Miracle For The Neurosurgeon. Lynne Marshall

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СКАЧАТЬ he’d been volunteered to take her to the prom. She stepped closer to him, hoping with all of her heart she could get through to him. “Well, I have. I’ve got a freaking PhD, and now I’m here for you, one doctor to another.” Funny how life worked out that way.

      “So this is payback?” He looked directly at her, taunting her with hurtful insults to give up and leave him alone. “I don’t need your help. Thank you, though.”

      He rolled toward a wall unit lift to take him and his wheelchair upstairs, intent on leaving her standing there, openmouthed. But the snub only gave enough time for fury at being dismissed like a servant to form into words.

      “I’ve been told you’re being a total jerk.” Have proof of it firsthand now. She’d also spoken to his parents before coming. They’d thrown up their hands and moved back to their retirement home in Florida after spending the first six months of recovery with him. “Someone’s got to snap you out of it.”

      “Have you been talking to my parents? Dear old Dad, who blames me for what happened? I don’t need toxic people like that around.”

      His father may had been the pusher in the clan, but certainly his mother had never been anything but supportive.

      “And I’m not like that. Toxic.” Had his father actually blamed him for the accident? Shameful. She’d always known Mr. Van Allen had expected the world of both of his children, but most especially from Wes. He’d raised hell when Alex had changed majors from pre-med to become a dietician, which only required a master’s degree. If Wes had ever dared to venture off his life path, who knows what Mr. Van Allen would have done? Somehow, even back then, she’d sensed that failure was not an option where the Van Allen kids were concerned, but to blame his son for a life-altering accident? Unbelievable.

      “Can’t you see I’m doing fine?” He staunchly defended his shutting out the world.

      It was time to double down. She knew, though on the surface Wes looked like he was in fact doing fine, he needed assistance from daily PT in ways he didn’t even think about, and not just on the parts that were working, but also the muscles and joints in need of passive range of motion. That was something he needed to learn to do for himself, too. And even in the gym, which she presumed from the looks of his upper torso, chest and arms, he did rigorous workouts, someone needed to be standing by in case he got hurt, possibly further injuring his spine. No. She wasn’t going anywhere. At least not today. “Have you ever performed surgery without consulting another neurosurgeon first?”

      “What’s that got to do with this?”

      “Everything. You may think you know what you’re doing but, whether you know it or not, you need a second opinion.”

      They shared a ten-second stare down, and he was the first to look away. “Get used to it, Van Allen, I’m not leaving.” She waited for him to turn and look at her again. “For the next two months, anyway. In fact, regardless of what you want or think, I’m the best person in the entire world to show up on your doorstep today.” Pure bravado. False bravado. She caught up to him and placed her hand on his arm to make a point, her knees nearly knocking with insecurity as she did. He jerked at her touch, but didn’t yank the arm away.

      “There’s no doubt you’re doing great, but you can’t do it all by yourself. You need some supervision with the process. I’m only temporary, but I’m necessary for now. You’re a smart man. You know that. So let me help you.” To hell with the anxiety summersaulting through her stomach over the possibility of being rejected, his long-term health was more important than her nerves...or her ego. Yet if he told her to leave one more time, she wouldn’t be able to justify sticking around.

      He shook his head, looking irritated. Something told her to intercept his thought before he said it, to state her case one last time, this time pulling out all the bells and whistles.

      “It’s because of you that I’m the perfect person to help.” She tried to keep eye contact, even though matching his resolute stare made her ankles wobbly. “Wasn’t it you who told me to make something out of myself? To not let my parents and poverty hold me back? Well, here I am, a bona fide physical therapist, with a doctorate degree, at your service. I understand it may come as a surprise, but I just might know a little about what you need at this point in your recovery. And I don’t intend to leave before you’re back on your feet.” Damn, she’d said the wrong thing! She saw his jaw twitch. Without intending to, she’d delivered her own paper cut. “Metaphorically speaking.” It was too late—she couldn’t retract the stupid and insensitive phrase.

      “For a second I thought you were selling yourself as a miracle worker.” He let out an exasperated huff of air, like she’d solicited a service he didn’t want or need—subscribe to this magazine or donate to this cause—but felt obligated to take anyway. “If this is your sales pitch, I suppose I have to pay?”

      “No!” She was making a total mess of everything, but couldn’t back down now. “Let’s get that straight from the start. I don’t work for you. I’m here as a friend.” That way you can’t fire me!

      “And where do you expect to live?”

      “I’ve got that all taken care of.”

      He sat quietly, offering a dead stare in her vicinity, along with a sigh. “Suit yourself,” he said, as though he couldn’t care less, and continued on toward the wheelchair lift. “I’m going to the gym.”

      Dismissed again. Well, not so fast, buddy. “I’ll be back at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to begin your therapy. In the meantime, do you have a groundskeeper? I need some help with something.”

      He tossed her a quizzical glance, then propelled himself out of the room, calling a woman’s name as he did so. “Rita!” His housekeeper? Once she’d come out from the far recesses of the kitchen, making Mary wonder exactly how big the house was, he gave a quick instruction for her to find someone named Heath, as he rolled his chair onto the lift and began ascending the stairs.

      Rita tipped her head at him and passed an inquisitive gaze at Mary. “I’ll call him now.”

      “Thanks. I’ll be on the porch.”

      She stepped outside the front door, her hands shaking, her body quivering. She leaned against the wall biting her lip, blinking her eyes, until sadness overtook her. The man she’d idolized as a teenager was sentenced to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. She’d known it in advance, of course, but seeing him—the same yet so changed—drove the point home and deep into her heart.

      The ocean blurred, her skin flushed with heat, and her pulse jittered, forcing her to let go of the threatening tears. To stop fighting and release them before she choked and drowned on them. It had been a long time since she’d cried, and they pricked and stung the insides of her eyelids. She buried her face in the bend of her arm, smothering the sudden keening sounds ripping at her throat, thankful the screeching seagulls overpowered her mourning.

      * * *

      Wesley took a break from his demanding workout routine and peered out the upstairs window, not believing what he was seeing. Heath, his groundskeeper, directed Mary as she backed a tiny portable wood-covered house, complete with porch—if you could call that a porch—onto the graveled ground beside his unattached garage. So that’s how she’d taken care of living arrangements. She drove the pickup truck like a pro, threw it into park and jumped out to check her handiwork. Clearly satisfied with the parking job, she dusted her hands and went about releasing the house from the towing hitch.

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