Of Flesh and Blood (13 page)

She pulled away from the contact.

Tyler straightened. “Nikki, I . . . um . . . didn’t mean to—”

Before he sputtered another word out, she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his face to hers. Their lips met, and the moist contact catapulted his desire. Pressing his mouth harder against hers, he slipped his hand under her shirt and caressed the skin of her back.

Nikki’s tongue gently probed his lips. Tyler pulled her even closer, lifting her off the backseat. Lithely, she balanced on one knee and leaned into him without breaking off their kiss. Her hand massaged his scalp and neck as their tongues meshed frantically.

Tyler slid his hand around to her abdomen and let it skitter over the smooth firm skin. His fingers ran up until they reached the silky fabric of her bra, and he squeezed one of her small, firm breasts. She uttered a soft sigh into his mouth that only tightened the hardness inside his jeans.

The car slowed. “We’re here,” the driver said in a singsong, knowing voice as he brought the cab to a stop in front of a modern-looking condominium complex.

Nikki slipped out of Tyler’s grip and furtively straightened her shirt. They shared a glance. She bit back a laugh and hopped out of the car. He groped in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He rushed to pay the happy driver, leaving a tip larger than the fare.

As soon as Tyler reached the sidewalk, Nikki grabbed his hand in hers. She squeezed it once and then pulled him toward the front door. Resisting his attempts to kiss her there, she fumbled in her purse for the keys. She unlocked the door and led him inside. Hand in hand, they rode the elevator in silence to the fourth floor.

Nikki led him halfway down the hallway to her apartment. She opened the door and Tyler followed inside. He barely had a chance to take in the interior, because the moment the door closed behind them she vaulted into his arms, pinning him against the door. Her legs straddled his hips. Her mouth hungrily explored his as her hands squeezed his shoulders and upper back.

“Bedroom?” Tyler panted between kisses.

Nikki thumbed over her shoulder. With her legs still wrapped around him, he carried her light frame through the open doorway. With a tap of her elbow against the wall switch, two floor lamps lit the room. Tyler carried her over and deposited her on the textured blue comforter on top of her bed.

Hitting the mattress, Nikki pulled Tyler down by his shirtfront on top of her. He kissed her hard on the lips and then eased out of her grip. “I just need the bathroom for a moment.”

“First door on your left.” She winked. “Hurry.”

Tyler rushed to the bathroom and stepped over to the sink. He cupped
his hands in front of the faucet and splashed the cold water generously in his face. Looking up, he caught his reflection. He studied his slightly hooked nose, square jaw, and blue eyes, but saw none of the attractiveness that women sometimes remarked on. Instead, a sudden wave of disgust overcame him. He was staring at the face of a con artist.

Tyler had a mental vision of adorable Miracle Mikey, and all the years of needles and drugs the boy still faced before he would be anywhere close to being cured. He thought of Nikki, and how she had watched her fiancé die and then had to overcome a career-threatening battle with addiction. His thoughts turned to Jill. For all their differences and recent strife, they had been there for each other for ten years. And Tyler was poised to take steps that he would not be able to undo.

A wave of shame chilled him more than the cold water dripping off his face. He ran a hand through his hair, turned off the tap, and dried his hands on the towel. The line between fantasy and reality had grown starkly clear under the bright bathroom lights.

Tyler trod back to the bedroom. Nikki lay under a comforter, her skin bare from where the edge of the comforter ended just above her breasts.

She viewed him with an open-mouthed smile. “It’s toasty under here.”

For a split second, Tyler almost forgot the guilt and hopped into bed with her. Instead, he dropped his gaze to the floor and muttered, “Nikki, I have to go.”

Erin McGrath surveyed the family room. Her sons’ stuff—sweaters, jerseys, baseball mitts, tennis rackets, books, and DVD cases—was scattered everywhere. Couches were buried under their junk, while the pillows and throw blanket were strewn haphazardly across the floor. A bomb might have left less fallout.

The anger surged inside her. “Martin! Simon!” she shouted. “You get your sorry asses down here. And I mean
now!
”

There was no reply, except from their Australian shepherd, Tobi, who had been sleeping on a couch half buried under a pile of jackets. The dog sprang up, jumped to the ground, and, assuming she was in trouble, scurried out of the room with ears back and tail tucked between her legs.

“
Boys! Don’t you push me today!
” Erin hollered.

Still no response. Erin looked down and noticed her hands were shaking.

What’s gotten into me?
she wondered. The state of the family room wasn’t much different from usual. Clutter was as much a part of their family life as the many animals they kept.

Must be the fatigue
, Erin rationalized away her uncharacteristic tantrum.

She had been up, operating, through most of the night. As the on-call cardiac surgeon, she had to rush in to the Alfredson at midnight to replace a heart valve that had ruptured in a sixty-year-old accountant after he suffered a massive heart attack. He survived the surgery only to succumb to his mangled heart minutes later in the recovery room. The futility of the procedure combined with his wife’s quiet devastation had compounded Erin’s weariness.

I’m exhausted, that’s all
, Erin reassured herself. But the tremor didn’t
subside. Instead, the imaginary fingers crept around her neck.
Not again, damn it!

Anxiety mounting, she felt herself falling into her second panic attack in as many days.

Slow your breathing!
she commanded herself. But her lungs wouldn’t cooperate, and the pins and needles spread up from her toes and fingers. Helpless to stop it, she felt her respirations deepen to the point of hyperventilation. And then, as she expected, her throat closed over. No matter how hard she breathed, she couldn’t get enough air.

It’s not real!
she repeated again and again. But the mantra failed miserably to reassure her. Light-headedness overcame her. She shot out a shaky hand to grab the wall beside her and support her weight on legs that had turned to spaghetti.

“
Rin?
”

Erin jerked her head over to see her husband standing at the doorway in a T-shirt and jeans, plumbing snake in his hand. Steve Aylsford gaped at his wife. “What is it, hon?”

“I . . . am okay,” she choked out.

Steve dropped the tool on the floor and raced over to her side. Grabbing Erin tightly by her upper arm, he guided her away from the wall and led—practically dragged—her to the nearest couch. He pushed a stack of books and magazines out of the way, and then lowered her into the spot he had just cleared.

Steve’s presence—his forceful grip on her upper arm and the faint familiar smell of his deodorant—helped calm her slightly. The weight on her chest diminished and her breathing eased. But she could not stop trembling.

Steve released her arm and dropped onto the couch beside her. Draping his arm over her shoulders, he pulled her closer. “Talk to me, Rin.”

“I’ll be okay in minute,” she gasped.

Steve ran his hand along her brow, mopping away rivulets of sweat. “What the hell’s going on? You look like you just saw a ghost . . . or ten.”

Erin forced herself to take slower, shallower breaths and to pause between them. She clasped her hands in her lap to lessen the shake. “Lately, I’ve been having these . . . episodes.”

“Episodes?”

“More like attacks.” She sighed. “Panic attacks, I think.”

“Panic?
You?
” he cried. “Rin, in twenty years, I’ve never seen you spooked. Not even a little scared. I’m the only chicken on this farm.”

She laughed nervously. “Yeah? Well, make room in the coop. There’s two of us now.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Panic attacks, Rin. Come on.”

Still struggling to speak in sentences, Erin merely nodded and snuggled tighter against him. The bristles of at least three days’ worth of stubble tickled her cheek. Ever since he had forsaken his engineering career to stay at home with his sons and run their farm, Steve shaved less often. And his cheeks, his whole face, had filled out over the past years. He used to be as wiry as a distance runner, but he had put on weight while his reddish-blond hair steadily thinned. At forty-three, he resembled his father more than she would once have ever dreamed possible. Erin didn’t care, though. She loved him as much as ever. An incredibly involved father, he had boundless patience for their sons, and he shared their insatiable curiosity. Simon and Martin had inherited his irrepressible enthusiasm.

Steve loosened his grip and studied her face. From the amused glint that had returned to his eyes, Erin figured she must look a bit better. She felt it, too. Either this attack had been minor or her husband’s presence had helped to abort it.

“Rin, how many of these ‘episodes’ have you had?”

“Six or seven.”

“How long have they been going on?”

She shrugged. “Couple months.”

“
Months?
” He grimaced. “Erin, when were you going to tell me?”

Steve only called her by her proper name on the rare occasions when he was upset with her. “I thought things were getting better after I started the medicine,” she said.

The skin around his eyes furrowed. “You’re on drugs? Who prescribed them?”

“I did.”

Steve shook his head, disapproving. “What’s that old saying about the physician who treats herself?”

“That she has a fool for a patient.” Erin pulled away from him. With her panic gone, irritation began to rise in its place. “I know that, Steve.”

But he didn’t let up. “You’re a cardiac surgeon. I don’t imagine panic attacks exactly fall into your realm of expertise.”

“I did go to medical school.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t you get it, Steve?” Her words caught in her throat. “Heart surgeons aren’t supposed to have panic attacks.”

His expression softened. “I suppose not.”

“Would you put your heart in the hands of someone who might panic at any moment?”

“Rin, you have to talk to someone.”

She reached out and touched his furry cheek. “I’m talking to you.”

He chuckled. “Lot of good that’ll do you. A chemical engineer might even be less useful than a chest cutter on this one.” He tilted his head. “Isn’t there someone at the Alfredson? A therapist?”

She nodded. “There’s a psychiatrist who sees some of my open-heart patients. She’s very good.”

“Will you talk to her?”

“Yeah, I should,” she muttered halfheartedly.

He shook a finger at her. “Yeah, you’d better.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “You were my knight in shining armor just now.”

Steve grinned self-consciously. “With a toilet snake instead of a lance.”

“The right tool for the right job is what I say.” She got to her feet, pleased to find that the strength had returned to her legs. “Where are the boys?”

“Down at the school, shooting hoops.”

Erin glanced at her watch. “I better head back to the Alf. I have to do ward rounds.”

She began to walk away, but Steve caught her gently by the wrist. “Ever since you came back from that African mission—”

“It wasn’t a mission,” she snapped. “I didn’t go there to convert tribesmen to Christianity.”

“Okay. Okay.” Steve released her wrist and raised his hands. “Poor choice of words. Rin, you know how much I believed in that trip.”

She stroked his shoulder. “I know.”

“It’s just that ever since you came back, you seem . . .”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I seem what?”

Steve met her stare. “Reserved. A little more irritable. Not quite your easygoing self.”

She shrugged.

“Rin, it’s like you left a little of your spark in Kenya.”

“Shit, Steve. That’s a bit much.”

“I’m not the only one who noticed,” he said gently. “Your brother did, too.”

“Tyler? He never said anything.”

“You hardly talk about Kenya, Rin.”

“Medical stuff bores you to tears.”

“You know what I mean.” He frowned. “Could your episodes have something to do with that incident in the operating room? With those militia fighters?”

That incident
, Erin thought grimly. She turned from her husband with an evasive shrug. In the more than half of her lifetime that they had been together, Erin had shared everything with him, except the real story of what had happened that day in Nakuru. She didn’t fully understand why she had glossed over the details except that it had happened on the other side of the world—the Third World—and the best way to keep it compartmentalized, she rationalized, was to not talk about it, not even with Steve.

Erin tried to hold the memory at bay now, but it didn’t work. Her mind flashed back to that crowded operating room in Nakuru. She could feel the room’s oppressive heat. She pictured the skeletal, ebony-skinned patient—a tribal elder—still awake on the table. She fought off a shudder as she remembered the sudden cadence of footsteps marching nearer. And she would never forget how, at the noise, her patient sprang up from the table. “
The Kikuyu!
” he had whispered, his eyes huge with fear.

Those damn footsteps
.

“What, Rin?” Steve asked.

Afraid the memory might trigger another panic attack, she shook her head. “I’m really late.” She leaned forward, brushed her lips over his cheek, and then headed for the door. “I should be home by mid-afternoon.”

Erin raced out the door, faster than she needed to, and drove to the hospital in an adrenaline-depleted fog.

As she performed rounds on her postoperative patients, Erin had trouble concentrating on her work. When she reached the surgical ICU, she was
surprised but pleased to discover that the ICU team had gotten her transplant patient, Kristen Hill, off the ventilator. It was a positive sign to see her breathing on her own, even though Kristen still depended on the assistance of the balloon pump inside her aorta and was wired to more lines and tubes than a home furnace.