could have done it on her own, but she was incredibly glad that hadn’t been necessary. Far too glad.
Too glad meant she had lingering feelings rattling around inside her. When she’d made the decision to tell him about his daughter, she’d been so sure that wasn’t possible. Now she knew she was wrong. Leftover feelings were like embers after a forest fire, which could burst into flame with very little encouragement.
Considering he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, that made it a one-way street. Just like the last time and the scars on her heart were a continuing reminder of how that had turned out.
Cal now knew that Emily wasn’t lying, at least not about the lump in her breast. He’d thought about little else since leaving the doctor’s office yesterday and still didn’t know what to think or how to feel. That was the only reason he could come up with for stopping by her apartment without calling.
After parking across the street, he knocked on Em’s door and waited. When there was no answer, he tried again and the door beside hers opened.
Redheaded Lucy Gates stood there and somewhere behind her there was a child crying. “What do you want?”
Great. Miss Congeniality. “I stopped by to see Emily. And Annie.”
“Em’s not home.” Distrust rolled off her in waves.
“I see. Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”
She glanced over her shoulder and called out, “Patty? Did Em say how long she’ll be?” The answer was muffled and she said, “Soon.”
“Patty. Your roommate.”
“Right.” Her hostile look didn’t change, so it was a good guess that there were no points for remembering that. The child was still making unhappy noises.
“Who’s crying?” he asked.
Lucy’s expression asked why he cared, but she answered, “Henry.”
“Who’s Henry?”
“Patty’s little boy. He’s sick,” she volunteered.
“What’s wrong with him?”
She shrugged. “Probably a cold.”
“Fever?” he asked.
“Yeah. A little bit.”
“Do you want me to take a look at him?” Cal asked.
“I thought you didn’t do that stuff. It’s not an emergency—” She glanced over her shoulder when someone behind her spoke. “You’re a doctor, right? A pediatrician?”
“That’s what my diploma says. Does Henry have a pediatrician?”
“Not a regular one. We take the kids to a clinic.” Again, there was a muffled voice before she opened the door wider. “But maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a look at him.”
Cal nodded and stepped inside on the beige carpet. From what he could see, this apartment was a carbon copy of Emily’s floor plan—living room, small kitchen with dinette and a hall with two bedrooms on each side of it. On one wall sat a re-covered sofa, not a professional job, but still a charming floral print. The coffee table looked like a do-it-yourself dark-stained plywood number, but complemented the rest of the decor. The walls were filled with photos of children and kid-friendly prints. Other than toys scattered around, the place was spotless.
A blond girl about Lucy’s age stepped forward with a whimpering, sniffling, towheaded toddler in her arms. “I’m Patty. And this is Henry.”
“Hi.”
“Lucy said you’re a doctor.”
“That’s right.”
“Since you’re here…Would it be okay for you to take a quick look at him?” she asked, worry widening her big blue eyes. She should be at cheerleader practice and fretting about finals, not sharing an apartment with another teen mother.
“Sure.”
Another baby, Oscar, he remembered, was on a quilt beside the sofa with stuffed animals spread out around him. The little guy looked clean and well fed, what with the chubby arms and legs sticking out of his denim overalls.
Cal walked over and said to the under-the-weather boy in her arms, “Hey, buddy. You’re not feeling so good?”
The kid’s nasal discharge was clear, a positive indicator of no infection. Cal palpated his neck for enlarged lymph nodes or swelling and didn’t find anything abnormal. “He feels warm.”
“I just took his temp,” Patty said. “It’s a hundred.”
Cal nodded. “That’s not too bad. Do you have a flashlight?”
Lucy looked more puzzled than hostile now. “What for?”
“I’d like to look in his throat and I can see what’s going on better with a light.”
“We have one in the kitchen,” Patty said, walking into the room and opening a drawer.
“Set him on the counter for me, and let’s see if we can get him to open wide,” he directed. “How old is he?”
“Eighteen months.”
Patty did as directed and when Cal came close, Henry started to cry, which meant opening his mouth. Attaboy. He aimed the light and saw some mild redness, which was probably a result of postnasal drip. “I don’t have an otoscope—”
“A what?” Lucy asked.
“That’s the thing the doctor at the clinic uses to check their ears,” Patty answered.
“Right,” Cal said. “Has he been pulling at them?”
“No.” Patty held on to Henry’s arm with one hand and smoothed the hair off his forehead with the other. “He had one ear infection when he was six months old and I’ve been watching for that. But he’s just not acting like himself.”
Cal didn’t have a stethoscope on him, either, so he pressed his ear to the boy’s chest and back, listening for any evidence of wheezing or labored breathing but breath sounds were normal.
Patty grabbed the whimpering child when he held out his arms to her. “Is he okay?”
“I think it’s just a cold.”
“That’s what I said,” Lucy reminded him.
“Is there some medicine he should take?” Patty asked, shooting her roommate a stand-down stare.
“A children’s fever reducer will make him more comfortable. At this point an antibiotic won’t help because as far as I can tell it’s nothing more than a virus.” Which Henry had probably already shared with his pint-size roommate. “Is Oscar showing signs of not feeling well?”
“Not
