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Chapter or Story
Part 22: A Bright Future
Nicole could hear the wheezing before she even opened the bedroom door and saw her husband turn at the sound from the doorway. Walking over, she gently kissed the top of his head.
“How was his night?”
“Poor,” Jarod admitted in quiet tones. “He’s been asleep for about half an hour now, but it’s been a struggle. He had a terrible delirious episode about three. I was worried it’d wake everyone up.”
“Are you going in today?”
“I have to.” Jarod wearily ran a hand through his hair. “I have surgery at eleven. I’ll get Sydney to sit here this morning and I’ll go in for staff meeting and my morning appointments. Then I’ll come back and he can go in to check on his patients. I don’t want to leave Mark alone if I can avoid it. Once last night, I went to get a drink, and when I came back he was trying to get out of bed.”
The woman’s lips thinned as she went over to the desk, looking at the record Jarod was keeping of Mark’s temperature. Her eyes traveled to Lucy, still lying across the end of the bed, and Nicole raised an eyebrow. “Has she been there all the time?”
“Yes.” Jarod gently stroked the dog’s head. “I think she’s trying to make up for not being there in the park.”
Nodding, Nicole walked back to place her hands on Jarod's shoulders. “I’ll ask Sydney to come in so that you can get ready for work.”
He reached up to gratefully squeeze her hands and watched her leave the room before turning back to his patient.
“You mean a lot to that young man, Jarod,” Sydney reported in low tones, drawing the doctor into the hall as he appeared in the doorway later that day. “He’s been asking for you all morning.”
“If I was in his position, I’d be asking for you,” Jarod replied honestly. “I ate on the way home from work, so you can get going as soon as you want.”
Sydney gently squeezed Jarod's arm as he passed and the surgeon entered the bedroom to find that the bed had been turned around, allowing for access on either side, instead of being pushed up against one wall. Lucy still lay across the end of it, almost on Mark’s feet, occasionally turning her head to lick the hand lying limply on top of the blankets. Walking over to the table, Jarod picked up the temperature record and eyed it, pleased to see that it wasn’t so high, but concerned about its earlier fluctuations.
“Jarod?” a voice mumbled.
Dropping the page, he hurried to the bedside, his voice gentle. “It’s all right, Mark. I’m here.”
The blue eyes opened and turned in his direction, blinking drowsily, his voice catching with a small gasp that signaled pain. “Where… were you?”
“At work.” Jarod covered Mark’s hand with his, sitting down in a chair. “But I’ve finished now. I can stay here with you this afternoon.”
A faint smile flickered across the patient’s face, but it disappeared as he shivered. “It… was cold,” he murmured. “I was… so cold… and… you weren’t… there…”
“I know,” the surgeon soothed, moving the chair closer to the bed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Mark. But I didn’t know where you were.”
“It… was raining,” the soft mutter continued, his voice becoming a hoarse rattle, interspersed with dry sobs, the young man shivering violently. “And there was… thunder… all the time. And I… was wet… a-and cold…”
“Shh.” Jarod brushed back Mark’s hair and resettled the blankets around him. “It’s all right, Mark. It’s over now. You’re safe and warm.”
“When… a person… gets wet… and cold… they can get sick… and die…” the patient gasped in a breathless voice, tears forming in his eyes. “I… learned that…once…”
“We won’t let that happen,” Jarod stated in a calm voice, trying to break through the young man’s delirium. “We’re going to make sure you get over this.”
Mark nodded listlessly and closed his eyes. Jarod lowered the hand he held onto the bed, tucking it under the blanket and pulling the covers up to cover the patient’s chest, from which suspicious crackles were already coming as he breathed. After gently patting Lucy’s head, Jarod went out to the hallway, returning with a small humidifier and an oxygen tank. Setting up the two devices, he slipped the mask onto Mark’s face, settling it over his mouth and nose, before turning on the large tank.
A dull hum broke through former silence of the room as the humidifier was turned on, and Mark’s eyes opened at the sound, traveling slowly around the room before closing again. Checking his pulse, Jarod made a note of the rapid heartbeat, unsurprising with the young man’s temperature rising, the flush deepening in his cheeks. Leaving the room, Jarod went into the kitchen, finding Michelle preparing a meal for that evening.
“How is he?”
“Not good,” Jarod admitted reluctantly. “Can you do me a favor? Make up some ice cubes out of juice. When they’re frozen, I’ll get you to crush them. He isn’t up to the eating stage, nor really to drinking, but he’ll need the vitamins and I don’t want to have to bring home an IV stand and all the necessary equipment.”
“Sure.” Michelle turned to the fridge before looking back at the man. “I’m sorry, Jarod.”
The doctor looked startled. “Why?”
“Last night,” the woman reminded him. “With Charlotte.”
Jarod put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it,” he ordered. “I’d have done exactly what you did. So would Nicole. This was just an unfortunate sequence of events, and the person who has the main guilt is Charlotte’s friend’s mom for assuming we’d let a six-year-old go to the park alone, or even with a dog. Besides, with care, there shouldn’t be any long-term problems.”
“I hope not,” she breathed as he released his hold and collected a bottle of water for himself from the refrigerator before heading back down the hall to the bedroom.
Sydney waited in the doorway for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the dim light, kept that way since Mark had complained of headaches if it was brighter, before going over to where Jarod sat beside the bed.
”How’s he doing?”
“Fever’s down a little,” the younger man responded equally softly. “I just hope it stays down. He needs a night of decent sleep.”
“Sedate him?”
“I don’t want to, if I can avoid it. He’ll be better sleeping naturally.” He stood and went over to the desk, glancing at the figures they had been recording for the past three days. “With any luck, it’ll be the turning point.” Jarod eyed a particularly high fever notation with concern. “And with even more luck, there won’t be any permanent damage.”
“You’re doing everything you can,” the psychiatrist reminded him gently. “Mark would forgive you if there was anything different at the end of it.”
“But I wouldn’t forgive myself,” Jarod responded, his voice tight, turning back to the bed.
Sydney put out a hand and caught his arm. “Mark’s not the only one who needs some sleep. Why don’t you go up to bed for a few hours?”
Jarod was about to argue when he recognized a certain expression in Sydney's eye and grinned somewhat sheepishly in response. Before he could say anything, however, another voice from the doorway got in first.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Nicole stated firmly, keeping her voice quiet. “He only spent two hours in bed last night, and he was so restless that he couldn’t have slept.”
“I think you’ve been told, Jarod,” Sydney remarked in amusement. “Have a rest, make dinner for all of us and then come back here for the night.”
Opening his mouth to protest, Jarod found his arm seized by his wife, who towed him out of the room.
“Now hold on just a minute,” he complained, shaking himself loose. “Since when do I get bullied in my own house?”
Nicole’s eyes twinkled as she took another firm grip on his hand. “As I recall, it was my house and you just invaded one day, without warning.”
“You invited me,” he corrected. “So doesn’t that make me the guest?”
“Not after seven years,” she snorted. “And, considering you’re the boss at work, it’s only fair that I get to do it at home.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs and pointed up them. “Now go.”
Jarod crept to the bedside as a line of light along the blind showed that the sun was rising and his eyes traveled over the thin face on the pillow, gratified to see that there was at last some color in the previously white lips. He touched the back of his hand to Mark’s forehead, inwardly kicking himself as the formerly still eyelids fluttered and then opened. The young man’s hand slowly lifted up off the covers and Jarod wrapped his around it.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.” It was a hoarse whisper, but there was no catch in the breath. “Thirsty.”
“I’m not surprised.” Jarod picked up a glass from the bedside table and slipped a long straw into it, holding it to the patient’s lips. “You’ve been bringing up a lot of what we tried to get into you.”
Mark sipped at the water and then lay back against the pillow. “What day is this?”
“Sunday.” Jarod replaced the glass on the bedside table. “You’ve been sick for almost a week.”
“How bad?”
“Well, not pneumonia, thankfully.” The doctor sat down beside the bed. “But you’ve had a pretty bad bout of bronchitis. Next time, try not to forget your cell phone when you go for a stroll.”
“How did I get back here?” Mark’s eyes traveled around the room. “The last thing I remember was leaving the park.”
“Lucy found you.” Jarod patted the head of the ever-present dog, still lying across her master’s feet. “I brought you back in the car.”
Mark put out a hand to the animal, smiling as his fingertips were moistened by an enthusiastic tongue. Closing his eyes, he let his hand fall back onto the bed as a curious expression crossed Jarod's face. About to put a question to the young man, he held back as he saw the lines of pain and exhaustion that marred Mark’s face, waiting until the patient fell asleep before turning to the laptop on the desk and logging onto the Internet to do some research.
Lying with his eyes closed, Mark tried to work out what was different now. He wasn’t able to put his finger on it, but ever since he had woken up in bed to be told that he had been very sick, he’d had the feeling that something important had changed. The weight on his feet shifted slightly and he smiled at the warm pressure against his legs. A cough swelled in his throat and he reached for the glass on the bedside table, his eyes opening as he did so, and then he realized exactly what the change was.
The room was light. He could make out the various objects in it, although most were blurry. In disbelief, he stared around the bedroom, trying to understand how it was possible for him to be seeing it, when a hand touched his and he turned his head to meet the eyes of the man sitting beside the bed.
“Is it true?” Jarod asked quietly. “Can you see?”
“Yes,” he breathed in amazement, staring at the man as if he had never seen him before. “Yes, I can.”
The urge to cough swelled in his throat again, so quickly that he choked, and he leaned forward to try and combat it. Jarod's arm passed around his shoulders, supporting him as he coughed. It lasted for several minutes before he lay weakly back against the pillows, realizing for the first time that he was sitting almost upright. His blue eyes, full of curiosity, swiveled around to Jarod again as he blinked away the tears that his exertion had caused.
“How did you know?”
“I guessed.” Jarod offered the glass of water. “Certain things gave me a clue, starting with the fact that you complained of headaches if the lights were brighter than they are now.” He replaced the glass on the table after the patient had had several sips and picked up a damp cloth, mopping Mark’s face with it.
“But… I don’t…” Mark’s voice trailed away in confusion. “How did it happen?”
“There’s no way to be sure,” the older man told him. “But it might have something to do with the boost to your immune system that your body received, or the increased blood-flow to your head that the fever caused, which may have boosted the optic nerve. I’ve asked several colleagues, including Nicole, of course, but nobody could give a definite answer. It might have been going to happen now anyway, and it was just chance that you were sick at the time.”
Nodding, Mark rested his head back against the pillow, staring around the room, before turning his eyes back to the man. “Can I see myself?”
Smiling, Jarod picked up a mirror from the table and held it out. “You were a lot quicker than me. It took days before I remembered to look at myself.”
Returning the smile, Mark held up the small mirror, eyeing himself with a feeling of surprise. He looked older than he remembered, and a lot thinner, with shadows under his eyes and lines at the corners of his mouth, various small scratches still also evident.
“Don’t forget you’ve been sick,” the doctor reminded him. “Maybe you won’t look quite the same as you did before the operation, but you don’t always look that fragile.”
Mark grinned weakly, replacing the mirror in Jarod's hand. The man returned it to the table before slipping his arm behind Mark’s shoulders and sliding out several pillows.
“I want you to get as much rest as you can,” the surgeon ordered. “I know this is wonderful, but you need to sleep. You’ll be able to see the world every time you open your eyes. And I know you want to see as much as you can, but if you do, you’ll strain your eyes and find yourself with them bandaged.” He smoothed Mark’s hair and gently squeezed his hand, seeing that he was already drowsy. “Sleep well, Mark. You can have something to eat when you wake up again.”
The last words were almost incomprehensible to the patient as Mark’s eyes slid closed, opening once more to look at the man who stood above him, before the eyelids became too heavy and he let them fall with a sigh.
Charlotte looked up as she came through the gate to see her father standing in the doorway and, as he spread his arms wide, she took to her heels and ran towards him.
“How’s my girl?” he queried, scooping her up into his arms. “Did you have a good day?”
“Is Mark better?” she asked eagerly and he laughed.
“What makes you think that, my clever little rabbit?”
“Well, you’re here and not in there,” she explained as he carried her into the house. “Every other day, you’ve been in there all the time.”
“You’re right.” He took her along the hall and into the kitchen, where a saucepan had been moved off the heat. Jarod replaced it on the hotplate and continued to stir the soup. “He’s feeling much better today. Would you like to come in and see him?”
“Uh huh.” She nodded enthusiastically, hugging him around the neck, before she suddenly looked worried. “Is he mad at me?”
Her father glanced at her in concern. “Why would he be, precious?”
“’Cos I left him behind.” Tears suddenly glistened in Charlotte’s eyes and her lower lip trembled. “I don’t want him to be mad with me.”
Jarod gently kissed her forehead. “He’s not mad with you, baby, I promise.”
Putting her down, he poured the soup into a bowl and rescued a plate of bread, which had been warming in the oven, as he turned off the hotplate with his other hand. Putting the bowl and bread onto a tray, he added a bottle of juice from the fridge and then looked down at her.
“Are you ready?”
“Uh huh.”
She nodded, nervously reaching up to grasp the elbow of the sweater Jarod wore, as they walked down the hall towards the bedroom.
Mark looked up as the door opened, and his face broke into a smile as Charlotte peeped out from behind her father, holding out his arms.
“Hi Charlotte. I’ve missed you.”
The girl looked at him warily for a second before suddenly throwing herself at him, sobbing violently. Mark’s arms closed around her in a firm hug.
“It’s okay, Charlotte,” he assured her gently. “It really is. You don’t think I’m mad at you, do you?”
She sniffed, raising her head to wipe her nose with the back of her hand, as she nodded. “But it’s all my fault you were sick, ‘cause I forgot you at the park and…”
“Shh,” he soothed, placing a gentle finger across her lips. “No, it’s not, Charlotte. It’s not your fault and I don’t want you thinking it is. This was just an accident, okay?” He looked down to see a red scrape on her knee and tapped it. “How did this happen?”
“I fell out of a tree,” she admitted, choking down a sob.
“And was that anybody’s fault?” the young man prompted, watching the child shake her head.
“No. The branch broke.”
“Well, me getting sick wasn’t anyone’s fault either,” he told her. “It was an accident, just like that was. I want you to promise me that you won’t blame yourself for it again. Will you do that for me?”
“I… I’ll try,” she responded slowly, sitting up and wiping her face.
“Good girl,” Jarod stated approvingly, placing the tray across Mark’s knees and taking Charlotte on his lap. “I heard a rumor you were hungry, Dr. Lyneham.”
“Starved,” the young man told him, picking up the spoon, before the name Jarod used struck him and he looked up in astonishment. “I guess I could be again, couldn’t I?”
“Well, you’ve used up a bit of sick leave,” Jarod teased as Mark dipped the first piece of bread in the soup, eating it eagerly. “Still, whenever you’re ready, we could probably find work for you to do. You could take some of the pressure off me.”
“But… my writing?” he suggested hesitantly. “How do I do both?”
“And yet medicine was the most important thing before,” the surgeon laughed. “You don’t have to make any decisions now. I just thought I’d present it to you as something to think about.”
“You certainly did that,” Mark agreed, sipping the juice that Jarod poured into the glass and gave him. Suddenly he looked somewhat embarrassed. “Can I… see my books?”
“Of course!” Jarod looked down at his daughter. “Run upstairs and get your copies, baby, so that he can have a look at them.”
Charlotte looked at her father as if he was stupid. “But he can’t, Daddy. Mark can’t see, ‘member? You said that ages ago.”
“If I can’t see,” Mark commented, his eyes dancing, “how do I know you’re wearing a pretty blue dress? And you’ve got such a lovely butterfly clip in your hair. And that’s a very nasty bump on your head. Did that happen when you fell out of the tree?”
The girl’s jaw had drooped progressively lower and her eyes were now like saucers. Finally she turned to stare at her father.
“But you said to Mommy that you didn’t think Mark would ever see again.”
The surgeon looked sheepish. “If I’d known you were listening, little pitcher, I would never have said it,” he told her, putting her on the floor. “Now run up and get those books, so Mark can see them.”
When she was gone, he turned to the patient. “I did say that,” he admitted. “I’d really begun to believe that it would be permanent.”
“So had I,” Mark agreed solemnly. “Don’t worry, Jarod, I’d just started to consider the same thing. And I was pretty resigned to it.” He looked around the room, his eyes glowing. “But I’m not going to complain.”
“No,” Jarod agreed as Charlotte appeared with the books. “I bet you’re not.”
Mark pulled out the box from underneath the bed, lifting it onto the covers and scrambling back in between the sheets as he heard a footstep in the hall. Opening the box on his knee, he took out the two remaining envelopes, unsealing the first and sliding out the pictures. Glancing over at the computer on his desk, he knew that the story was half-written and made a mental note to finish it as quickly as possible, before looking down at the images he had drawn.
They were even more brightly colored than he remembered, and his eyes traveled with pleasure over the details, picking out small points that he had put in, including a small elf parading in front of a drop on a leaf, in lieu of a mirror.
Mark’s eye spotted a small error that required correction and he returned the picture to the box, getting out of bed and feeling under it for a box of pencils. A meaningful cough from the doorway made him look up sharply and then, as Jarod leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded, the young man climbed quickly back into bed, looking up from the pillow with a look of innocence on his face, his pencil box in his hand.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” Jarod's lips twitched as he walked in. “I just thought you might have remembered our little lecture, sorry, discussion on staying in bed to make sure you don’t get a recurrence of the bronchitis, that’s all.”
Mark gazed thoughtfully at the opposite wall for a moment before shaking his head. “Sorry, no, I don’t seem to recall that one.”
Snorting, Jarod walked in to sit on the chair at the desk. “Yeah, right.”
“Are you saying I’m lying?” the young man protested indignantly.
“Yes,” Jarod stated firmly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Okay, so maybe I have a vague memory of it,” Mark conceded. “But this is important.” He tapped the pages. “I do have deadlines, you know.”
“And just how many will you meet if you get as sick as you have been?” the surgeon demanded.
“Touché,” the young man agreed with a sigh, pushing the box aside. “So when can I get up?”
“When your temperature’s been normal for 24 hours,” Jarod responded. “I want the fluctuations in the evenings to stop before we let you up, but it’ll be a slow process.” He got up and walked over to sit on the end of the bed. “I got in contact with your old GP while you were sick, and he told me you had a tendency to bronchitis when you were little. I’m sure neither of us want to test whether you’ve outgrown that tendency by playing around with it.”
Mark eyed him severely. “And I thought Sydney was kidding when he said you were thorough.”
“Nope.” Jarod rested a foot on the edge of the bed, hugging his knee. “But, speaking of thorough, I once heard about this specialist who was seeing a patient and wanted to make sure he gave the right treatment, so instead of going to consult an older and more experience colleague in the very next office, he went all the way back to his old medical school and spent five – five! – whole hours researching the symptoms in the library there. Now that’s thorough.”
The young man rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you done giving me grief about that yet?”
Jarod grinned. “I only bring it up when opportunities present themselves.”
“Oh, go away,” Mark told him with some asperity. “Go away and let me, uh,” his eyes rolled down to the pictures in his lap, “nap,” he finished.
The doctor sighed. “Where’s your drawing board?”
Laughing, Mark pointed down under the bed, the amusement cut short when he began to cough. After pulling out the flat board and propping it against the bedside table, Jarod filled a glass from a bottle on the bedside table and waited until the coughing fit subsided before offering it.
“I think that just illustrated my point,” he told the young man, whose color had faded, his head lying weakly back against the pillow. “That bronchitis took a lot out of you, and we’re going to take this as slowly as necessary. After all, you’ve got plenty of time.”
“I know,” Mark responded wearily, watching Jarod gather the drawing materials together and pack them into the box, placing it on the desk. Reaching down, he felt the dog, still draped across his feet, lick his fingertips and smiled faintly as Jarod pulled down the blind, darkening the room.
“Have that nap,” he instructed gently. “We’ll see how you are when you wake up.”
Mark was drawing busily when Sydney walked into the living room, removing his jacket to adjust to the heat thrown out by the blazing fire.
“You’re up a few days ahead of schedule, aren’t you?” the psychiatrist asked, sitting down on the sofa.
The young man looked up with the slightly dazed expression that the entire household had come to recognize when he was working, blinking several times before realizing who it was and smiling somewhat complacently.
“Something like that,” he agreed airily, turning back to the drawing with a determination that told Sydney something was up.
“You’re still supposed to be in bed, aren’t you?” he remarked, seeing a sheepish grin form on the convalescent’s face.
“Well, Nicole needed to do some shopping and she asked if I’d watch Christopher. He was bored in my room, so I thought we’d come out here instead.” He pointed with a pencil at the boy who was playing in a corner. “Besides, I didn’t think anyone would catch me. But at least Jarod won’t know.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the older man told him, laughing. “He’s getting some things out of his car.”
“Oh, darn,” Mark cursed, looking around for an escape and knowing that he could never get back to his room in time, eventually rolling his eyes. “Well, I guess it was going to happen. It’s been two whole days since my last lecture.”
The phone rang at this point, and Sydney reached out to answer it, handing the receiver to Mark with a look of surprise.
“It’s for you.”
Accepting the phone, Mark was able to find a moment in the conversation to grin at Jarod when the man appeared in the doorway, obviously ready to let fly about him being out of bed. Snorting, the surgeon dumped a pile of folders onto the dining room table and went back into the kitchen, followed eagerly by his crawling son. Carrying the boy back into the room, glasses and a bottle in his hand, he found Mark just hanging up the phone, seeing a somewhat dazed look on the young man’s face, which stopped him from beginning his lecture.
“What is it?” Sydney prompted, accepting the glass of beer that Jarod poured for him.
“It… I…” Mark managed to get hold of himself. “I’ve been asked to write a script for television.”
Jarod's jaw dropped. “You what?”
“They said they liked the story I did for that magazine - that adult one, you remember? - and they would like something similar for a new show. They’re going to send me some details in the next few days.”
Sydney arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure it’s genuine?"
“I don’t know.” Mark shrugged, pushing the drawing board aside. “It all sounded pretty good, but I guess it’ll depend on whether anything shows up in the post.”
“Who was the caller?” Jarod asked curiously, his annoyance forgotten.
“He said his name was Michael Livingston,” the young man told him, unable to help enjoying the looks of amazement on the faces of the men opposite as he named the high-powered television executive.
“And he wants you to…?”
“He said,” Mark interrupted, “that he’d been shown the piece I wrote and felt that my style would translate very well to television. He’d like me to write a piece using some characters that he has in mind and see how it turns out. If that doesn’t work, he’ll give me a free hand to see what I can come up with on my own.”
Jarod gave a long, low whistle. “You’re made, Mark,” he stated. “If Livingston has that much faith in you then you’re set.”
Sydney eyed his former student. “You sound like you know him.”
“I met him once, when I was doing a spot of television.” He placed the empty glass onto the table and stretched. “He’s a great man, very intelligent and friendly. That sort of thing sounds typical for him, so I’d say this is probably the real thing.” Standing, he clapped Mark on the shoulder as he walked past. “Congratulations.” His eyes twinkled. “You might be a terrible patient, but you must be one heck of a writer.”
Cursing under his breath, Mark scrunched the paper into a ball and threw it in the direction of the overflowing waste-paper basket in the corner. A giggle from the corner made him look over to find Charlotte sitting on the floor, watching him. Pushing back the chair, he turned and held out his arms, seeing her run over to throw herself into them.
“Why don’t you write another story like the one you did before?” she asked, curling herself up on his lap.
“Because that’s not what the man wants,” Mark explained patiently. “And I have to do what he asked me for this time.”
She nodded wisely, looking at the list of names and photos that lay on the desk, a possible cast that Livingston had sent so Mark had faces to work with. Suddenly the girl giggled.
“That’s looks like Daddy,” she reported.
“You’re right,” Mark agreed, suddenly looking up as an idea struck him and he let Charlotte slip to the floor.
As the girl watched, he pushed the pages aside, pulling out a blank sheet and beginning to write a list of names on it. After a few minutes, she obviously tired of being ignored and, through his concentration, he heard her footsteps going to the door and leaving the room.
“Mark?” Jarod stuck his head around the door to find the young man seated at his desk, his head bent over a stack of papers. “Oh, you’re up already?”
“Up?”
The writer turned vaguely before looking back at his work and Jarod, struck by an idea, marched firmly into the room, seizing his arm and forcibly revolving the chair so that the young man looked up at him.
“You didn’t go to bed last night, did you?”
“Uh, well, maybe not.” Glancing at his watch, Mark’s eyes widened when he saw the time. “How did it get to six o’clock already?”
“I think I can guess,” Jarod told him somewhat acidly, dragging him out of the chair and picking up his sneakers, throwing them at him one by one. “Get them on. Now. I’ll meet you outside in one minute.”
“Bully,” Mark mumbled, bending down to slide on the shoes and rapidly doing up the laces as the doctor headed for the front door, opening it to find the two dogs waiting eagerly on the doorstep for their walk.
Entering the familiar building, Mark ignored the elevator to run up the several flights of stairs to the level on which the radiology department was situation. Jarod had ordered him to have annual tests to check for the type of cancer that had taken both his parents, and this had become almost a regular pattern by now. But today he was also required to undergo an MRI to check whether the tumor had regrown on his optic nerve. His lack of headaches and other symptoms suggested it hadn’t, but Jarod wasn’t taking any chances.
“Here again, Dr. Lyneham,” the nurse teased as he reported to the desk, and he grinned.
“I just thought you might have missed my smiling face,” he suggested with a grin, accepting the pile of blue hospital garb, hearing the woman groan as he disappeared into the change room.
His ears still ringing twenty minutes later from the MRI, he got dressed again and then walked to the small room where the nurse was waiting to take his blood.
“It’s good to see you looking so well,” the radiology technician told him as she clipped the band around his arm and began feeling for a vein.
“It’s even better to see,” he told her sincerely, half tempted to take the needle from her hand and get the blood sample himself, but forcing himself to let her do it.
“I can imagine,” she murmured, slipping the point under the skin and finding the vessel first time. The two people sat there for a moment, exchanging light banter, while she collected the required amount of blood. When it was done, Mark unclipped the tourniquet as the woman slid out the needle and pressed a cotton ball on to his arm, taping it down firmly.
Rolling down his sleeve, Mark left the radiology department with a few parting remarks to those of the staff he knew and wandered into the cafeteria, buying something for lunch and unthinkingly walking to the staff table. Stopping short, several paces away, he suddenly realized what he was doing and turned away with a heavy heart. He enjoyed his writing but still missed the work he had always wanted to do, and had only performed for such a relatively short time.
Recently, he had been thinking of asking Jarod if he could come back to it, but his time was more and more taken up with the new series he had begun to write an outline for, adding to the already substantial load that his books placed on him. Still, he had several hours now before the results of his tests would be ready, and he didn’t want to go back home with the knowledge that he would be unable to settle down to his writing again, thinking longingly of his old patients who were in the hospital now for further treatment as he sat down at a nearby table.
A hand came down on his shoulder and he turned to find Jarod standing behind him, holding his own lunch.
“Deserted the workers’ table, huh?”
“I’m a patient, Dr. Crawford,” Mark retorted somewhat acidly. “Not a staff member.”
The amusement left Jarod's face and he walked around to sit opposite the young man. “What is it, Mark? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, picking at the food on his plate. “I guess… being back here like this, I could almost imagine that I still work here.”
The doctor’s eyes softened. “Is that what you want?”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t know,” he repeated morosely.
Reaching into his pocket, Mark took out a letter that he had arrived only that morning and passed it over the table. Jarod took it out of the envelope and read it, understanding growing on his face as he returned it, waiting for Mark to continue.
“When I get something like that,” the author picked up the letter and returned it to his pocket, “and I can see how much people enjoy what I write, and that I can make a difference to their lives in such a big way, I realize how important my writing is. But I enjoyed working here so much…” He trailed off and looked pleadingly at Jarod. “Do you know what I mean?’
Chewing meditatively on his sandwich, the surgeon nodded slowly, recalling his own moments of longing to be doing something different. Jarod couldn’t deny that there were still times when he missed the variety of former days, although he was glad that the tension of the chase was over, providing him with the chance of a stable life.
Mark’s blue eyes suddenly took on an amused expression. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any work for a part-time specialist?”
Jarod smiled. ”You know, I think we might be able to manage something. A couple of days every week -- is that what you had in mind?
The young man stared, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.” Jarod gulped his coffee at one mouthful. “Actually, I’d be very pleased to have you working on the busiest days, and I’m sure Tony Young won’t mind either. His workload’s been getting heavier ever since he started on a permanent basis, a few weeks after your operation. I’ll talk to him tonight and see what he thinks of you coming in Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“They always were the worst,” Mark reminisced, his eyes glowing with anticipation.
“They still are,” Jarod informed him, getting to his feet. “I’ve got to get going, Mark, but I’ll see you at three with the results of those tests.” He paused momentarily to eye the young man opposite. “I don’t really think we’ll find anything abnormal.”
“I hope not,” the young man responded eagerly.
“And we can talk about it at home,” Jarod finished. “See you later.”
Nodding, Mark hardly noticed him walk away and never saw Jarod stop in the doorway to look over his shoulder for a moment before continuing on his way, chuckling softly in satisfaction. It was only when a group of nurses entered the dining room, nearly half an hour later, that he woke from his reverie and stood up to dump his trash.
Mark dropped into the chair in front of his desk and yanked off his tie, looking down at the letter on his desk. As he had anticipated, Michael Livingston hadn’t been satisfied with his script based on the producer’s ideas, and nor had Mark himself, but he had overcome that and presented his idea for a series to the man.
This had been an instant success. The letter was an enthusiastic review of the script, and he was eagerly entreated to send another episode as quickly as possible so that they could begin to think about casting and hiring crew. But there were a number of questions that needed answering before he could do that, and he was a little hesitant, unsure of the reaction from the people whose opinions he valued most.
“Mark!”
Turning, he saw that Nicole had poked her head around the door and he smiled. “What’s up?”
“Do you know when Jarod said he’d be back?”
“About an hour.” The doctor stood and strolled over to her. “He was just finishing with a patient when I left and he’s got to see the person he operated on this morning, but then he’ll be home.”
“Good.” The woman looked relieved. “The Broots’s are coming for dinner and I wanted to make sure he remembered.”
Mark grinned, taking the one-year-old boy from her. “This is Jarod we’re talking about here,” he reminded the man’s wife. “I’m sure he remembered.”
Thoughtfully he followed her down the hall to the kitchen, knowing that one of his problems had been solved. Charlotte ran to help as he began to peel the vegetables for the meal he intended to cook and he kept up a steady flow of chatter with both children while Nicole set the table.
“It’s a good thing you came,” Sydney remarked as he finished his dessert, eyes twinkling as Jarod glared at him and Broots looked up with interest.
“Oh, why?”
“You had to open your mouth, didn’t you?” Jarod snapped before turning to the former technician. “The fact is, my computer’s playing up and I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. Want to see if you can fix it?”
Broots’ wife turned from her daughters to stare at him in amazement. “I never thought I’d see the day,” she murmured, and received a glare of her own, laughing in response.
“Sure,” Broots agreed, standing up. “I haven’t had a real computer problem to sink my teeth into for a while.”
Jarod led him down the hall with a final backward glare at Sydney before they went into the office and the others, leaving Michelle and Nicole to clear up, went into the living room. As he sat in an armchair, Mark looked at the people opposite him. Sydney noticed the expectation in his eyes and raised an eyebrow.
“Is there something wrong, Mark?”
“Not wrong, exactly,” the man responded. Walking over to the bookcase, he took down a box and opened it. “You know how you’ve been bugging me about the subject of the series I’m writing?”
The psychiatrist’s expression became eager as he quickly explained the situation to Parker, who also looked hopeful.
“Well, I’ve done the pilot,” Mark told them. “They love it at the network, but I thought I’d see what you thought.”
He handed out the scripts, sitting down and watching the two people opposite. The reaction he’d been expecting was quick in coming.
Within seconds, both pairs of eyes widened and lifted to stare at him in utter disbelief.
“What?” he asked in a tone of innocence, also trying to sound hurt. “I thought it was good.”
The woman spluttered incomprehensibly several times before turning to the older man, who was speechless. Nicole entered the room to silence and raised an eyebrow.
“What’s going on?”
Mark handed her a script without a word, and she cast a wary glance at him before sitting down to look through it. Instead of shock, however, her reaction was to burst into giggles. The laughter was infectious and the three other adults joined in, leaving the younger members of the group to stare at them in bewilderment.
“It was Charlotte’s fault,” Mark told them when he could finally speak. “She said a photo I had of an actor looked like her father.”
“Who looked like me?” Jarod asked as he appeared in the doorway. His eyes traveled around the room, stopping at each red face. “What’s going on?”
Sydney choked violently before managing to frame the words. “Mark’s written his TV show about all of us and the Centre. It’s called The Pretender.”
