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Fiery Secrets

By Stephanie McCall

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Dr. Grace Taylor stepped onto the fifth floor pediatric ward, rammed into a parked wheelchair, and barely caught herself. She sucked in her breath, threw back her shoulders, and stalked to a nearby orderly. “How many times do I have to say this? You cannot leave stuff sitting in the middle of hall. What if a patient tripped? We’ve got a hemophiliac on this floor.”
The kid backed up, palms out. “I’m sorry, Dr. Taylor.”
Grace leveled a glacial stare at him and grated out, “If you do anything like this again, you will be reported.”
“Sorry.” He grabbed the wheelchair and ran.
Grace slumped against the wall. Remorse pricked her soul. How did I get so icy?
Two years ago, fresh from school, she burst onto the medical scene determined to use her faith and compassion to make a difference. Despite long hours and endless paperwork, Grace had always come home wearing a smile because she’d held a toddler that day, or comforted a preteen girl scared of her first period. But now…
“Lord,” she breathed, “please forgive me. Again.” Peace covered her, but her heart smarted. She twisted the wedding ring she still wore. “Forget it, Grace. Work is for work.”
Jaw set, she turned toward room 506 and braced herself for her last hospital patient for the day, eight-year-old Fiona Bellman. A year younger than her own son Jacob, Fiona had already faced more heartache than he had, if that were possible.
“Okay, Fiona. You relax, and I’ll start the next chapter,” a male voice said.
Grace froze, hand still on the doorknob, and blinked at the thirty-ish man sitting in the chair beside Fiona’s bed. She’d heard some obnoxious drawls, but his wasn’t one of them. He had an unobtrusive twang coupled with crisp enunciation that enchanted her. She tried to make herself move, but stayed rooted to the floor, listening to him read about a girl named Addy, whose parents were slaves and talked about running away. The man’s accent wrapped itself around her like a hot bath warming sore muscles. Trying to get a grip on her emotions, Grace marched into the room. “Hi, Fiona. How are you doing today?” She turned to the man in the chair. “Hello, I’m Dr. Taylor. Could you excuse us?”
The man’s gaze swung up from the book. He gaped at her for a moment as if she had an extra nose. That gave Grace far too long to study him. Add a pair of serious, yet gentle hazel eyes, well-trimmed chestnut hair, and a strong chin to that gorgeous accent, and he had all the ingredients for a pot full of everything she didn’t need right now.
He stood and gave her the most sincere smile she’d seen from a male in two years. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m almost done here. I’m Fiona’s tutor.”
“Oh. I thought you were only reading to her.” Grace’s cheeks burned.
“That was our English lesson. Sometimes I read instead of using the textbook.”
“That’s a good idea, but don’t coddle her.” Grace despised herself for scolding him, but right now, harshness was the only thing saving her emotions from tumbling over the edge. It seemed to work, because Fiona’s tutor started to leave.
“Don’t go yet.” Fiona looked up. “It’s okay, Dr. Grace. You can learn a lot from stories. Like about the Underground Railroad. It’s in this book.”
“That’s good, sweetie.” She focused on the tutor again. “I’m sorry. It was good to meet you, Mr. – ”
“Anderson. Chris Anderson. And you’re Dr. Grace.”
“Yeah, that’s what the kids call me.”
“She’s the best doctor here,” Fiona crowed. “She brings me candy sometimes, or a coloring book, or Cokes.” She winked at Grace. “Maybe you and Mr. Chris should go and get something to drink, Dr. Grace. He says reading out loud makes him thirsty.”
“Fiona.” Though still gentle, Chris’ voice carried a warning, and he looked a bit like a cornered mouse.
Grace hated the nervous chuckle that bubbled from her mouth. “Fiona, I’m sure Mr. Anderson has a busy schedule.”
“Yes, I…” Chris coughed, a dry, painful sound. “On second thought, I could use something.” He aimed that lethal smile at Grace again. “You look like you need a break, and I don’t have another appointment for an hour or so. How about we go to the cafeteria and get something?”
“But I…” Grace trailed off. Sitting down and drinking something would give her time to process why Chris charmed her so much. “Okay. I am thirsty, so maybe a Coke?”
“Sounds good. What kind do you like?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Coke. You know, Coca-Cola Classic?”
“Down here, everything carbonated is a Coke. So I didn’t know if you meant Sprite or Dr. Pepper or what.”
Fiona laughed, and Grace sighed. “Right. Sorry. I just moved to Tennessee from Massachusetts, and I’m still getting used to Southern English—oh, not that there’s anything wrong with Southern English, but…” She ground to a humiliated halt. “Uh, give me a few minutes.”
“Sure.” His face reddened and he rushed out.
Grace ignored his reaction and aimed her warmest smile at Fiona. “Scale of one to ten, sweetie. How’s your pain today?”
“Um…” Fiona held up six fingers and a bent thumb.
“Six and a half, huh? That’s still high.” Grace made a note on the chart. “It’s time for your meds, anyway. I’ll take care of that. You’ve got to be rested for chemo tomorrow.”
“How many more treatments, Dr. Grace?”
Fiona’s question mixed hope and anxiety. Grace forced away the pain that swept through her heart. “Just a few. Tell you what, let’s think about good things. How’re Mom and Dad today?”
“Good. They went to the cafeteria so I could do school without getting distracted. But Mom said she’d get me a piece of cake later if you say it’s okay.”
“If your nausea’s improved, maybe. What else is good?”
Fiona tossed her red curls. “I got a new wig. I’m not throwing up as much as last time. I get to go back to ballet lessons after chemo.” She thought a minute. “I know. I got a hundred on my spelling. Mr. Chris tried to stump me with ‘mnemonic,’ but I got that right.” She beamed.
The memory of Chris’ smile and kind voice sent heat rushing into Grace’s cheeks. She pretended to check Fiona’s IV, hoping the child wouldn’t notice.
“Mr. Chris is your teacher?” She refused to think about why that man intrigued her. She hadn’t given another man a second thought in almost two years, and in her estimation, that wasn’t long enough.
“He is, but just when I’m in the hospital.”
“Hmmm. Why don’t you call him Mr. Anderson?”
“He says last names are for teachers. He says he’s just a tutor and I can use his first name if I want. As long as I say Mister, to be respectful.” Fiona giggled. “I sure like him better than Mrs. Ivers. She was grumpy and boring.”
Grace nodded. She’d met the teacher Hart Hill Elementary sent to help with homebound or ill children, and she was about as cheerful as an Ebola documentary. “She retired last month, right?”
“Right. So my regular teacher called the Learning Center, since they haven’t replaced Mrs. Ivers yet.”
“Oh, I see.” Grace readied a cup of water and pills. “Here you go.”
Fiona swallowed the meds, and Grace gave her a last smile before heading to the hall. Chris leaned against the wall across from Fiona’s room, eyes glued to the busy pink and green print in the wallpaper. She took a deep breath and tapped his shoulder. “Ready?”
“Sure. I don’t want to keep you, though.”
“Like I said, I have time.” They headed down the hall, silence stretched between them like a rubber band about to snap. I have to say something. But what? Her mind zeroed in on the picture of him reading to Fiona. “Sorry I interrupted your lesson. I didn’t realize you were a teacher.”
“Tutor. I’m not with the school system right now.” He looked away. Concern pricked Grace’s brain. Is he embarrassed about that? He shouldn’t be.
She smiled. “That doesn’t matter. You were great with Fiona.”
“Thanks.” He glanced down. “Not as good as I’d like to be.”
Grace cleared her throat. “She likes you, and I can tell you took time to get to know her.” Why did that thought warm her down to her toes? She pushed the warmth away. “Fiona loves the American Girls Collection.”
Chris nodded. “She hangs on every word of that book, and she’s asking questions about the Civil War. Then again, the whole town’s got Civil War fever, even kids. There’s a legend that says a Confederate ghost still hangs around here, and you know kids and ghost stories.”
“I do.” Bittersweet emotions swirled in her chest. She didn’t let Jacob read anything explicitly frightening, but he loved spy and mystery stories, whose characters sometimes mistook criminal activities for ghosts. Yet, his thirst for adventure dried up when faced with the real world. No thanks to Kyle. Grace glanced at the ceiling. Father, help me heal my son this summer. Please. She refocused on Chris before her thoughts sent her into a downward spiral. “Do you have other students?”
“I work at Hart Hill Learning Center and see a couple other kids here.” Another cough shook his shoulders. “How’s Fiona doing?”
Grace shrugged. “I believe in miracles, but I don’t encourage false hopes.” She hated the cold edge in her voice. She took a couple steps toward the caf, but Chris’ hand on her shoulder stopped her. His hazel eyes darkened to gray, face unreadable.
“I understand. But I still pray for her—for every kid here—to be healed.”
Is he insinuating I don’t? The idea stung like a fresh injection. Better correct him, fast.
“You have no idea how much time I spend praying for these patients.” She gestured toward the bank of rooms. “But around here, the only faith I can talk about is faith in the power of medicine.” She began walking, heels clacking on the fake mosaic tile.
The dark gray in his eyes dissipated. “I didn’t mean to pry.” His accent thickened. “It’s tough on me, seeing these kids sick and their families scared. It must be much worse for you.”
Grace stopped. She couldn’t remember the last time someone showed such respect for what she went through every day. For a split second, she wanted to hug Chris, but the feel of the wedding ring on her finger squashed the idea. She ordered her body to straighten, her face to go blank.
“I can’t afford to feel.” She marched away. It took a moment to realize Chris hadn’t followed. She faced him, irritation creeping through her brain. “What’s wrong?”
He said nothing, but stared at her.
No, not me. Grace forced back a groan. My wedding ring.

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