read about it in a book from the lending cart. It’s called the Magna Carta Libertatum, and in English that means Great Charter. It’s famous because it’s a written record of laws and the rights of man.”

  “You’re getting a lot of reading done, tadpole,” Caleb said. “That’s good.”

  “You never told me your nephew is a genius,” Reese said. “You get smarter every time I talk to you.”

  Jonah’s ears turned red. He wasn’t used to compliments, especially from pretty girls.

  Reese and Caleb stayed through evening rounds. “See that doctor?” she whispered to him, lightly touching his arm and indicating a group of people coming down the hall. “That’s the attending on call. He’s a Cuban guy named Jimenez. You can tell he’s the attending because he’s wearing a full-length coat. The others with him are third-years. Jimenez is a good one. They told you it’s a teaching hospital, right?”

  He nodded slightly. Her hand rested like a small bird on his arm. He wondered if she could feel the tension in his muscles. And buried deep inside his worry about Jonah was something else—an unbidden attraction he had no business feeling but couldn’t deny.

  She seemed to notice she was holding on to his arm, and her hand flitted away.

  Dr. Jimenez walked into the room with long strides, shadowed by a gaggle of the short-coated third-years. Caleb stepped forward and introduced himself. “I’m Jonah’s uncle,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be staying for the visit.”