Forever Sheltered
Dedications to Families Affected by Cancer
Forever Sheltered
A Novel from the Forever Series
By Deanna Roy
www.deannaroy.com
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Summary:
A doctor with a secret falls for the unorthodox art therapist at the hospital where he works, sparking a love affair that could destroy both their careers.
Copyright © 2014 by Deanna Roy. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Casey Shay Press
PO Box 160116
Austin, TX 78716
E-ISBN: 9781938150272
Also available in paperback: ISBN: 9781938150265
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014911601
v2.1
For Janice Roy
My mom
Over ten years cancer free
Jan Korfmacher
My mother-in-law
Decades cancer free
Stan Korfmacher
My father-in-law
Lost to prostate cancer in 2010
Mary Ballard Roy Wright
My grandmother
Survived breast cancer and lived another 20 years
And for all those lost to cancer
and those who have survived it,
including the hundreds listed
in the final pages of this book
by fans and readers
(
Go see!
)
•*´`*•
♥
•*´`*•
Chapter 1: Tina
Oh, that idiot jerk doctor just walked in here and demanded a favor.
A favor.
Demanded.
He strode into my art therapy room like he owned the place, with his high-dollar shoes and custom-tailored khakis, and said, “You have to do something for me.”
Right. I
have
to.
I whirled away from him to pick up a box of tempera paints and clutched it tightly with both hands.
It was either that or punch him in the face.
This was
my
room at the hospital. Where doctors weren’t the big shots. Where patients came to
escape
.
My cheeks were hot. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” I said, pointedly refusing to ask what the
something
he wanted me to do entailed. “You didn’t show up the last time you asked to meet with me.”
This same doctor blew me off two weeks ago. Set up a meeting and didn’t show.
Like his time was valuable, and mine was not.
I kept my back to him. A long moment passed. He stayed quiet, so I began to wonder if he’d snuck out.
Not a bad idea. Nobody likes me when I’m pissed off.
I checked the paints, chucking any colors that had dried out. I had less than ten minutes until my next therapy group arrived, a set of children from the cancer ward. It often took all my emotional strength to get through that hour. I wouldn’t give the doctor another thought.
Those kids had it so hard. They lost their hair. Threw up spontaneously. Dealt daily with the idea of death. Many were far from home, sent here to the specialty wing for cancer patients after their own hospitals had exhausted all options.
My days felt like battles, miniature war zones.
And yet here was this Dr. Darion Marks, asking me to do something for
him
.
I was so sure he was gone that I jumped when he spoke again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I couldn’t make our meeting two weeks ago,” he said.
Still no explanation. I turned a little so I could see the doctor, tall and stalwart in his white coat. He reminded me of a statue, perfect, chiseled, and cold as granite. I dropped the box of paints on the low table with a satisfying clunk.
“Hey.” His voice carried an impatient tone that sparked my anger into rage.
I glared at him. I was ready to give him a real piece of my mind when he switched tactics.
“Maybe we can start over,” he said with a smile I’m sure he thought was charming. “Hello, Ms. Schwartz. Could I ask you to help me with one of my patients?”
I hated him with a fury I usually reserved for people who kicked dogs. And my parents.
I grasped the back of a chair and leaned over it. Menacingly, I hoped.
“Dr. —” I pretended I couldn’t remember his name and peered at his badge, even though this doctor was pretty unforgettable. A classic face complete with dimples and a jaw of steel. Broad shoulders and a lean body. Well dressed. Most of the doctors here wore scrubs and took a laid-back approach. This Darion dude was clearly on the path to administration, even though he barely looked over thirty.
“Dr. Marks,” I said, “I treat all the patients who come into my room the same. Each one gets equal attention.”
“But this one lost her mother,” he said. He adjusted his tie, as if suddenly it was too tight. “Let me show her to you.”
I tried to avoid noticing how his pale blue dress shirt stretched over his chest as he reached around for his back pocket. He must use the workout room available to staff.
Use it a lot, actually.
I felt that familiar pounding that connected my heart to other interested body parts, but that was fine. I could ignore it. Or I could do a one-and-done with the doctor. That was no skin off my back, unless carpet burns were involved. I’d taken in men more powerful than this guy and showed them the door right after.
That sort of challenge was what made life interesting.
The doctor opened a hand-tooled brown leather wallet. One glance told me it cost as much as my entire outfit. Probably more, actually, since I got everything at resale shops.
Dr. Marks flipped the wallet open to a picture of a girl. Even with the mop of blond curls in this image, I recognized Cynthia. Her little head was smooth and bald from chemotherapy now. She used to come to art every day. Sometimes twice, if she could sneak in. I always let her.
Cynthia had been missing from my class for a couple weeks. She was the first of my patients to leave without warning, and I had been afraid to ask anyone why.
“I know her,” I said. “She’s very sweet.” I stuck my hands on my hips, purposely showing him some attitude. “Why do you have a picture of your patient in your wallet?”
This got him. He snapped it shut. “She gave it to me. Couldn’t exactly throw it away.”
I watched him with suspicion. Keeping it and putting it in his wallet were two very different things. Now that I looked closer, I could see something haunted in those gray eyes. Something that told me he had a past. Maybe not as bad as mine. I was hard to beat. But something had happened to him. Maybe this girl brought it back.
I felt my disdain soften a little.
A nurse I knew, Marlena, pushed an empty wheelchair through the door. “Just tucking this in here,” she said.
I smiled at her, ignoring the doctor. “Who’s it for?”
“Jake is going to come in on crutches today,” she said, smoothing back her perfect curtain of black braids. “PT went well. But I suspect he’ll be plumb worn out by the end. We’ll have this for him just in case.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Thanks, love,” Marlena said. She cast a furtive glance over at the doctor, raised her eyebrows at me, then left again.
When I turned back, the doctor’s face had grown angry. “So, you’ll watch Jake but not Cynthia?” he asked.
I heaved a long, annoyed sigh, one designed to make a point. I summoned my best whiny, put-out voice. “I already make sure they seem okay, don’t get too upset, that their IVs aren’t tangled or their tubes pinched or their color doesn’t alter or their breathing isn’t labored and a million other things on top of my actual job, which is to help them feel better about being in the hospital.”
Dr. Marks shoved his wallet back in his pocket. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and I had the craziest urge to press my hand to it, to calm him. I shook it off. I was supposed to be getting him out of here, not mooning over his dimples. I was hoping the whiny voice would make him leave.
He seemed disgusted by what he had to say next. “Cynthia likes you, Tina. She talks about you all the time.” Dr. Marks shoved both his hands in his lab coat pockets. The stethoscope around his neck was cocked sideways, one side longer than the other. If he didn’t adjust it, it was going to hit the floor. I resisted the urge to fix it.
I was watching him way too closely.
I relented. “I know,” I said in a more normal tone. “She wraps her arms around my leg and begs the nurse not to make her leave.” The image of the little girl, Cynthia, doing this softened my feelings yet another notch. Maybe this doctor had a similar experience with the child. The nurses doted on her.
“You’re important to her. Just — just don’t forget that. That’s all I ask.” Dr. Marks wouldn’t meet my eye now and stared down at his polished black shoes. “Your approval or disapproval of her drastically affects her day. How she does with her treatment. How much she eats. You’re important.”
I had no idea.
“I understand,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”
“That’s all I ask,” he said.
We both sounded different now. Like real people.
I plucked at my sleeves. “She’s been missing art class. Is she all right?”
Technically, I wasn’t allowed to be informed about a patient’s medical condition. I wasn’t a nurse, and I had zero medical credentials. I was just an artist with a college degree who had been hired as an emergency measure to fill a vacant slot no one else would take. The pay was crap. My job was temporary and had no benefits. But it was mine. I liked it. I helped patients color, paint, and sculpt to escape the awfulness of their treatments.
What I did here mattered. Maybe for the first time in my life.
The doctor cleared his throat. “She went to Houston seeking eligibility for a clinical trial of a new chemotherapy drug. She’s back. We’re hoping her leukemia will go into remission.” His jaw twitched again, and I could tell this time it was from upset, not anger. “It’s basically our only hope.”
I gave up on my bad attitude altogether. I didn’t know much about leukemia, but I did know Cynthia was fighting very hard. For some reason, this doctor had taken her case to his heart. He couldn’t be all bad.
I shifted a stack of paper to avoid having to look at him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” I said.
He got quiet, so I glanced back up. His eyebrows drew together. This was hard for him. I hadn’t seen him around much, although I knew he was an oncologist, one of the hotshots working on a new specialty. I was never sure I could handle such constant contact with so much loss, in children so young. Although, who knows, maybe I was perfect for it. Anything longer than the three short hours my own baby had lived felt like forever.
“Thank you,” he said.
Time to just play it straight. “You’re welcome, Dr. Marks.”
“Darion, please.” He flashed a small smile, this one without the forced charm. I remembered our last meeting, when he asked me out for coffee. My friend Corabelle had encouraged it. But Corabelle didn’t know I had a rule I never violated. One date. One night. And that’s it.