Chapter 6 Woody
SIX
Woody
Bam. Bam. Bam.
The brass knocker is icy under my hand, each strike echoing in the unusually frigid December air. My breath clouds as I wait until a small silhouette rockets toward me through the frosted glass.
Sanders flings open the door. "Dad! Did you see? We got another nine thousand, four hundred overnight!"
"That's amazing, Dude." I ruffle his hair, stepping into the warm house that used to be mine.
My hand drifts to the phone clipped at my hip, buzzing for the third time in fifteen minutes. I told Lane I’d stop by on the way to the hospital to recap everything. Truth is, there’s no new news for her, but I told her I would.
A quick glance to see several texts from my resident about post-op labs, a reminder for tomorrow’s full schedule of clinic appointments, and another message from the hospital administrator about taking a consult appointment.
Shit. I need to get back to her.
Today’s light. I only have two post-ops and some charting. If I’d had any foresight, I could’ve shifted one or two of Thursday’s cases to this morning and cleared space for New York. But this all happened so fast, I didn't even know yesterday morning that I would need to do that.
I thumb the screen dark and slide it back into my clip. Every alert is a reminder of what waits if I say yes to New York.
The truth is, he doesn’t really need me there. I'm sure Jerry the Jerk is coming, and I can't stand to be around him.
If I don’t go, it won’t diminish Sanders' experience or jeopardize the fundraiser. Sanders will still get the experience of New York, the city lights, the cameras. Lane will make sure of it.
“Dad, did you hear me?” Sanders tugs at my sleeve, pulling me back. His grin is so wide it knocks the breath out of me. “Almost eighty thousand dollars now! Luke’s gonna get his kidney for sure.”
I slide my keys into my back pocket, forcing a smile. “I heard you. That’s… incredible. Where's your mom?”
It is. But behind Sanders’s joy, I feel the weight of the decision pressing in: work on one side, family on the other. As usual, I can’t have both.
"Back here, in the kitchen." Sanders races to the kitchen table, where he resumes working on a poster board, glitter glue smeared across his fingers and somehow on his forehead. Get Luke 2 Duke sprawls across the top in wobbly blue letters.
"That for the parade?"
"Yes! I get to be on the float for the Kidney Foundation. They messaged me through TikTok, and then mom talked to someone last night."
I thought no more decisions without discussing them together. I guess that's only one-sided.
Lane, standing at the kitchen island, her hair loose around her shoulders, backlit by morning sun slanting through the windows, smiles at me when we make eye contact and nods once.
She's wearing an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder, revealing skin I once knew by heart. My mouth goes dry.
"Coffee?" She lifts the pot, her voice carefully neutral.
"Please." I shrug off my coat and hang it on the back of a chair.
She sets a steaming mug in front of me, and our fingers brush lightly, almost imperceptibly. The contact sends an electric current up my arm that I try to ignore. Her eyes widen slightly before she turns away.
"Did you figure out your schedule?" She rinses her own mug at the sink, not looking at me. "The GMA coordinator called this morning. They need to know about flights by one today."
The weight of expectation settles across my shoulders. I've been on calls half the night, shuffling appointments, offering favors.
"My PAs are covering clinic appointments tomorrow, and I've rescheduled what I could," I say, watching her back stiffen. "But I still have three surgeries that can't wait. It's not definite, but if I can't push them to next week…"
Lane's hands pause mid-rinse. I can read the irritation in the line of her spine. "Oh, so you're not coming?"
"I'm still working on it. Nate might be able to cover them," I add quickly. "I'm waiting to hear back."
She turns, one eyebrow raised. "Nate Peck? Mr. 'Good Enough Is Good Enough'?"
Despite everything, I smile. "He's actually a damn good surgeon."
"I know." Her lips quirk up, and for a second, we're on the same side again.
Sanders pipes up from the table. "Dad, you have to come! I told Luke you'd explain his kidney stuff to Robin Roberts. Plus, I want to ice skate with you."
Lane's eyes meet mine over our son's head. The challenge is clear: Choose. Choose right this time.
I exhale slowly and take out my phone, scrolling to Nate's number. "Let me check in with Nate."
Stepping away from the table toward the doorway, I walk back outside to the cold morning. The pine wreath with the large red bow bounces slightly as the door clicks shut.
Truth is, I haven’t even asked him yet. I told Lane he “might” cover because that’s easier than admitting I haven’t decided if I’ll push. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, everyone will survive my absence.
I stare at the phone screen, thumb hovering, before finally pressing dial. My pulse hammers in my ears as the phone rings once, twice.
Through the closed door, I can hear Lane clearing Sanders' breakfast plate. The scrape of metal against ceramic fills the quiet morning air the same way it used to when we shared this house, this life.
"Yo," Nate's voice crackles through the speaker. "You here? I didn't see you on the board for early surgery today."
I turn slightly away from the house, lowering my voice. "Not yet. Hey, listen. Peck, I need a favor."
"Let me guess." His tired chuckle carries through the line. "You're asking me to cover Christmas week?"
My free hand finds the bridge of my nose, pinching hard. “Just Wednesday and Thursday this week. Two knees and a shoulder scope. If they can’t be pushed, can you take them? I’ll cover your hips next week.”
Peck sighs. “You know those Thorson cases are monsters.”
“I know. I’ll owe you.”
Nate sighs heavily through the phone. "Wilmington can spare you for a Christmas miracle, huh?"
The words land like a teasing jab but cut deeper than he realizes. For years, I've told myself our town depends on me. My patients need me. I've worn that excuse like armor against the guilt of missing all kinds of life outside of work commitments.
"Yeah," I manage. "Something like that."
"Does this have something to do with your son's #SaveChristmas Challenge? Must be big if you're playing hooky."
"Good Morning America wants us in New York. For the fundraiser."
A low whistle through the speaker. "No shit. National TV?"
"Looks that way."
"Well, don't fuck it up, Beamer." His voice softens. "I got you covered. This happens to be a light week for me. I may have to shift some times, but if you can't reschedule them, I'll make them happen this week. Send me the charts today so I can review and make sure I have what I need ready."
Relief washes through me when Peck agrees. I thank him, end the call, and stand outside for a moment longer than necessary. The cold bites my face.
I told myself Sanders didn’t really need me there. That Lane could handle New York, that the fundraiser would keep rolling without me.
But that’s not the point. Sanders asked me to be there. And if I’m honest, I want to be there when he sees the lights, the tree, all of it.
I push back inside. The kitchen is quiet. Lane’s frozen mid-motion at the counter, dish towel in hand. She looks at me with that guarded expression I know too well, bracing for the cancellation.
“I talked to Peck,” I say, forcing the words past my throat. “He’s covering Wednesday and Thursday. I’ll come with y’all.” The next words slip out before I can stop them. “Not that it matters, but just curious—will Jerry be there?”
Christ. Why did I say that? Asking only makes me sound like the jerk he is.
Her eyes narrow, sharp as knives, and for a second, I can almost hear her lining up the retort. I don’t blame her. I’ve hated Jerry for years. Not just because he slid into the space I vacated, but because he never hid how much he liked reminding me of it.
Sanders calls him steady, and maybe he is, but all I see is the smug bastard who got the life I should’ve shown up for.
“No,” she says flatly. “He’s tied up. You’ll get me all to yourself. I appreciate you making that call and coming. It will mean a lot to our son to have you there.”
The gratitude hits harder than I expect, knocking something loose in my chest. I nod awkwardly, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
Relief flickers through me. I’m not sure what it says about my character, but I'm shamefully grateful Jerry the Jerk won’t be intruding on this.
I nod at her thanks, heat crawling up the back of my neck. After all this time, her recognition that I'm trying to do right by our son still feels like absolution.
I double-park my SUV along Market Street, eyeing the small crowd gathering outside Lane's insurance office. Christmas wreaths hang from every lamp post, red ribbons fluttering in the December breeze.
The Christmas Jubilee Parade always runs on the first Tuesday after the schools let out for break. I think Wilmington has been doing it this way for a hundred years. Doesn’t matter if it’s raining, sleeting, or seventy degrees, Market Street shuts down and the whole town shows up.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lane.
The parade is about to start. Where are you?
I dodge a delivery truck and jog across the street, spotting Sanders first. He's wearing those goofy antlers again.
Beside him, Luke Turner sits bundled in a puffy jacket, his face pale but eyes bright under a knitted hat.
They’re on a makeshift float hitched to a pickup, garland wrapped sloppily around the trailer rails. Each boy clutches a poster—Sanders’s says SEND LUKE 2 DUKE, and Luke’s says IT’S LUKE TURNER’S TURN.
I spot Lane at the curb, her blue sweater bright against the crowd. She lifts a hand when she sees me, relief softening her face. This isn’t her “parent-teacher conference” smile. It’s the real one, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes something shift low in my chest.
“You made it,” she says as I step up beside her.
“Wouldn’t miss this,” I answer, both of us aware that it isn't always true. She looks at her watch as a silent nod to the fact that I always cut it close.
The high school band clatters past, blaring “Dancing Around the Christmas Tree.” Then, the Kidney Foundation's float rolls into view. Sanders waves like a politician working a crowd, and Luke grins gamely beside him.
There's a third child, a girl about their age, braids bouncing as she throws candy into the street.
“Do you know who that is?” I lean closer to Lane. Her lavender scent brushes past me, hitting a place deeper than I expected.
“That's Leigh Turner,” Lane says, eyes still on the float. “Luke’s little sister. She’s just ten months younger. Carly couldn’t get out of work, so I brought them both.”
I blink. “You brought them?”
“Of course,” she says simply, not looking at me. "We couldn't have showcased the highlight without Luke."
My throat tightens. Lane, always stepping in without hesitation, always filling gaps no one else even sees, makes my heart swell. Gratitude presses hot against my ribs, but pride keeps me quiet.
The parade is long for our small-ish town. I'd estimate no less than forty floats and hundreds, if not over a thousand people, line the streets. Once the last one goes by, the one with Santa, we start to make our way to the pick-up area to get the kids.
A woman with a press badge and a guy with a camera turn at my approach. The reporter's face lights up like I've just delivered the final puzzle piece.
"Dr. and Mrs. Beamer! Perfect timing. I'm Jen from the Wilmington Star-News." She extends her hand. "We're doing a feature on the Turner fundraiser—'Local Family Launches Christmas Miracle.' The story's already getting national attention."
Local Family. The words hang in the air between Lane and me. Neither of us corrects her.
"We already got some great shots of the boys on the float during the parade," the photographer calls, crouching to frame the shot. "Mom and Dad, can you stand together so I can get you two for the story?"
Lane’s shoulders stiffen imperceptibly. I step closer, careful to leave space. A lavender note hangs between us, not strong, just enough to remind me of how this used to be.
"Big smiles!" the photographer calls.
Lane shifts reluctantly and then wraps her arm around my back, pulling me in at the waist. Our sides fit together perfectly, the contact sending electricity through my body.
"Tell us about the community response," Jen prompts, voice recorder extended. "What does this outpouring of Christmas spirit mean to you as a family?"
As a family. The fiction of it sears through me, head to toe
I clear my throat. "The generosity has been overwhelming.
We're really proud of Sanders for recognizing a need and creating this buzz, bringing everyone together.
Luke's condition requires specialized care, and this community, and now the nation, has stepped up in ways we never could have imagined. "
Lane nods along, every muscle in her face controlled. I know she hates the attention, the performance, the pretense.
When the reporter finally thanks us and tucks away her recorder, Lane exhales hard beside me.
"I hate small-town spectacle," she mutters, watching them walk away.
I smile faintly, unable to acknowledge how much that moment, pretend or not, feels like coming home. Lane, already turning away, doesn’t see it. And I don’t let myself think about it for long.
I can't, or else I risk opening up something I can't contain.