The Healing Place. Leigh Bale

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СКАЧАТЬ wide eyes and silky blond hair. Or at least, from the long braid at her temple, Emma thought Angie’s hair was blond. Most of it had been shaved off, though she couldn’t tell for sure because the child wore a white hat with pink-and-blue flowers on the front.

      It was obvious Angie was sick. She was all eyes, surrounded by shadowy circles. Her thin face looked pale and her spindly arms and knobby knees seemed so slight a puff of air could have blown her over.

      Just like Brian in his last days.

      The image of her son ravaged by illness still haunted Emma. She wished she could erase the cruel memory from her mind.

      Angie snuggled close to Mark. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek, breathing deeply of her warm skin.

      “Everything okay?” he asked Angie.

      “Sure.” She responded in a small voice, her gaze never leaving Emma.

      There was such poignancy in watching Mark with his daughter that it brought a throbbing pain to Emma’s chest. How she missed the feel of her son in her arms, his simple prayers at bedtime, his warm kisses good-night. Even her ex-husband’s constant criticism hadn’t bothered her then.

      An overwhelming impulse to help protect Angie rose up inside of Emma. She tightened her hands, forcing herself to resist the urge.

      Mark made the introduction. “Angie, this is Dr. Shields.”

      Angie smiled, her pixie nose crinkled, her hollow eyes showing a sparkle of delight. She lifted a frail hand and fingered the end of the long, thin braid at her right temple. “Are you my new doctor? Daddy says you’re gonna make me all better.”

      Thanks for making this tougher, Mark.

      Emma clenched her fingers around the armrests before she answered. “Well, uh, no, I can’t really—”

      A horrible, swelling silence followed.

      Mark frowned and looked away, coughing as if he had something stuck in his throat. Finally he patted Angie’s leg and stood, taking her hand. He wouldn’t meet Emma’s eyes. “Come on, honey, we’ve got some other doctors to visit today.”

      He led Angie to the door. The little girl clung to one of his fingers, her hand small and vulnerable. He turned to give Emma one last desolate glance. If she didn’t know better, she would say he looked near to breaking down in tears. She’d never seen him cry and never wanted to. His tortured expression injured the deepest recesses of her resolve. For all her desire to have him get his comeuppance for dumping her all those years ago, she didn’t like watching him beg. Nor did she wish to see him lose his little daughter.

      As Mark twisted the doorknob, a sinking of despair filled Emma. Urgency built within her to help them.

      “Thanks for your time, Emmy,” Mark said. “It was good to see you again.”

      He sounded desolate. Emotion played across his face. Grief and—

      Fear.

      How many times before Brian’s death had Emma felt those same emotions?

      “But, Daddy, I thought you said Dr. Shields would take care of me. What’ll we do now?” Angie asked in a loud whisper.

      Emma flinched. She couldn’t open her heart to more hurt, or let herself worry about this child. God would only let her down again.

      The truth was she feared what Mark and Angie could make her feel. What if she came to care for them? The little girl would most likely die and Mark would blame Emma for it. She couldn’t stand to face that again. Not after all the horrible things David said to her at their son’s funeral. Yet, if Emma refused them, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

      In spite of her loss, the Hippocratic oath she’d taken after medical school jangled inside Emma’s head. She had to look beyond her own pain and remember she was a doctor, first and foremost. Her conscience and self-respect wouldn’t allow her to do otherwise.

      Emma closed her eyes, squeezing tears between her lashes. Something buried deep inside warned she would regret this, but the warm feeling in her chest told her it was the right thing to do. “Wait! I, uh, I forgot I had a cancellation. I can see you next Tuesday.”

      Mark’s mouth dropped open and he stood patiently while Emma gathered her thoughts.

      “Bright and early Tuesday morning,” she continued. “That should give me enough time to contact your doctor at U.C.S.F. and find out what protocol we’ll be administering.”

      A wide smile split Mark’s face and his hazel eyes sparkled. Laughter rumbled in his chest, the deep sound of rolling thunder. “Emmy, I don’t know what to say. Thank you. We’ll be here.”

      Mark squeezed Angie’s hand and inclined his chin toward Emma. His expression showed relief. “You see, Angie-love, I told you not to worry your pretty little head. Everything’s gonna work out fine.”

      The girl flashed a smile at her father. “Yeah, and she’s pretty, too, Dad.”

      Winking at Emma, Mark pivoted and left. Emma stared at the closed door, pressing her shaking fingers against her trembling lips.

      “Oh, no,” she whispered. “What have I gotten myself into?”

      Chapter Two

      Mark tossed another load of laundry into the washing machine, then wiped off the granite countertops in his kitchen. The tiled floor felt sticky where Angie had spilled her cherry punch and he headed for the pantry to get the mop. As he filled a bucket with hot, sudsy water, he leaned against the refrigerator and stifled a yawn. With two corporate tax returns for clients due tomorrow and Angie’s first chemo appointment in the morning, he’d be lucky to get three hours of sleep tonight.

      After he mopped the floor, he skimmed his fingers along the elegantly carved balustrade of the spiral staircase and went upstairs. The thick Berber carpet muffled his steps. He and Denise had chosen nothing but the best for their spacious home. Growing up in a shabby trailer park, he’d spent hours of his youth dreaming of living in an elegant home like this. Now, he’d give it away free if it would heal Angie. The realization that all the money in the world couldn’t make his daughter well again caused him to change his priorities. Maybe he should sell the place and buy a simple three-bedroom house he could maintain more easily.

      He’d think about that tomorrow.

      Hopefully, Angie was ready for bed. At bath time, he hadn’t rubbed her head too hard because it was so tender from stitches—two hundred and thirteen so far. Angie kept count. Battle scars, she called them.

      Poking his head into her room, he found it dark, except for a reading lamp on the nightstand by her bed. Stuffed animals crowded the top of her dresser. Books and trinkets lined two shelves, including a small jewelry box with a dancing ballerina on top and an orange ceramic bowl she’d made in first grade. He loved every one of the drawings and finger paintings she had plastered on her walls. A jump rope, skateboard and hoola-hoop stood propped in one corner. Even if she had the energy to play with these toys, Mark didn’t dare let her for fear she might fall and jar her head. The last thing they needed was another surgery.

      Angie sat up in bed, staring at a picture СКАЧАТЬ