A Time to Heal

Erin Dutton

“Mrs. Turner, everything went as we expected. Your husband is in recovery. I’ll have someone come get you when he goes back to his room.” I accepted Mrs. Turner’s effusive thanks and the desperate clasp of her hands around mine.

After a final squeeze she released me and fell into the relieved embrace of her daughter. I’d dealt with my share of nervous family members and when things didn’t go well walking through those waiting room doors could be tough. But days like today made it worth it. For the past four hours, I’d concentrated on the intricate surgery necessary to remove Mr. Turner’s tumor and had only a short break before my next procedure. But, whenever possible, I preferred to talk to my patients’ families personally. They placed their loved ones in my hands and it was my responsibility to relay the outcome, good or bad.

As I turned to push back through the doors, I noticed a woman standing by the vending machine in the corner. Judging from her vacant expression, she wasn’t seeing the rows of junk food behind the glass. Her eyes were pale blue, as if the color had seeped into the bruised crescents beneath them. I got the impression pride was the only thing that kept her standing tall despite her pallid skin and an air fragility. Without knowing why, I was drawn across the room.

“I’d go for the Snickers,” I said as I approached. She looked at me, but her expression was a mix of fatigue and confusion. “More protein.”

“I’m not—I can’t eat anything.”

I nodded, understanding the nerves that probably bundled in her stomach. I wondered who she was waiting for and hoped they would be okay. “You really should try. The waiting can be draining.”

“Doctor,” her gaze flickered to the ID tag clipped to my scrub shirt, “Hernandez, thank you for your concern but I’ll be fine.”

Surprised by a glimpse of the steel that kept her spine straight, I tried out my most reassuring smile. “Of course you will.”

Something flashed in her eyes, but she didn’t respond. A curled auburn tendril had escaped from the clasp that held her hair at the base of her neck and it fell to touch her jaw. I had already stepped closer and lifted my hand to tuck it behind her ear before I realized what I was about to do and froze. She stared at me, clearly knowing the urge I’d just cut short. But instead of rejection, longing burned in her eyes. Unlikely as it seemed, this woman—this stranger—wanted me to touch her. Suddenly I ached with the desire to do more than push back a lock of hair, I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her. I sensed in her a carefully restrained need to breakdown, and I wished I could give her the sanctuary to do so. It felt crazy and right at the same time.

Instead, I let my hand drop back to my side. “I’ve got a few minutes before my next surgery. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.” She turned back to stare at the vending machine and I stood there, uncertain. I’d clearly been dismissed but I couldn’t walk away.

“Listen, Miss,” I paused waiting for her to supply her name.

She sighed, seemingly irritated that I wasn’t going to go away. “Keeley.”

“Miss Keeley—”

“No. Just Keeley. That’s my first name.”

First name only. The implication was clear. “In that case you can call me Terese. Now, about that coffee.”

“I appreciate the offer, Dr. Hernandez—”

“But?”

She folded her hands over her chest, shutting me out. “But, I’m not really looking to get involved.”

“I’m proposing caffeine. Not marriage.” I smiled and waited for her to change her mind.

She looked me up and down, taking in dark curls that I knew had been flattened by hours under a scrub cab and eyes that had been described as soulful but which I knew were bracketed by the beginnings of crow’s feet. As her gaze burned over my body, I wondered if she thought the scrubs added to the attraction. I’d been told they did, but being surrounded by people in them all day, I just didn’t see it.

“You’re not used to hearing ‘no’, are you?”

I lifted an eyebrow and let my grin turn slightly self-deprecating. “Not really.”

“There’s a first time for everything, huh?”

“I guess there is. So you’re really going make me spend my only break today drinking bad doctors-lounge-coffee in solitude?” There was a Starbucks on the floor below us, but I was making a point.

“I’m afraid so. But I’m quite certain you won’t have any trouble finding willing company.”

Busted.

“Well, sure, but I’m really more worried about you,” I said with a grin, confused when the teasing spark went out of her eyes. I nodded toward the vending machine. “I’m afraid if I leave you alone you might eat something out of there.”

“Dr. Hernandez—”

“Terese. Please.”

She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Once upon a time, I would have fallen for the sexy doctor routine.”

Did that mean she thought I was sexy? “But now?”

Her brow furrowed. “Now I’m afraid I don’t have time.”

I met her eyes, searching for the source of the bone-deep sadness in her voice. She wasn’t telling me that she had a busy life, or that she was concentrating on her career, this was something more.

Before I could question her, I heard her name from behind me. I turned to find one of my colleagues standing there. She glanced nervously at him then back at me. Was he the boyfriend? That would explain why she’d turned me down.

“Keeley, I’ve been looking for you,” he said gently.

“I’m sorry, doctor. I’ve been wandering around the hospital trying to work up the nerve to come up.”

Doctor? That’s not how a woman would address her boyfriend. But it is how she would address…her doctor.

“You were due in pre-op fifteen minutes ago.”

“I know.”

I stared at her as pieces began clicking into place. My colleague. A surgeon. Her surgeon. Pre-op.

“Mastectomy,” she said quietly. “Excuse me.”

She brushed past me and followed him out of the room, leaving only a subtle woodsy scent. Still shocked and suddenly swamped with emotions I couldn’t explain, I stood there looking at the door she’d disappeared through.

#

Hours later I cracked the seal on a bottled water and dropped into a chair in the cafeteria. I’d finished my last procedure and, given how tight my schedule was again the next day, I should be heading home for the night instead of claiming a corner table by myself in the nearly abandoned dining area. My mind wandered back to the waiting room and the look of defeat in Keeley’s eyes. I’d thought of her often, fleetingly, throughout the rest of the day.

Keeley. I didn’t even know her last name, and she clearly hadn’t wanted me to. But there was something there, in her eyes. What was it she’d said? Once upon a time, I would have fallen for the sexy doctor routine. Once upon a time. Now she was afraid that her time had run out.

She had called me immediately on my attempt at flirtation, but she had been slightly off the mark. I wasn’t the playgirl she thought I was. Confident? Sure. I was a surgeon, self-assuredness came with the territory. But it had been so long since I’d really connected with anyone. I could talk to women, take them out for dinner or a drink, but I never felt like I could be completely candid. There was a part of myself I held back, waiting until I met that woman who inspired the trust that would allow me to let go.

So why was Keeley different? In that instant of near physical contact there had been something in her eyes that I couldn’t forget. I had glimpsed a woman accustomed to being strong who desperately wanted to let someone else…no, who wanted to let me hold her for only a moment. But maybe I had imagined the connection. Or maybe it was just circumstance and she would have needed that comfort from anyone who was standing before her just then. I could be overreacting to what was, to her, nothing more than a result of the exhaustion of fighting her illness.

I drained the rest of my water and stood. It was late and well past visiting hours, but I knew I had to see her before I left the hospital.

I found her room on the fourth floor easily enough and as I passed the nurses’ station I fought the urge to look at her chart. My desire to respect her privacy overrode my need to know how her surgery had gone.

When I slowly pushed open the door, the room was dark and I nearly back out, thinking she was asleep. But when a shaft of light from the hallway fell across the foot of the bed, she turned her head in my direction. I waited for permission to enter and found it in her slight nod.

“Hello, Doctor,” she said quietly.

Suddenly nervous, I crossed the room and stood near a chair an earlier visitor had pulled to her bedside. She was half-reclined in the bed, and as I approached she tugged the blanket higher. Sensing her discomfort, I carefully avoided looking at her chest and, instead, let my gaze rove over her face. The deep bruises still shadowed her eyes and her skin looked even more pale and fragile. Without the clasp she was probably told to remove in pre-op, her hair fell freely around her shoulders.

“I brought you something.” I pulled a Snickers from the breast pocket of my scrub shirt. When I held it out, she stared at it as if unable to recall our earlier conversation. Feeling foolish, I withdrew the offered treat. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

“No. Wait.” As I began to turn away, she grasped my forearm. I looked down at her elegant fingers encircling my arm just above the wrist. An I.V. catheter was taped to the back of her hand. When I raised my eyes to hers she smiled and said, “I’m a hard stick.” Two Band-Aids further up her arm indicated failed attempts at intravenous access.

She slid her hand down to mine, took the candy bar, and set it on the bedside table.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day. Wondering if you were okay.” I said the first words that came to mind. Oddly, looking into her eyes, I felt no need to censor myself.

“I wish I could say the same, but unfortunately anesthesia gives me the weirdest

dreams.”

“Are you? Okay?” I sank into the chair next to me. “I’m sorry. Here I am, a total stranger asking you personal questions, but…” I let my voice trail off, hesitant to put a name to my feelings for fear that I was alone in them.

She nodded. “I know.” She felt it too. “And yes, I am okay. Or at least the doctor says I will be.”

As a doctor, several questions sprang to mind, but I held them back. So often we are invited into someone’s intimate life, the medical details that with anyone else would be too private to talk about, that it begins to feel as if there are no boundaries. But Keeley was not my patient and I was not owed any of the specifics of her treatment.

So instead, I simply said, “I’m glad.”

“Thank you for the candy. And for checking on me. Both times. It had been an exhausting day and I was close to breaking down when you found me in the waiting room. You would really have thought I was crazy if I had burst out crying in front of the vending machine.”

“No. I wouldn’t have.”

She gave me a look that said she didn’t believe me.

“Okay.” I smiled. “Maybe a little a first. But I would have understood when you told me what you were here for.”

“Ah, yes. The disfigurement.” Despite the levity of her tone, grief flashed across her face and her hand tightened around the top of the blanket.

“It isn’t—”

“It is,” she asserted. “I’ll certainly never get a girlfriend now.” She looked shocked, as if she hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. She bent her head and her hair fell forward.

“You did what you needed to do for your health.” As soon as I said the words I knew they weren’t what I really wanted to say.

“That sounds like the doctor in you talking.”

“You’re beautiful. And any woman worth knowing would see that.”

She lifted her head and a strand of hair clung to her cheek. Remembering my stifled urge in the waiting room earlier, I pushed the hair behind her ear. Longing flooded her eyes again and when she leaned into my palm, I caressed her cheek.

“Thank you for saying that.” A shy smile tugged at her lips and I fell a little harder. She caught my hand and drew it to rest on the bed.

“I’m not just saying it.”

“Dr. Hernandez.”

“I know—once upon time. But not now, right?” Not bothering to hide my disappointment, I disentangled my hand. “You must be tired. I should let you rest.”

I was halfway across the room when she spoke. “Terese.” I turned back to look at her. Hesitation was evident on her shadowed features. “Do you have to be up early?”

“Not really.” I had a six a.m. surgery.

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?”

I nodded, crossed back to her bedside, and settled into the chair again. She took my hand once more and entwined it with hers.
“I still have to do chemo,” she murmured drowsily. “So don’t get too attached.”

She was scared and it would take a long time for her to feel safe enough to plan for the future. In the meantime, she needed to hide behind humor and hold me at arms length. I squeezed her hand, understanding that her flippant comment didn’t require a response, and when she squeezed back I felt a door inch open.