To the woman’s left was a small sliding-glass window. There were about a dozen people lined up in front of it, all bedraggled and clearly feeling sick and miserable. Nothing compared to the patients he’d seen in Somalia, but still it was obvious these people needed help.
He felt that old familiar stirring inside of him, the one that demanded he roll up his sleeves and pitch in. This was what he did. What he was good at.
He beat the urge back down. This was what he had done. What he had been good at. These days, he could barely dress himself let alone practice medicine.
Despite the fact that the clinic was overcrowded, it was obviously efficiently run. Though the line of people was growing, they were being rapidly signed in and triaged. Behind the window, he could see a nurse taking temperatures even as she typed notes into a computer.
Not that he was surprised. Amanda could work anywhere, could practice medicine in the middle of war zones and natural disasters without blinking an eye. But she demanded efficiency of everyone around her—or at least she did when she wasn’t drowning in sorrow.
Seeing the way this clinic ran like clockwork, convinced him even more that he’d made the right decision all those months ago. Getting her out of Africa so she could deal with the loss of her child and regain her health, had been exactly the right thing to do. Even if, in doing so, he had lost her forever.
The loss was bittersweet, especially now that he could see that she really had found herself again here in this run-down, little clinic in Atlanta. He’d sent her out of Somalia a year ago, so burned out and run-down he was afraid she would work herself to death. He’d told her to take a vacation. Instead, she’d ended up here.
And now, somehow, so had he.
Not that he was planning on getting involved, he assured himself. He was just here to see an old friend, to see for himself that she really was okay and to assure her the same thing about him. He’d take her and Simon to dinner later that evening. Tell a few stories, crack a few jokes, and then catch the first flight back to Massachusetts in the morning. It would be easy, so easy that even he couldn’t screw it up.
Now that he had a plan, Jack straightened his shoulders.
Flexed his already cramping hand.
Made sure his I’m-in-control-and-master-of-my-own-destiny mask was firmly in place, then headed toward the front of the waiting room.
He figured his best bet was the woman behind the computer because, as he’d been standing here thinking, the line at the small window had only gotten longer. So he leaned on the high counter, hoping if he took some weight off his leg it would stop throbbing quite so badly. He smiled at the woman.
“I’m here to—”
“The line starts over there.” She pointed at the window without ever looking away from the computer.
“I can see that. However, I want to talk to—”
“Over. There.” The finger jabbed at the air for emphasis, but the woman still didn’t look at him.
“Again. I see the window. However, I’m a friend of—”
She did look at him then, her eyebrows pulled low over her eyes and her mouth curled downward. “I don’t actually care if you’re friends with the surgeon general, the president of the United States and Denzel Washington. The line starts over there.” Again she stabbed a finger in the direction of the window, than grunted as she reached for another file and began inputting its content into the computer.
Jack stared at her for a few moments, then turned to look at the line she was directing him to. It had grown exponentially in the past five minutes, efficient nurses or not. His leg throbbed, his hand ached and the last thing he wanted to do was to stand around for the next hour while he waited on a chance to see Amanda.
Maybe it wasn’t meant to be, he told himself as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped through his contacts until he found her cell number. He’d call Amanda and if she didn’t pick up—and she probably wouldn’t as she was more than likely with a patient—he’d call it a day. After all, he’d tried his best. He’d shown up, talked to the office manager, had tried to explain who he was. It wasn’t his fault that she wouldn’t listen.
Ignoring the voice in his head that told him he was being a coward and taking the easy way out, Jack listened to Amanda’s voice mail greeting and left a brief message letting her know that he was in the waiting room. Then he headed for the door, doing his best to justify the fact that he was—despite his good intentions—running away.
He assured himself that he wasn’t afraid of touring this little, low-income clinic. It was simply that he had better things to do. Like staring at the ceiling of his hotel room…
“Jack!” Amanda’s voice rang through the waiting room, foiling his escape. He froze, his hand on the door handle. “Where are you going?”
He turned to see her barreling through the door that separated the waiting room from the rest of the clinic. Then she was hurtling herself into his arms and his only choice was to brace himself with his good leg and catch her or let her take them both to the floor.
“Hey! Where’s the fire?” he asked, even as he wrapped his arms around her in a huge bear hug.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” she said, stretching up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek before pulling away. “I’ve missed you. And you have perfect timing. My shift just ended.”
He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and smiled down at her. “I’ve missed you, too. Although Atlanta seems to be agreeing with you.”
“It really does,” she said, blushing a little.
“I can tell.” She barely looked like the same woman he’d banished from Africa all those months ago. The sparkle was back in her silver eyes, the shine back in her short, blonde hair. Her skin glowed and her smile was wide and unfettered. Her time here in Atlanta—and with Simon—had obviously been good for her.
He ignored the lingering pain that awareness caused, focusing instead on the sweet realization that Amanda really was okay. That was enough, more than enough, to make up for any hurt he might be feeling.
“I’m so glad you came,” she told him, giving him another quick hug. “I’ve been waiting for you to get here forever.”
“I’m sorry I’m late. I got…” His voice trailed off, his excuses drying up as surely as the deserts of North Africa. He never had been able to lie worth a damn, especially not to Amanda.
“No excuses,” she told him, reaching for his hand. “You’re here now. That’s what’s important.”
He watched as she examined the still raw scars on his hand. Scars where the bullet went in. Scars from where the doctors at the American University of Cairo had struggled to save his hand. Even more scars from the three operations in Boston to repair as much of the tendon damage as possible. Two top surgeons had collaborated on his case—one a friend of his father’s and one a friend of his—but even their expertise hadn’t been enough to help him regain full mobility.
In time, with intensive physical therapy, he’d once again be able to use his right hand to open bottle caps or button small buttons or to do most of the little day-to-day things he’d taken for granted for so much of his life. But no matter how much physical therapy he did, no matter how many exercise reps he forced himself to complete, he would never again hold a scalpel.
Would never again be able to operate.
He could see the knowledge in Amanda’s eyes, feel her pity in the soft caress of her fingers over his, and it embarrassed him. Shamed him.
He quickly pulled his hand from her grasp, hating how his inability to perform surgery made him feel like half a man—maybe even less. No wonder he’d never been able to compete with Simon.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked softly, ignoring the No Trespassing signs he’d hastily thrown up. But then, a decade and a half of friendship gave her that privilege. Especially since the las
t time they’d seen each other had ended up with him drugging her so that Simon could get her out of Africa and back to America where she could get the rest she needed. Next to that, a few questions seemed well within the boundaries of friendship.
“Not really,” he prevaricated as he curled the hand in question into a fist.
“Liar.” He didn’t respond and Amanda sighed, linking her right arm with his left one. “But I won’t tell. To everyone else you can be the same old indestructible Jack.”
Indestructible. He liked the sound of that. If only it were true.
“So, show me this clinic of yours,” he told her, not even trying to hide his desperation to change the subject. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing what you’ve been up to.”
After giving him another long look—one that told him she still knew him better than anyone else on earth—Amanda led him to the back of the clinic. And into another layer of hell.
CHAPTER TWO
IT HAD BEEN two months since he’d been in a medical establishment as anything but a patient.
Two months since anyone had called him doctor and meant it.
Two months since he’d felt anything but useless.
He knew Amanda had brought him here so that he could see there was life after surgery, life after Africa, but it wasn’t working. As she took him by the exam rooms, introduced him to the clinic staff, stopped and talked to a few patients she obviously knew, he only felt worse. On one hand, everything had changed. On the other, nothing had and he was stuck in the middle trying to find a spot for himself when the only place where he wanted to be, was no longer an option for him.
“So, what do you think?” Amanda asked as they wound up the tour in the hallway outside the exam rooms.
“It’s great,” he told her, meaning it. The clinic, while not wasting money for cosmetic changes, had top of the line equipment and a staff that appeared very well-trained. “You look like you’ve finally found your place.”
“I have.” This time, when she smiled, contentment radiated from her. “We do good work here.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Amanda was a hell of a doctor and she wouldn’t get involved in any establishment that wasn’t top-notch. At the thought, For the Children, the organization that funded his clinic in Somali, flashed into his mind. They were a fantastic organization to work for and after two months away, he missed them. Missed practicing medicine. At the same time, though, returning to Africa, where he’d been shot, made him uneasy. Oh, he would never admit it to anyone, but he was beginning to think that his time in Africa was as finished as Amanda’s was. The idea filled him with sadness, with more knowledge of how useless he had become.
He shook the uneasiness off, refused to give in to it. So what if he was aimless, directionless, for the first time in his life. Parading his insecurities in front of Amanda was the last thing he wanted to do.
“So, can I buy you a late lunch?” he asked her, glancing at his watch. “I want to take you and Simon to dinner tonight, as well.”
“Actually, we were hoping to have you over to the house tonight. Simon’s cooking.”
Of course he was, as Amanda could scorch water. His stomach tightened a little at the idea of seeing the two of them ensconced together in domestic bliss, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t known it was coming. He was the one who had emailed Simon, after all. Who had brought him back into Amanda’s life.
Which was a good thing, he told himself viciously. The other man had saved her, brought her back to herself after the devastating death of their daughter. Seeing her with him again after all these years was fine. Better than fine, when it meant she was whole and happy and healthy.
“Sure. That’d be great.” He added an extra-large grin, so she’d know he meant it.
“Fantastic. And I wish you’d reconsider staying with us.” She shot him a reproving look. “We have plenty of room.”
Yeah, well, that was where he drew the line. Coming here, making sure she was okay, was one thing. Torturing himself with the knowledge that the woman he’d loved for a decade was down the hall in bed with another man? Call him crazy, but he wasn’t that big of a masochist.
“I’m great at the hotel. Honest. Besides, I have to leave for the airport really early in the morning. I don’t want to disturb you.”
“Airport?” she asked in dismay. “You just got to town last night.”
“I know, but I can’t stay. I have a physical-therapy appointment in Boston on Thursday. I can’t miss it.”
“We have physical therapists here in Atlanta, you know.”
He ignored the cute little pout her mouth had worked itself into. “Yes, but I don’t live in Atlanta. My doctors are in Boston.”
“Boston, Shmoston. You’re not happy there. I know you’re not.”
He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. Resisted the urge to tell her that he didn’t have it in him to be happy anywhere. But then he’d sound like the pathetic loser he was, and call him vain, but he wasn’t up for any more sympathy.
Not sure what to say, he finally settled on part of the truth. “I’m tired, Amanda. I don’t have it in me to try to be someplace new right now. And with the shape my hand is in…I can’t be a doctor right now. I can’t—”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?” He wouldn’t have been as shocked if she’d punched him. Amanda had been circling around him for weeks.
“I said, you’re spouting bullshit.” She grabbed his arm and yanked him into a small supply closet that he assumed—from the desk and diplomas on the wall—was serving double-duty as her office. “You aren’t tired. You’re scared and you’re drowning in self-pity.”
“You’re one to talk.” The words were out before he could stop them. He saw them hit her, saw their impact, and wished he could take them back. Angry as he was, he had no right to take it out on Amanda. Not when she’d already suffered so much.
But she was nodding, eyes clear and shoulders straight. “Exactly. I am one to talk. Because I was where you are not too long ago.” Her voice was harsh and direct now, containing none of the sweetness he’d been hearing from her for weeks. It was almost a relief to have her back to normal—somehow it made him feel more like a functioning member of society.
“You did your tough love thing for me not that long ago. Now it’s time for me to return the favor.”
“It’s not the same thing. I’m going to be fine. I just need…” He didn’t know what he needed, besides the full use of his hand back. Without that, he had nothing.
“You need a change of scenery.”
“I’ve already got that. Boston is a far cry from Somalia.”
“You’ve never been able to breathe in Boston. We both know that. Your dad has probably already got you signed up to interview at some prestigious family practice—” She broke off when she saw his face. “Are you kidding me, Jack? You really want to take care of women who spend more on plastic surgery in a year than it would take to run this clinic?”
“You’re over-simplifying things.”
“And you’re making them too complicated. Come to Atlanta for a few months, hang out with Simon and me. Do your physical therapy here, and then, when you’re ready, when you’re healed, you can make a better decision.”
“I can do all that in Boston.” Admittedly, Amanda wasn’t in Boston, but that wasn’t exactly a deterrent. He totally accepted that she was married to Simon—was happy, in fact, that things had worked out so well for her. That didn’t mean he was dying to spend every day with what he couldn’t have right in front of him.
“Yeah, but here you won’t have your family making you nuts all the time.”
“No, I’ll have you poking and prodding at me.”
“Someone needs to—”
“Doctor
Jacobs!” The shout sounded from the hallway outside Amanda’s closed door and was followed quickly by the slap of footsteps against the linoleum floor.
Jack threw open the door to see the triage nurse from the waiting room. “Dr. Zilker said to get you,” she said breathlessly. “There’s been a shooting. It’s bad.”
“Which room?” demanded Amanda, already running to the front of the clinic.
“We’ve got him in exam-room one.”
Jack followed her, adrenaline pumping through his system despite himself. “Who’s Zilker?”
“One of our residents. He’s good, but he’s still new—” She broke off as they entered the exam room and Jack knew why. There was blood everywhere.
For a second, he flashed back to that operating room in Somalia. The one where he’d lost both his patient and his ability to perform surgery. His bum leg shook and he was almost certain he was going to land on his ass.
But then Amanda took control, demanding vitals as she slipped on a pair of gloves before diving right into the mess. Somehow the normalcy of being in the middle of an emergency with Amanda steadied him, had him striding forward and pulling on a pair of gloves, as well. He struggled a little with the right one, but refused to let it back him off.
“What have we got?” he demanded of the resident, who was standing at the front of the bed, his face as white as the sheets on the bed.
His voice must have carried enough authority to make up for the fact that he was a stranger because Zilker didn’t hesitate as he stuttered out, “Male, age eighteen to twenty. Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, pelvis, upper thigh. Blood pressure is seventy over forty and falling…”
The world narrowed the way it always did for him in situations like these. “Do you have blood?” he asked Amanda.