Love's Healing Touch (5 page)

A man she'd date?
Where had that thought come from? The one cup of coffee last week hadn't been an invitation, wasn't meant to be a date of any kind. No, there wasn't any chance of a relationship between them other than doctor-orderly. But, even if the smallest possibility of that existed, the information about his mother would completely scuttle it. An ex-con in the family tended to do that.

"Transfer, Fuller." Dr. Ramírez moved back to the other operating room.

Five minutes later, the injured from an automobile accident and two gunshot victims came in. All needed immediate stabilization and surgery.

He was working calmly until he saw one of the injured was a four-year-old girl, her pink T-shirt smeared with blood and her leg at an angle he didn't like. He forced himself to grin at her as he untied her little sneakers. They had kittens on them, kittens covered with blood.

"Hey, kid," he said. "My name's Mike. Your shirt says you're Naomi."

"My leg," she whispered. "Hurts. A lot."

"I bet it does, buddy. The doctor will be out in a few minutes. She'll help you."

"Fuller," Dr. Ramírez called.

Mike started to move away when Naomi grabbed his hand. "Don't go," she said.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." He wished he had something to give Naomi to keep her company. He took a clean towel, tied it in a knot and handed it to Naomi. "This is Whitey, the friendly polar bear who lives in the hospital and keeps little girls company."

Naomi took the towel and hugged it.

"Nicely done, Fuller," Dr. Ramírez said from the doorway. "Have you thought about working in pedes?"

He faced her. "Need a transfer?"

"Yes." Dr. Ramírez strode toward Naomi then gently pushed the hair from the child's forehead. "Move this gurney into Exam 4 and take her mother upstairs."

By 5:00 a.m., the hospital had quieted again. He'd transferred four victims to the operating room then to their rooms once they came out of recovery. And he'd taken one body to the morgue. His least favorite transport.

Not a hard night in the E.R., but two shifts added up to a backache and the need to relax for a few minutes. He wished he had time for a nap, but when he got to the break room, another orderly snored on the sofa.

He took a thermos from his locker and poured the last of the coffee into his cup. With a groan, he settled down in the only comfortable chair in the room and leaned his head back.

Barely a few breaths short of falling asleep, he opened his eyes to see Dr. Ramírez put a can of soda on the table and drop in the chair across from him. She seemed to be favoring her right leg and was rubbing her thigh almost surreptitiously.

"Old football injury," she said with a slight smile before she nodded at his thermos and asked, "Saving money?"

"I can't take the coffee someone makes in the E.R."

"I know." She held up her Coke. "Tastes like it's spiked with old motor oil."

"My mother makes terrific coffee. I'd rather have it than pay for it in the cafeteria."

"I heard you say your mother is home from prison."

He nodded and shifted in the chair.

"What was she in for?"

"Forgery."

"Checks?"

"Paintings."

"Oh, an artist." She took a drink of Coke. As she lifted her chin, Mike watched a wisp of hair that had come loose to curl on her neck. He'd never thought of Dr. Ramírez as having curls or long hair…and he'd better
not
think about that.

She put the can down and licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue. The motion wasn't meant to be seductive, just cleaning up after the last drop, but all Mike could think of for a few seconds was her lips, round and soft and pink. She'd spoken for several seconds before Mike realized she'd said something.

"I'm sorry. I'm falling asleep. What did you say?"

"My uncle was in prison." She stood and put the can in the recycle bin.

"Oh?" He swiveled to look at her.

"It was really hard on his family."

That was all she said. She didn't offer sympathy or platitudes or advice or dig further into his life. She only commented on a shared experience. And she didn't say, "I know how you feel." Because no one really did.

"Thank you."

"Fuller," came a male voice from the hall. "Transfer."

"And the fun keeps on coming," Dr. Ramírez said. She gave Mike a smile, that little smile that was only a curving of her lips. It made the long shift seem not nearly as bad.

Ana stretched and massaged the muscles in her neck. She hated the night shift, but that was what she had to cover if she wanted to learn everything she could about emergency medicine.

Besides, her schedule wasn't all that bad: on twenty-four hours, off twenty-four, with no more than seventy hours a week. It allowed her time with her family, time to study and a few hours to rest.

The pain in her thigh was worse than it had been for years. She must have twisted her leg. Now all she wanted to do was elevate it for a few hours. Not an easy thing to do in the E.R.

In the long run, she was sorry she'd heard the conversation between Fuller and the other orderly. Better for her not to know about the private lives of anyone she worked with.

So why
was
she interested in Fuller? Had she made him her project of the year? Usually her projects were easier to handle, more open and not nearly as attractive as Fuller. Wait. When had she started to think of Fuller as attractive?

Well, what woman wouldn't? He had great longish dark hair and a terrific smile, although few people over the age of ten saw it. What she usually saw was a face clear of expression with a hint of anger in the depths of his dark eyes. The charm and the anger made him, well, interesting, as if he had dimensions he never shared.

Add to that his broad shoulders, great build and the black stubble that covered his chin and cheeks by the end of the shift, and
— ¡caramba!—
what's not to like?

Which meant it was time to get back to the E.R. before she had any more completely unprofessional thoughts about a man with no ambition. Maybe in other people's minds, Fuller wouldn't be seen as lacking in ambition. He worked hard, made good decisions, was great with kids. On the other hand, as an orderly he wasn't using every bit of his ability. Why wasn't he in school? Her brothers always told her she was an education snob, and maybe she was, but she hated it when people didn't push themselves to live up to their potential.

Besides that, he was a man who had clearly but politely told her to leave him alone, a man she had absolutely no interest in.

None at all.

"Hey,
chica,
" Enrique, Ana's sixteen-year-old brother, said as she entered her family's home that evening. "What's for dinner?"

"What does it matter, Quique? You eat everything I put on the table. You'd eat lizards if I could catch enough to fill you up." She grabbed him in a hug that became a wrestling match when he tried to slip away.

"Sounds good."

"And you never put on a pound." Ana glanced at his skinny body then down at her rounder hips. "I don't think we come from the same family."

She headed for the kitchen and glanced back at him. "Where are you going?" As if she didn't know. He was wearing baggy shorts, a Spurs T-shirt and his favorite Nike runners.

"Pickup game at Rolando's."

"Dinner is at seven. Be home." She glared at him, well aware that he'd probably grab a bite with Rolando's family before he meandered home in a few hours. "I'd like to see you sometime."

"Mira."
He held out his arms and rotated slowly in front of her. "Look, here I am."

"Just go." She waved as he ducked out the door.

"Ana, is that you?"

Hearing her father's voice from the kitchen, she hurried toward it. "Hi, Papi."

Her father sat at the table doing a crossword puzzle. He and Enrique looked so much alike. Both six feet tall and slender. Her father had streaks of white in his still-f, dark hair. Before her mother's death almost a year ago, he'd been a quiet and often moody man. Since then, he'd retreated deeper, lost any spring in his step and his shoulders were more rounded. He was still a handsome man but not a happy one, as much as he tried to hide it.

"What's a five-letter word for
hackneyed?
Ends in an
E.
"

"How 'bout
stale
or
trite?
"

"Those might fit." His pen hovered over the folded newspaper.

She pulled an apron from the pantry, tied it around her, and continued to watch her father. He was always doing puzzles. Crossword and Sudoku and anagrams. He had a basket by his chair with puzzle books in it and spent most of his time at home solving those puzzles. He'd become a hermit.

"Papi, you have to get out more." She picked up a dishrag and squirted detergent on it. "Let's go to a movie next Saturday."

He didn't answer, just stared at the crossword clues.

The kitchen cabinets were dark walnut; the linoleum floor that was supposed to look like bricks was well-worn. This place felt a lot more like home than the tiny efficiency she'd recently rented a few blocks from the hospital and spent so little time in. She squeezed out the dishrag and started cleaning the white tile counters.

When she finished, she said, "I thought I'd fix enchiladas tonight." She pulled down a jar of tomato sauce. Her mother had always made her sauce from scratch, with real tomatoes, but this would just have to do. Except for her father, no one could tell the difference. After eating his wife's cooking for thirty-five years, he knew homemade sauce from canned.

Ana's philosophy about cooking was if she covered every dish with cheese and onion, they tasted great. Well, not flan, of course. Because her father was diabetic, she used low fat cheese and watched his portions although he did pretty well keeping track himself.

"Who's going to be here tonight?"

Her father stood, held on to the back of the chair before he walked across the room. He was only sixty-one but appeared much older. A day at the store wore him out now. She'd made him go to the doctor but he said nothing was wrong with her father, not physically. How long did it take to recover from the death of a wife? Obviously, a year wasn't enough.

"Robbie and Martita are coming with Tonito and the baby. She said she'd bring a cake," he said.

"Luz, Quique and Raúl also?" Ana listed the other siblings who lived in Austin. Her brother Robbie, his wife and their small family were fun to be around, and Martita made wonderful cakes. "I want to be sure so I can make enough enchiladas for everyone and still leave some for your lunch Saturday." If Quique didn't eat them when he went through the refrigerator later.

"Well, Raúl will probably stop by. He's between gigs."

Raúl was always between gigs. Fortunately, he had a steady job at the family's furniture store Robbie managed. "Is he between girlfriends?"

"I'm never between girlfriends," Raúl said as he came in from the garage.

"Oh, yes, I know. Women always throw themselves at you. Poor dears." Ana pulled tortillas from the fridge. Store-bought tortillas, another shortcut her mother would never have considered.

"
¿Cómo no?
Why not? They can't resist my smile or my guitar."

What was he going to do in the future? Raúl floated through life, making it on his dark good looks, great smile and personality, plus a dab of talent.

"Hey, Ana,
no te preocupes.
Don't worry."

"Why would I worry about you?" She took out a slab of white cheese and began to grate it.

"Because you always worry about me and Luz and Quique. We're all young." He pulled one of his guitars from the hall closet and came into the kitchen. "We'll grow up someday."

Ana rolled her eyes. "I hope so."

"We'll never be as responsible as you are." He ran his fingers over the strings. "After all, you were born responsible, but you don't
always
have to worry about us."

"Yes, she does, Raúl." Her brother Robbie followed his five-year-old son, Tonito, into the kitchen and placed a cake on the counter. "That's what Ana does. Worries about her family. She's a rescuer."

"Someone has to do it," Robbie's wife, Martita, said. "It's a full-time job. I refuse to take it on." She handed Marisol, the baby, to Robbie and sat at the kitchen table. "But sometime,
chica,
you are going to have to stop taking care of your family and find a life of your own."

A life of her own? An interesting concept. Taking care of her family was, well, habit— one she'd never tried to break until she realized how dependent her father was getting on her. That, and the short drive from her little efficiency to the hospital were the reasons she'd moved. Not one to make changes easily, she felt this one was enough for now.

"You want a date?" Raúl said. "I could fix you up with some guys."

"Thank you," Ana said politely, but she'd never take him up on that. Although she was only twenty-eight, all his friends were
years
younger than she in both age and maturity.

"Don't ever go out with any of his friends," Robbie said. "None of them are serious about anything."

"Why don't you come to church with us?" Martita said. "There's a big singles' group there."

Ana smiled but didn't answer. Other than weddings and funerals, she'd seldom been to church, although Martita had often invited her to the community chapel her family attended. Ana'd never consider going to church only to find a date. It didn't seem quite right to her.

After dinner, they gathered in the family room to sing "Adelita" and "De colores" and other family favorites. Raúl and Quique sat on the bench by the fireplace and strummed their guitars. Her father leaned back in his blue recliner while Martita held her kids on the other recliner, the one Ana's mother had always sat in. Everyone else relaxed on the sofa while Tonito played with his trucks on the floor.

As she watched, Ana was filled with love and with a terrible feeling that this was to be her life: to watch while her brothers and sister married and had babies and the babies grew up and married. And through those years, she'd worry about them, every one of them, exactly as Raúl and Robbie said she would. Forever. She knew that about herself, too.