janet dailey- the healing touch (7 page)

"This was a good idea," she said, dipping into a bit of whipped cream stained pink from the maraschino cherry juice. "Tell Katie I like it when she takes charge of her father."

"No way. The kid's got me under her control too much already. There's no point in encouraging tyranny."

Rebecca couldn't help noticing, not for the first time, that Michael Stafford had a breathtaking smile. And she couldn't deny the way she felt when he flashed it in her direction. Did he know the effect he had on women? More specifically, on her?

Probably, she decided. Most gorgeous men were all too aware of their attractiveness. Rebecca had never found herself drawn to that type—at least, not for more than a few minutes. She found their vanity diluted their overall appeal.

But Michael didn't seem vain. Guarded, maybe a bit sarcastic at times, deeply hurt, but not conceited.

"Tell me about your business," she said, fishing for an impersonal line of conversation. Her heart seemed to be leading her mind down paths that were best left unexplored.

"We import specialty automobiles from Europe," he said, seeming pleased t
hat she would ask. "Usually, we
have an interested customer first, then we use our contacts to locate what they want and bring it in for them. I've been in business for seven years, and I make a pretty decent living at it. What else would you like to know?"

"What do you like best about what you do?" she asked, hoping the answer would tell her something new about this man who kept himself so closed off from the rest of the world.

He thought for a moment before answering. "The challenge, I suppose, of finding exactly the right car, of being able to fulfill a lifelong dream for someone. Many of these people have been saving for years in hopes of owning that one special car. Besides, most of our cars are vintage classics, and some are in really bad condition when we get them. It's wonderful to rescue an old Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost from a scrap pile in Britain and bring it back to life."

"You like to take something old and worn-out and make it young again," she observed. "I wish I could do that for some of my patients. What do you like least?"

"Sometimes I'm not fulfilling a lifetime dream. Some customers are just spoiled and the car is nothing but another expensive toy to them. I still get paid, but it isn't as satisfying."

Silently, Rebecca digested this information. She had thought him a materialistic workaholic, spending long hours in search of the almighty buck. But he didn't seem to care that much about money. So why did he work so hard?

She didn't have to think too long about that one. He threw himself into his work because he was a man running scared. Scared of his own emotions, scared of loving, scared of losing and hurting.

She knew the feeling.

When they had finished their splits, he ordered a cup of coffee for each of them, then settled back to drink it. "Tell me about your work," he said. "What do you like and what do you hate?"

"I suppose it sounds pretty sappy, but I really do love the animals. I enjoy helping them, relieving their pain when I can, preventing it sometimes."

She looked into his eyes to see if he found her silly or overly sentimental. But she saw something unexpected in those blue depths—respect.

"You have that special gift, Dr. Rebecca," he said. "I've always admired someone who has the healing touch. Being a healer, of man or beast, must be a wonderful way to spend your life."

Rebecca started to reply but was interrupted by a buzzing vibration against her ribs. She sighed as she reached down and unsnapped her pager from her belt.

"This," she said as she pressed the button to display the telephone number, "is what I don't enjoy about being a vet. I seldom get to eat or sleep without being interrupted at least once."

When she saw the number and the 911 suffix, her heart sank. Instantly, she knew who was calling and why.

"Is something wrong?" Michael asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Ifs the Rileys, an old couple with an ancient golden retriever named Midas. He hasn't been doing very well lately." She replaced the pager on her belt and grabbed her purse. "They live only a few blocks away. Would you mind terribly dropping me off there? They'll give me a ride home."

"Of course." He tossed some bills onto the table and followed her to the door. "But when I take a lady out- even for ice cream—I also take her home. I'll give you a lift there, but I'll wait while you do your doctoring thing."

"Thank you," she said, grateful for his company. But as they walked across the restaurant parking lot to the Jaguar, she recalled the details of Midas's condition and had some misgivings. "I appreciate your offer, but I don't know if you'll want to be along on this one, Michael. Not all of a vet's stories have happy endings."

He thought for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "I understand. But if it's going to be a difficult call, wouldn't it be easier to have a friend along?"

"Yes," she said, not caring what the implication might be, what a comforting, male presence might mean, how the events of this afternoon might complicate her life. Against her will, she thought of Tim and how much she missed having someone go with her on these difficult calls. "It would make it a lot easier," she heard herself saying. "Thank you, Michael."

Beatrice and Jack Riley had each other, pretty good health for their seventy-plus years, a small house with

a rainproof roof, a 1956 Chevrolet that they had bought new and Midas.

In dog years, the golden retriever was older than either of them, and Rebecca had been called out several times in the past few months to address his various aches and ills.

But the last time she had been to the little house on Cleveland Avenue, she had suspected that Midas wasn't long for this world.

Her suspicion was confirmed the moment she stepped through their doorway and saw him lying on his blanket in front of the fireplace. No matter how sick he had been before, he had always rushed to the door to greet her. But now, he simply lay there, the only sign of life his chest barely rising and falling.

Beatrice Riley ushered Rebecca and Michael inside and closed the door behind them. Rebecca briefly introduced Michael to her, then turned her full attention to the dog.

"He seemed kind of under the weather last night," Beatrice said. "More than usual, that is. And this morning, he couldn't get up. He hasn't moved or eaten all day and he's been whimpering constantly. I know he's in pain. That's why I called you."

"Yes, of course, Bea," Rebecca replied. "Don't worry. You did the right thing."

The retriever was lying on his left side, his nose pointed toward the fire. As she knelt beside him on the floor, his tail gave a faint thump of recognition.

"Yes, Midas, ifs me," she said, stroking the once beautiful golden coat that had lost its luster. "Ifs that mean woman who sticks needles and thermometers in you and makes you take rotten-tasting medicines."

Gently, Rebecca ran her hand along his spine, searching for the growth that she had discovered on her last visit. There it was, next to the vertebrae, at least twice the size it had been only a few weeks before.

The dog whined more loudly as she palpated the area around the lump. "I'm sorry, Midas," she said, stroking his ears instead. "I didn't mean to hurt you anymore, old boy. Is it pretty bad? Yes... I thought so."

Looking up at Beatrice, Rebecca saw the anxiety, the sorrow in her eyes. Michael stood behind her, wearing a similar expression. They both knew. Rebecca had only to speak the words, but they were the most difficult words she had to utter in the course of her work.

"The tumor has invaded his spine, Bea," she said softly. "That's the reason for his paralysis. There's nothing we can do about that. As I told you before, it's too involved for surgery."

Beatrice said nothing but nodded, her eyes filling with tears.

"Where is Jack?" Rebecca asked, looking around, hoping Bea wouldn't have to endure this experience alone.

"He's gone to Orange County, to visit his sister. She hasn't been feeling well either."

Rebecca wished she could wait for Jack's return, but Midas deserved better th
an that. "Well, I wish I didn't
have to tell you this, but you were right, Midas is in a lot of pain. We have to think about what's best for him. I don't think it's fair to let him go on suffering when we can help him."

"You mean... put him down? Now?"

"Yes, that's what I mean. You've given him a wonderful life, he's sixteen years old, and I believe he's finished and ready to leave. We'll just be easing him on his way. It's a very gentle passing, I promise."

Rebecca watched as the fear rose in the woman's eyes. In her years as a veterinarian, Rebecca had found a pet's owner far more afraid of death than the animal.

"I can't," Beatrice said, backing away. "I mean, I'll let you do it, if you think it's best, but I can't watch." She burst into tears. "I'm sorry. I feel like a traitor, but I just can't help you do it."

Rebecca rose, walked over to the woman and put her arms around her. "Please don't feel guilty, Beatrice. Many owners can't watch their pets be put to sleep. There's no reason to put yourself through it if you'd rather not. I'll take care of it all."

"Will you... will you talk to him and pet him when you...?"

"Of course I will."

Michael stepped forward and placed a hand on Beatrice's forearm. "Mrs. Riley, why don't you let me take you out into your backyard. Some fresh air will do you good."

He turned to Rebecca and lowered his voice. "I'll be back in a minute or two to help you."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine. You just take care of Bea for me," she replied, silently blessing him for his compassion.

She waited until she heard the back door close, then she returned to her patient.

Sitting beside him, she slowly, carefully lifted his head into her lap and began to stroke his ears. The big, brown eyes opened for a moment, and she knew, despite the pain, he was enjoying the attention.

She pulled her bag toward her and reached into it for the syringe and necessary medication. Laying her supplies aside, she petted him again, speaking soft, soothing words. "There, there, Midas. It's going to stop hurting very soon. You've been such a good dog, guarding the house all these years, chasing those pesky mailmen and meter readers. You put up with Bea's bunko parties, and Jack's snoring and those noisy grandkids. You fetched all those sticks and took Jack for all those walks. But now your work is done and you get to rest."

Quickly and efficiently, Rebecca administered the necessary dosage. The dog barely even flinched when her needle found the vein. He truly was tired and ready to leave.

Relief came within seconds; Rebecca felt him relax in her arms and his tail thumped once more. She continued to stroke his ears and speak to him until she felt the essence that had been Midas Riley leave the wom-out body.

"How can you stand it?"
Michael
asked as he turned the Jaguar onto the main highway that led back to Rebecca's home. "How can you deal with that sort of sadness on a regular basis? I wouldn't be able to take it."

He wasn't the first to ask that question; Rebecca had asked her own heart the same thing many times. So she gave him the answer that she had always received.

"Sadness isn't necessarily a bad thing," she said, watching as the landscape swept by her window. "It's just part of the fabric of life. So is death. Souls come into the world, souls leave."

"Are you telling me that Midas is in heaven now?" he asked with a half-sarcastic smirk.

"I don't think he's sitting on a cloud somewhere, sprouting wings and a halo and playing a harp, if that's what you mean. But I've held enough living creatures in my arms at the moment of their deaths, and I do know one thing... they leave, they don't just stop."

He was silent for a long time, and she could feel the impact that her words had on him. She wasn't sure why.

Pulling off the highway, he guided the car up the drive to her house. He parked in front and turned off the ignition.

"I wish I could believe you," he said softly, staring straight ahead... and into the past.

Rebecca said nothing but waited, knowing that he needed to continue.

"I wasn't there when my wife died." His expression and the tone of his voice suggested that he was making a confession of the most
difficult kind. "I left the hos
pital twenty minutes before..."

She noticed that he was gripping the seat with fingers that trembled. Reaching down, she covered his hand with hers. "If you'd known, you would have stayed," she said. "Your wife knew your heart. I'm sure she understood."

"I hope so. Were you there, with your husband when he...?"

"No. He was killed instantly in the accident."

"Does it feel strange to you that you weren't there, that you didn't share something so important with your mate after going through so many other things together?"

"Yes, very strange."

Neither of them spoke as he waited for the flood of emotion to subside. Finally, he said, "How long does it take, Dr. Rebecca, for a heart to heal? At least enough that you can stand the pain?"

"I suppose that depends on the person and the circumstances. But for me, the hurt began to fade when I began to let go of it."

He turned to her, puzzled. "What do you mean? Why would anyone hang on to a pain that hurts so much?"

She shrugged and gave his hand a squeeze. "Maybe to punish themselves because of some sort of misplaced guilt."

Rebecca knew that her words had struck home by the way he winced, then pulled his hand away from hers.

"Thanks for having ice cream with me, Dr. Rebecca," he said, making it clear that he considered the social amenities over. "I'll walk you to your door."

His abrupt dismissal surprised and hurt her. One moment they seemed close, almost friends, but the next instant the intimacy was broken. She felt as though she had reached out to him and he had pushed her away.

"You don't need to escort me," she said as she opened the car door. "It's still daylight. I can find my own way."

"Rebecca, wait," he said, reaching for her. His hand closed around her forearm, his touch imparting his warmth and particular male vitality. "Thank you for what you said. You're right. But I have to think about it before I can... you know..."

"Yes, of course. I understand."

As Rebecca watched him drive away, she realized that she understood him much better than she wanted to. His heart had suffered a blow from which he would probably never fully recover. So had hers. He was afraid to love that deeply again, to risk losing again. So was she.

And, judging by the look in his eyes when he had told her goodbye, he was terrified that continued contact with her might cause his heart to open up again, might make him vulnerable to loving and maybe losing.

Oh, yes, Rebecca understood all too well. She was terrified, too.

It was always so much easier to see what someone else needed to do, to give advice and expect than to accept it gracefully. But it was quite another to take your own words to heart, she decided as she walked into her house, which seemed more empty, more silent than before.

In spite of all the wonderful things in her life, Rebecca knew there was an emptiness, a void in her heart. It had been there since Tim's death.

The silence... the heavy, oppressive silence was always there to remind her of all she had lost.

Her heart didn't seem to be speaking to her much anymore.

Or, maybe, somewhere along the line, she had simply stopped listening.