Doctor of Beauty (Men of Mercy #4)

Chapter 1

Jack

The cinder-block building shakes, and rancid black smoke filters into the room. I lean over the body of the young boy, Abdo Deng, I’m working on, trying to shield him from dust and debris. He’s just five years old. I’m hoping we can make it through this surgery.

“Dr. Drake, you need to leave,” a female voice says behind me.

I ignore the voice. If I leave now, Abdo will die. He has third- and fourth-degree burns over twenty percent of his body. That means the burns have gone through the skin and into the muscle. Twenty percent is in the survival window, but just barely. He was protected by the merry-go-round that blocked his torso and vital organs during the blast. But if he’s going to live, I need to get through this surgery.

I wipe my eyes and try to focus. Who would do this to a group of kids?

Assholes. That’s who. Abdo was playing on a playground with other children when one of the warring factions here in Khartoum, Sudan, blew up a propane tank they’d hidden.

On a playground! Abdo is the fourth child victim I’ve seen today.

“Dr. Drake! We need to leave,” the voice stresses again.

“I can’t. Go if you need to, but I’m not leaving this child on the table.”

Kevin Walsh, my nurse-practitioner anesthetist, nods. “I’m staying.”

“I’ve got you.” Ivy Kaufman, my surgical nurse, jumps in, moving to my side. “The rest of you can go. Help get people out of the hospital.”

The other two nurses race out of the room. This isn’t even an actual hospital. It’s a bombed-out old office building. The windows are boarded up and plastic has been draped everywhere to give us as sterile a room as possible. It’s not ideal, even when there isn’t gunfire in the streets.

“This is a giant shit show,” I say as I cut away more of the burned skin and begin grafting. This is the most important part after an injury like this. It’s vital to his survival. I promised his mother I’d do everything I could to bring him back to her.

The power flickers, and everything goes dark. My pulse quickens, and then the power generators come on.

“I don’t know how much longer we’re going to have, but I need to get him to a point that he can be moved,” I explain to Ivy and Kevin.

Normally, this type of surgery would last five hours, and we’re barely an hour into it. I’m working as fast as I can, without making mistakes. I have to at least get him to the point that moving him isn’t a death sentence.

The ground beneath our feet rumbles, and Ivy has panic in her eyes. The corner of the plastic that’s keeping the room sterile has ripped. I can see sunlight through the exterior wall.

“Give him seven milligrams of morphine,” I tell Kevin. “We’re going to have to move him. I’m not feeling good about all of this.”

“On it,” Kevin says. He pumps in the morphine.

The room shifts. This isn’t good. I groan. “Fucking hell.” I quickly apply the grafts we’ve prepared, and with Ivy and Kevin’s help, I wrap the young kid in gauze to protect the wounds.

And now we’re out of time. “Let’s go,” I announce.

Kevin pushes the surgical gurney out into the smoke-filled hallway while Ivy and I put the last touches on wrapping Abdo up. We’ve got this.

Someone grabs my arm as we walk out into the chaos of the street. I turn to see Tom Ackerman, my boss. His face looks grave. “They set a bomb off in the waiting room. Your patient’s mother was killed.” Tom is the administrator for Worldwide Medical Care here in Sudan, otherwise known as the WMC, the organization I volunteer with for half the year. He shakes his head. “They’re monsters.”

My shoulders sag. The bitter tears cloud my eyes as every bit of energy I had left drains from me. “My patient needs to be moved so I can finish the surgery.”

He shakes his head. “We’ll get a local on this. Just go. The Canadian Embassy is evac-ing all citizens now.”

That doesn’t work for me. I can’t just leave him. The local doctors are attending other acute patients. They don’t have the time or skills needed to save Abdo’s life. “Where is the ambassador?” I ask.

Tom points to a woman covered in dirt standing across the street. She’s fielding a million questions, and her usual pristine hair is matted and full of debris. I race over to her. “Ambassador Lasseter?”

She looks up and gives me a tight smile.

“Are we able to evacuate some of the more acute patients?”

“We have several going.” People are crowding and pulling at her, asking for information. Some are Canadians, and others are Sudanese begging for a spot out of this hellhole.

“I was in the middle of surgery,” I explain, not letting the local women push me away. “The patient is a burn victim, a five-year-old boy. I’d like him to come with me so I can finish his procedure in Vancouver.”

She shakes her head. “There’s no guarantee he’ll get there. All the acute patients will go wherever someone has room to take them.” There’s a tiredness in her voice. I can feel it.

“I’ll make some calls,” I assure her. “This boy lost his last living family member in the explosion at the hospital. I’m not leaving him behind.”

She nods, and her attention is pulled to someone else. Her job is to get all the Canadian citizens out of Sudan and back on home soil. My job is to save this boy’s life.

Five hours later, we’re being loaded on a plane. I’ve said goodbye to my teammates—Kevin is headed back to the U.S., and Ivy will return to Australia. I’ve cleared Abdo to my home hospital, Mercy Hospital in Vancouver, and they’ll have a surgery theater ready for us when we arrive. It’s still going to be tough. The first seventy-two hours after a burn set the pace for recovery, and those hours are ticking away. We’re not off to a great start.

We stop for fuel in England in the middle of the night, and we’re on the ground for less than an hour. When we arrive in Vancouver, it’s daylight, though I don’t know what day it is or what time it is. I slept most of the flight, leaving Abdo’s care with the nurses on board, so I could be ready when we get home. After we land, they move Abdo to a medical emergency helicopter, which jets us downtown to my hospital.

When the helicopter lands, a team meets us on the helipad. I give directions to a nurse who runs ahead of us, shouting orders from me.

It’s a kind of controlled chaos, but within an hour of being on Canadian soil, I’m ready to get back to repairing Abdo’s injuries. I’ve asked my good friend Davis Martin to be on standby. He’s a leading pediatric cardiologist, and the nurses told me Abdo had some heart flutters during the flight.

“Whatever you need,” Davis assures me as I head in.

In the surgical theater, I look up to see the gallery filled with students, and I have a team of residents standing by. I put it all out of my mind and focus on Abdo.

Having a full nursing staff and surgical support team makes a huge difference. When I left for Sudan, I brought thousands of dollars of medical supplies with me, but sometimes it’s the equipment that makes the difference. In areas like Khartoum, medical equipment rarely makes it to a surgical theater. Instead, it’s sold on the black market to buy guns and ammunition.

Abdo still has significant damage, and the delay has not improved the situation, but this boy is tough. It takes us eight hours to manage everything, but the grafts are successful, and the surgery goes well, considering how it started. There are still some areas that will require further grafting from a cadaver, but when we’re finished, I finally feel better than I have since Abdo was rolled into my hospital back in Khartoum.

When they move him to the pediatric ICU, I stand tall and stretch. My back is killing me, my calves feel too tight to walk, and I’m exhausted.

“Great job,” says Ben Hutchins, the head of surgery here as he pats me on the back.

I nod, too tired to even say thank you. I need to lie down in the sleep room and get some rest before I check on Abdo. I need to stick close to the hospital. I want to make sure this kid makes it.

I walk toward the staff sleep room, hoping one of the four bunk beds is available.

“Dr. Drake?” a stern voice calls from behind me.

I recognize that voice. Sam Rushton is a failed doctor who went into hospital administration instead. He drives all of us crazy because he believes he’s always right. He almost never is.

I turn and manage what I hope is a smile. “Sam, good to see you. I’ve been up for the last four days. Let me get a few winks of sleep, and then I’ll come find you so you can bitch me out for whatever I did wrong.”

“Wait!” he demands.

I look at him again. “What do you need that can’t wait a few hours?”

“You brought a foreign national in for a major surgery. You took one of our most active surgical theaters and turned it into a circus. The government isn’t going to pay for some kid to get the thousands of hours of care he’s going to require.”

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? Nothing is going to change between now and then.”

Sam’s face is turning red. “He could have gone to any other hospital. You know we’re struggling. Why did you bring him here and spend hundreds of thousands of dollars?”

I feel like I might explode. “What was a better option? Just leave him behind and let him wake up in so much pain that his screams could be heard from central Africa?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s pretty much what you insinuated. I spoke with someone in Global Affairs before I did this, and they agreed to the move.”

“Who do you know in Global Affairs? I want to talk to them!” Sam insists.

“Call Elise Banner. She’s the one I talked to.”

Sam’s face morphs into horror. “The Minister of Foreign Affairs?”

I shrug. “That’s correct. And I’m good for whatever they don’t cover. You can bill me directly.” I don’t pull that card often, but this is the perfect time. Sam knows I have money. I inherited fifty percent of Canada’s largest logistics company when my mother died, and it’s worth many billions of dollars.

Sam seems to emit a sound that only dogs can hear before he turns and marches away.

“Wow, you really know how to piss off the head of the hospital.”

I turn and find my friend Michael Khalili standing next to me with a smirk that tells everyone he’s up to no good. Michael is an obstetrician here, specializing in difficult births, and a great guy. He opens his arms and gives me a hug. “That was a little closer than I’d like.”

“Why do you say that? You don’t know where I was,” I reply.

WMC sends me into all kinds of hot areas. This trip to Sudan was probably the most dangerous it’s ever been, but it’s never easy. Still, the work is important and incredibly rewarding.

He gives me a look. “We knew you were in Sudan. We pay attention, and we were nervous.” Michael is referring to our group of friends—Davis Martin, Davis’s younger brother, Griffin, Steve McCormick, and himself. We’re all doctors at Mercy, and we’ve known each other since high school because our fathers are friends.

I shove his shoulder. “You’re a good friend. I’m a terrible friend who desperately needs a shower and about a week of sleep—but will settle for five hours.”

He nods. “I’ll let you be. But how about you come by for drinks at Steve’s place tonight?”

I search for a clock since my watch is still on Khartoum time. “What time is it?”

“We’re meeting about seven and ordering some dinner.”

I shake my head. “I meant what time is it right now?”

Michael smiles. “Nine o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m so jetlagged that I’m not even sure what day it is.”

“Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. See you tonight at Steve’s.”

I resume my beeline toward the sleep room and shove open the door. I don’t remember taking a shower or crawling into bed, but then my alarm goes off on my watch and I feel like I’ve been hit by a semi. I sit up in the bunk.

“You’re awake!” Steve McCormick announces as he opens the sleep room door. Steve is in sports medicine and an orthopedist.

“Just barely. I need to go check on my patient.”

“Nothing like getting Sam Rushton’s panties in a knot.”

I smirk. “He does walk around like he has a permanent wedgie. But the government is going to cover it. This went all the way up the ladder.”

“What about the kid’s parents?”

“His father and three brothers were conscripted into one of the militias and killed a while ago. His mom was in the hospital waiting area during his surgery, and she was killed when they blew it up.”

“Man, this poor kid can’t catch a break.”

I nod. “And he really needs one. His mother told me all about him, and he’s a great kid. He’s going to have some issues and require some care, so he needs to be here. Sudan is a hellhole right now, and all his family is gone.”

“I can’t believe Worldwide Medical Care sent you there.”

“They offered a few other places, but I chose Sudan. Don’t blame WMC. They tried to pull me out of surgery to leave, but I just couldn’t. I won’t finish out the last four months of this trip, but I’ll go somewhere again next year.”

“Just promise us it won’t be Sudan or another country where the warlords are fighting.”

“I’ll do my best, Mom,” I tease.

“You know your mother would have said the same thing.”

I shrug. “She always encouraged me to be myself.”

Steve walks me back to surgical recovery. “We’re getting together at my place tonight at seven. I’m going to order from Nonna’s. We thought we’d welcome you back.”

“What time?”

“I just said seven.” He looks at me a moment. “How about I pick you up? I heard you arrived on the medivac.”

“Oh right. I did. I’ll try not to be asleep when you come.”

He slaps me on the back. “We’re glad you’re home. I’ll come find you.”

I find the right bed in the ICU and slip behind the curtain to check on Abdo. He looks pretty peaceful, but then, he’s in a medically induced coma, so his body can concentrate on improving. However, his numbers are also where I need them to be, so that’s truly a good sign. He’ll need more surgeries this week, but nothing as lengthy or harrowing as this first one was.

That feeds a warmth in my soul. This is why I became a plastic surgeon. Some people think it’s the money, but I have plenty of that. My great grandfather bought one of the first train engines in Canada, and today, my father runs the largest logistics company in the country. I became a plastic surgeon because I want people to feel better about themselves and have better lives, and I spend half of the year with Worldwide Medical Care repairing cleft palates and treating burns.

My practice here in Vancouver for the other half of the year is some of that, too, but it’s mostly facelifts, breast augmentations, undoing breast augmentations, and mommy lifts. Those are usually elective surgeries, and they do help people feel better about themselves, but they’re also a good cash business. And that’s what allows me to volunteer half the year for WMC.

That evening, Steve picks me up on his way out of the hospital. I spent the afternoon catching up on sleep and monitoring Abdo. He seems stable, so it’ll be nice to take a break and hang with my friends. I haven’t talked to them in months.

“How are things going with the Vancouver Tigers?” I ask.

Steve is the doctor for the team, and that’s how he met Eliza, who’s now his wife. She will one day inherit the team from her father. For now, she’s started a super-successful marketing company that’s helping the league grow.

“Not too bad,” he says. “We’re looking at college recruitment right now.”

I nod.

Canadians started football, but it doesn’t get near the respect around here that hockey does. Eliza’s goal is to change that. I love all sports, so I’m thrilled with the idea.

My eyes are heavy as Steve drives us, and I’m glad I’m not behind the wheel. When we arrive, Paisley, my friend Davis’s wife, is helping Eliza set up the table with all the food. They both give me tight hugs.

“You can’t scare us that way,” Paisley says.

I give their shoulders a squeeze, an arm around each one. “That was the hairiest assignment since I started this five years ago.”

Steve hands me a drink, but I wave it away. “I have surgery tomorrow. Plus, I’d likely be instantly asleep.”

“Tell us about the boy you came back from Sudan with,” Eliza says.

“Wait,” Davis interrupts. “Griffin, Michael, and Nadine will be here shortly, and I know they’ll want to hear all this too.”

“That’s fine. Right now, I’m starved. The last meal I had was on the plane, and the food came in a box. It was probably four months old.”

Someone shoves me toward the plates, and I load up with a giant wedge of lasagna, a scoop of spaghetti, and a heavy hand of fettuccine Alfredo. This is going to knock me right out. I haven’t even taken a bite when Nadine rushes in with Michael and Griffin on her tail.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re okay.” She holds on to me tightly, and Michael gives me a dirty look. I just wink at him. These guys are my best friends, but they still get all alpha when their ladies pay too much attention to me.

“How did you know where I was?” I ask when she lets me go.

She shakes her head. “We always know where you are. We just track your phone.”

My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Nadine fishes out her phone. “We’re all in a group together.” She shows me a map, and it has a cluster of bubbles congregated at Steve’s address.

“How can you tell which one is me?”

“You’re the monkey.” She taps it, and my name and contact info pop up.

“And this told you I was in Sudan?”

She nods. “I know you weren’t gone as long as you were planning, but we’re glad you’re okay.”

I nod. “It wasn’t that bad until the last day. WMC knew there was fighting outside the city, but they didn’t expect it to come in. Once we realized they were aiming for kids—not to mention peacekeepers and medical teams—we were evac-ed out.”

“While we eat, you can tell us about the patient you brought back,” Davis says.

Everyone grabs their food, and we sit around the table. I explain how the explosion happened and tell them the boy is only five years old and was the fourth child on my table that day. I tell them about the tearful conversation with his mother and the promise I made. “I would have left him in Khartoum with a local surgeon if his mother had been alive, but then, there was another explosion and she was killed.”

“Why are they doing that to their own people?” Nadine asks.

I shake my head. “It’s terrible. I hated leaving, but we were targets, and that was putting our patients and their families in danger as well. If we can get medical supplies to the local doctors, that’s a better way to handle things for now.”

“Well, since you’re back… Julia is having her fundraiser for the public library this coming weekend,” Paisley tells me. “We can add you and a guest to our table. You’ve got to get back in the right time zone, you know.”

The idea of coming up with a last-minute date doesn’t appeal to me. I’m on a break from women. Kathleen, the one I dated shortly before I left, didn’t boil a pet rabbit, but things got pretty crazy. She kept showing up at the hospital and telling the staff about her long-term plans for us. Nope. No way . And I don’t even like to think about my dating life before her. My previous relationship left me with a different kind of pain.

“I’m still pretty jetlagged,” I tell them. “Julia won’t miss me. She probably doesn’t even know I’m home.”

Paisley pulls out her phone, pushes a few buttons, and a voicemail plays on speaker. “Sweetheart, I’m sure you’re going to see Jack this week,” Julia says. “Please tell him I expect him and his checkbook on Saturday night at the library.”

Everyone laughs. Nothing gets by Davis and Griffin’s mother.

“How did she know?”

Davis blushes. “I was on the phone with her when you called about the surgery.”

The crowd laughs, and I shake my head. “Okay, I’ll be there, but I probably won’t have a date.”

“You’re not bringing Kathleen?” Griffin teases.

Kathleen was the crazy one. “I hope she doesn’t know I’m back.”

Nadine grimaces. “I hate to tell you this, but your heroics of bringing the boy back from Sudan made the news, and the hospital is milking it big time. She’d have to be living under a rock not to know you’re back.”

I look up toward the ceiling for a moment. “Fantastic.”

“It can’t be that bad…” Paisley ventures.

“Oh, but it’s worse,” Griffin says. “She’s totally off her rocker. She was sure she was pregnant and the baby was his.”

“Man,” Michael says. “You’ve gotta wrap that thing up.”

“I do,” I assure him. “After the last six months of my life, I don’t trust women. They’re not worth the effort.”

“Are you telling us you’re going to date men?” Nadine asks.

Everyone is staring at me. “Yes, each of you here at the table,” I announce. “We’re going to golf, fish, and ride motorcycles. And when we’re done, you’re going to go home to your women, and I’m going back to my place to watch Sports Center for as long and as loud as I want.”

That makes everyone laugh. But I really am done. Kathleen is not even the real issue. I was only dating her because I’d broken up with the woman I thought I was going to marry. Laine wrote a newspaper article about a woman who had been my patient without even talking to me about it. After that, there was a giant mess with the regulatory board, and I worried I was going to lose my license, all while trying to get ready to go to Sudan. No one needs that kind of hassle. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

After I fail to stifle a big yawn, Griffin offers to take me home. I haven’t been there in seven weeks, and that sounds like a great idea. I have a small two-bedroom apartment a few blocks from the hospital, so I can walk to work. It’s nothing fancy, but I own it outright, and it’s in a nice building.

When I walk through the lobby, the doorman stops me. “Glad to see you back, Dr. Drake. I saw you on the news. Very impressive.”

“Thank you,” I say with a nod. “Please be sure not to let anyone up who isn’t on my list.”

“Absolutely. All deliveries will come to me, and we’ll get them to you ourselves.”

“Thank you.”

I step into the elevator, and it takes me to the fifth floor. At my door is a stack of packages and mail. I push them into my apartment and strip naked as I walk to my bedroom and settle in between the sheets.

Suddenly, my phone is ringing. It stops and then starts again. “What the hell?” There’s only one person who does this, and he’ll do this nonstop until I answer.

I find my pants and fish out my phone.

“Yes, Dad?”

“That’s a new record. It took eight times for you to answer.”

“I’m sorry. I’m jetlagged and haven’t slept in a few days.”

“You haven’t even called me since you’ve been back,” he growls.

“Dad, I just got in. It’s barely been twenty-four hours. I went directly into surgery, and then the guys grabbed me for dinner. I’d just laid down when you called.”

“It’s eight o’clock in the morning,” he says, frustration in his tone.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I would have called today. Promise. How are you doing?”

“I’d be better if I knew you were coming to take over this business. I thought maybe that’s why you were back.”

Not this . “Chester Wainwright is already running the show and doing a great job. He’s the right person to continue managing the business.”

Dad sighs. “You’ll be the third generation to own this company. You need to be more involved. And stop gallivanting around the world to get your prick wet.”

“What are you talking about? I went to Sudan to help kids who were burned in the war.”

“And I saw you brought one back with you,” he scoffs. “Are you going to adopt him?”

“No, Dad,” I tell him. “He lost his entire family, and he needs multiple surgeries. My goal is to get him better, and that meant I couldn’t leave him alone.”

He sighs loudly.

I have zero interest in being more active in our family business, and I wish my dad were more flexible. He used to be… I think. But his friends are, at least. Michael Khalili’s father agreed to let Michael’s wife take the reins of their business, and it’s been great for them. But not only would my father never give the business to a woman—he’s that kind of chauvinist—he also wants no one but me. It seems his patience is running out, but my position on the issue and my commitment to practicing medicine isn’t changing.

“How about we meet for dinner tonight?” I offer.

“I can’t. I have a date. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

I’m silent. Part of dad’s anxiety about the business seems to be because we lost my mom almost two years ago. They’d been in love and happy for more than thirty-five years, and he’s been unsettled since. I don’t love the idea of him with anyone who isn’t my mom, but he needs someone in his life.

“Don’t be that way,” he groans after a moment.

I sigh. “I’m sorry. I miss Mom too, and you have every right to find someone who’ll make you happy.”

“I haven’t liked anyone I’ve gone out with,” he protests. “Julia Martin is fixing me up with a friend of hers who lost her husband to cancer a few years ago.”

“That’s great. You don’t have to marry her. Maybe having a steady date on Saturday nights is enough.”

“How about lunch today?” he offers.

I close my eyes a moment. I’m jetlagged and exhausted. “I need to get over to the hospital and check on my patient. I’m pretty sure I’ll need to get him into surgery again today. That’s going to be my life for a while.”

Dad’s not happy with this response, but he doesn’t have anything better to offer, so after a few more minutes, he ends the call.

After hanging up, I get dressed and walk over to the hospital. I see a few paparazzi cameras pointed at me on the way, but I ignore them.

I’m glad to be back, and I’ve got work to do.