you’ll be feeling much better.”
She gave a weak nod.
“So how’d you sleep?” Gently, he touched a finger to the end of her upturned nose. “Did those busybody nurses keep you awake, taking your temperature and stuff?”
Her smile broadened a bit. “Yeah, but it’s okay. Mommy says they’re just trying to help me get better.”
He took her tiny hand in his. “What’s this?” Wade asked, grinning.
“A ladybug, crawling on a daisy,” she said. “This nice man came in and painted it on me.” Her blue eyes darted around, then settled on something across the room. “Miss Patrice brought him here.”
Wade followed Emily’s gaze to where “Miss Patrice” stood, entertaining Emily’s roommate. If the young woman had seen him enter, she gave no sign of it; her attention was fixed on her one-child audience.
Which was fine by Wade; volunteers had good intentions, what with their puppets and face paints and musical instruments, but in his opinion, their main contribution was to wear out his patients and generally get in the way.
“And if Nurse Joan tells me you don’t eat your supper again tonight,” Miss Patrice made her monkey puppet say, “I’m going to tell my best friend.”
The child snickered. “Yeah?” the girl demanded, grinning. “Who’s your best friend?”
“Why, Santa Claus, of course!” Miss Patrice manipulated the sticks controlling the puppet, making it tousle the child’s hair. Wade would have bet the kid’s peals of laughter could be heard all the way to the bank of elevators down the hall. He couldn’t help but notice that her merriment had crept to Emily’s side of the room, too.
“If Santa finds out you’re not taking proper care of yourself,” said the puppet’s gravelly voice, “there’s gonna be T-R-O-U-B-L-E.” She made the monkey wiggle a hairy finger under the girl’s nose. “And you know what that spells!”
“Trouble!” Emily answered, grinning from ear to ear. For the moment, at least, she appeared to have forgotten her pain.
Patrice whirled around, eyes wide and smiling, and, puppet balanced on her forearm, stepped up to Emily’s bed. “And just who do you think you are, li’l missy, the Spelling Bee Queen?”
“No, silly,” she giggled, “I’m Emily Kirkpatrick.”
“Pleased t’meetcha, Emily Kirkpatrick!” The monkey tickled her chin. “My name is Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey.”
“That’s a long name!”
Mort did a little jig on the edge of Emily’s bed, then tapped a paw to his chin. “Yes, it is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it. Tell you what…you can call me Mort.” The monkey’s hands rested on its hips. “Now tell me, cutie, how’re you doin’?”
“I had a op’ration yesterday.” She gave Wade an adoring look. “Dr. Cameron fixed the hole in my heart.”
The puppeteer met Wade’s eyes. For a moment, no one spoke…not even Mort McMonkey.
“Yes, so I heard,” Miss Patrice said at last.
The puppeteer had the most expressive face Wade had ever seen. The short, reddish-brown curls topping her pretty head reminded him of the elves on those cookie packages. He wondered why she allowed it to cover one eye; it seemed to him those big brown eyes were so warm, they could thaw an igloo.
She looked vaguely familiar, and he was about to admit it when she moved Mort aside enough to expose her name badge. Patrice McKenzie, it said.
“Will you be having supper with us tonight, Emily?” Mort asked.
Wade was too stunned to hear Emily’s response. He’d met a Patrice or two since that night, but how many Patrice McKenzies could there be? Can’t be that Patrice, he told himself.
Could it?
She blinked, confused, he presumed, by his scrutiny.
It had been fifteen years since he’d shared a bleak ER waiting room with a teary, terrified girl, but he’d recognize those big brown eyes anywhere. If the young woman on the other side of Emily’s bed wasn’t the same Patrice, he’d eat his stethoscope.
Mort started hip-hopping again. “Well, well, well,” the monkey said, “it looks to me like your Dr. Cameron is a real live hero, Emily Kirkpatrick!”
The girl’s mother stepped into the room just then. “Yes, yes he is,” she said, standing beside him.
Hero? The very idea was laughable! Wade wanted to warn them all that, in the first place, though Emily’s condition was much better than it had been at this time yesterday, she was far from out of the woods. And in the second place…
The train fiasco that had sent him to the ER all those years ago flashed through his memory. Heart pounding, Wade checked his watch. “So, are you ready to show me your incision, Em?”
She nodded. “Okay, I guess.”
Because of her heart condition, Emily wasn’t as big as other girls her age. The operation made her seem even smaller, frail, vulnerable. Wade finger-combed golden locks from her forehead. “Say goodbye to Mort,” he said gently, “’cause we need to close the curtain.”
She shook the monkey’s tiny, hairy hand. “G’bye, Mort. See you later?”
“You betcha!” The puppet waved at Emily, at the child in the next bed, at Mrs. Kirkpatrick, then at Wade. “See yas later, ’gators!”
As Patrice started for the door, Wade grabbed her elbow. “Mind hanging around a minute? I have something to ask you.”
Her dark brows rose slightly, as if to say, What could you possibly want to ask me?
“Okay,” Mort answered in Patrice’s stead, “but it’s gonna cost ya, Doc.”
For a reason he couldn’t explain, Wade abandoned his all-business demeanor. “Name your price, monkey face.”
The kids and Mrs. Kirkpatrick laughed as Mort slapped both fuzzy hands over his mouth. “Monkey face? Well, I never!” He shook a furry finger at the doctor. “It was gonna be just a cup of coffee, but after that remark, you’ll hafta throw in a slice of pie, too!”
Small price to pay, Wade thought, for a private session with Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey…and his handler.
“I’ll be in my office,” Patrice said.
For the second time in as many minutes, she’d used her own voice. Like everything else about her, it was adorable.
But wait—had she said her office? “Since when do hospital volunteers have offices?”
Patrice laughed, the sound reminding him of the small copper bells that used to hang on his mom’s back porch.
“Technically I’m not a volunteer,” she explained, walking backward
