Chapter 13 #3
“But a mounting prong broke and a two carat diamond is falling out of its setting. I’m the only one who can fix it, and the customer is coming in this afternoon to pick up their special order.” Moore leaned toward her as if to kiss her, but stopped short. Doc was watching.
“See you later?”
“Of course. Opening game of the season coming up. We have tickets.”
Doc’s eyes bounced from Moore to Colleen but he said nothing.
“All right,” Moore said awkwardly. “See you then. And thanks, Colleen.”
She wiggled the bakery bag. “No, thank you.”
A wave was his reply, then a nice view of his back as he walked away. Doc stood holding the lighter in one hand, flicking it but not lighting the cigarette.
“You know you shouldn’t do that,” she admonished him.
Doc glanced toward Moore.
“People shouldn’t do lots of things.”
Her wrist began to itch, and controlling her reaction to Doc’s obvious poke took more restraint than she expected.
“How many of those do you smoke?”
He sighed. “Only when I lose a patient.”
The instant sympathy that flooded her felt like emotional whiplash. Doc Blythe was a firm but kind man with a moral core that never wavered. He tried so hard, and every loss hit him in the gut.
“I’m so sorry. Go ahead.”
Only then did she realize his hands were shaking.
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“Who’s the patient?”
“Belinda Mullins.”
“Oh.” A long sigh filled Colleen with deep sadness. Belinda was fighting her third form of cancer in twelve years. Diagnosed with breast cancer in her daughter’s first year of life, she’d refused to move to Portland or Boston for treatment, wanting a normal life for Kelly.
“Yeah. Hung on all these years. She just passed away. I feel like I used duct tape, chewing gum, and faith I didn’t know I had to keep her going this last year.”
“Is that why you’re here in the oncology garden?”
“Yes.”
A well-placed hand on someone’s shoulder in a moment of grief is an immeasurable comfort. When she touched him, Doc’s shoulders dropped, his hands slowly going still, his sigh so full of caring that she teared up.
“Rural medicine is a calling, Colleen. I’m not from here, but I’m of here.”
“You’ve been practicing medicine in Luview for almost half a century. You’re absolutely of here.”
“Thank you. I take that as the highest of compliments.”
“You should.”
“But I’m getting old.” He squinted at the cigarette. “I’m mortal.”
“We all are.”
“And I need to know the town will be in good hands when I’m gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, gone. Like I said, I’m mortal.”
“You got something you want to tell me, Doc? Is something wrong?”
“Other than losing one of the sweetest, nicest patients ever? No. I’m seventy-four, Colleen. Most men my age retired long ago.”
“You’re planning to retire?”
“Someday. Maybe. I don’t know.” His vulnerability surprised her. Pleased her, too. Knowing that someone so strong and stable could turn to her as a person to confide in made her feel good. “But I need to know this medical center, and this town, will be okay when I’m gone.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
He squared his shoulders. “You have your RN.”
“Yes.”
“But only an associate’s degree.”
“I have a few classes toward the bachelor’s, but you know…”
“I know. Amber died, you stepped in to help Luke, and never went back.”
“Right.”
“I think you should go back. Get that BSN. Maybe a master’s in nursing or a physician’s assistant degree.”
“What? Me?”
“The BSN is no problem for you, and advanced training would be a breeze. You’re a Luview and Luviews are smart and encouraged by family. And you’re a devoted, responsible nurse. This town needs you for the next thirty or forty years.”
“But I don’t have the money. I sank it all into buying the camp.”
He waved that off with the hand holding the unlit cigarette.
“You can get scholarships. There are government programs for additional nurse training, with loan forgiveness.”
“You sound like you’ve been researching this.”
“I have.”
“Wow. Me? You really think–me?”
“If I thought I could convince you to go to med school, I would.”
“I can’t be a doctor!”
“You can, Colleen. I just don’t think you’d ever take that kind of time away from your family.”
“Huh?”
“You are a caregiver. It’s in your blood. I saw how you helped Moore and Cammie with Jordy when he was little. How you jumped in after Amber died and took over with Harriet. Thank God Moore was there to rescue you right back in that car accident.”
It had never occurred to her that Doc Blythe was paying one whit of attention to the events in her life, other than when they were on shift together at the hospital.
“Problem is, you’d have to leave for a while if you went to school on one of the bigger scholarships. They often have field requirements in underserved areas. Native American clinics, urban medical centers, that sort of thing. But you get paid and tuition is covered.”
Her head spun.
“Doc, this is a lot. Going from learning that Belinda died to you telling me I should be a nurse practitioner or a PA.”
“You should,” he said firmly. “We need more people with advanced training here. You’d be a pillar of the community. Plus, your dating pool would broaden.”
“Excuse me?”
“I see what’s going on with you and Moore. Why is he hiding you from the town?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t generally butt into people’s business, but–”
“For someone who claims not to, your butt is definitely in, Doc.”
“All I’m saying is that when a man really cares for a woman, he makes it loud and clear.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
Trying to explain the Jordy situation felt too big. Too–
Bzzz
Both their pagers went off.
Tractor accident at Tsaki’s farm. Early spring hayride. Four injuries.
Dropping the unlit cigarette, Doc rushed to the door first, Colleen on his heels.
“You deserve to be treated as a whole human being,” he said, huffing as they hurried. “You don’t need to truncate your life for others.”
“I had no idea you were a therapist, too, Doc!”
He snorted as they crashed through a set of doors to the ER.
“You work in this town long enough, you don’t have a choice. Think about what I said.”
And then Colleen did what was in her blood.
She cared for the people of Luview.
Right alongside her mentor.