“and the ones around here seem to trust you a lot.”
Melanie shrugged. She didn’t know if that was exactly accurate. She was just a familiar face for them. “They’re just desperate...” she allowed, not wanting to take any undue credit.
Theresa laughed, nodding. “Aren’t we all, one way or another?” This was the perfect point to just retreat, before Melanie could think of any further objections to her interacting with Mitch on a one-to-one basis. So Theresa did. “I really do need to get back to the kitchen to get things set up and ready or dinner is going to be late,” she told Melanie.
About to leave, Theresa hesitated. It wasn’t just small sad faces that got to her. She’d been infinitely aware of the sadness in Melanie’s eyes from the first moment she’d been introduced to the volunteer.
Coming closer to Melanie, she lowered her voice so that only Melanie could hear her. “But I just wanted to tell you that should you ever need to talk—or maybe just need a friendly ear—I’m here at the shelter every other week.” She knew she was telling Melanie something that she already knew. “And when I’m not—”
Digging into the pocket of her apron, Theresa extracted one of her business cards. Taking a pen out of the other pocket, she quickly wrote something on the back of the card, then held the same card out to Melanie.
“Here.”
Melanie glanced at the front of the card. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’m going to be having any parties that’ll need catering any time soon.”
Theresa didn’t bother wasting time telling the young woman that she wasn’t offering her catering service, but her services as a sympathetic listener. “That’s my private number on the back. If I’m not home, leave a message.”
Melanie didn’t believe in pouring out her heart and burdening people, especially if they were all but strangers. “But we don’t really know each other,” she protested, looking at the card.
“That’s what phone calls are for,” Theresa told her. “To change that.” She paused for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say something further. “I know what it feels like to lose someone you love.”
Melanie stared at her, stunned. She’d exchanged a few words with the other woman and found Theresa Manetti to be a very sweet person, but she’d never shared anything remotely personal with her, and certainly not the fact that her fiancé had been killed. Why was the woman saying this to her?
As if reading her mind, Theresa told her, “The director told me about your young man. I am very, very sorry.”
Melanie stiffened slightly. “Yes, well, I am, too,” she replied, virtually shutting down.
But Theresa wasn’t put off so quickly. “I think it’s a very good thing, your being here. The best way to work through what you’re feeling right now is to keep busy, very, very busy. You have to stay ahead of the pain until you can handle it and it won’t just mow you down.”
“I am never going to be able to handle it,” Melanie told her with finality.
“I think you’re underestimating yourself,” she told Melanie. “You’re already thinking of others. Trying to talk that young mother into taking her son to see a doctor is definitely thinking of others.”
Melanie’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the older woman. “How did you know?” She’d had that conversation with Brenda before Theresa had come on the scene.
Theresa merely smiled, approximating, she knew, the look that sometimes crossed Maizie’s face. She swore that she and Celia were becoming more like Maizie every day. “I have my ways, dear,” she told Melanie just before leaving. “I have my ways.”
He was having second thoughts.
Serious second thoughts.
Anyone who was vaguely acquainted with Dr. Mitchell Stewart knew him to be focused, dedicated, exceedingly good at everything he set out to do and definitely not someone who could even remotely be conceived of as being impetuous. The latter meant that having second thoughts was not part of his makeup.
Ever.
However, in this one singular instance, Mitch was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of what he had agreed to undertake.
It didn’t mean that he wasn’t up to it because he lacked the medical savvy. What he would be doing amounted to practicing random medicine, something he hadn’t really done since his intern days. These days he was an exceptionally skilled general surgeon who garnered the admiration and praise of his colleagues as well as the head of his department and several members of his hospital’s board of directors.
Mitch could truthfully say that he had never been challenged by any procedure he’d had to perform. In the arena of the operating world, it was a given that he shined—each and every time. He made sure of it, and was dedicated to continuing to make that an ongoing fact of his life.
But just as he knew his strengths, Mitch was aware of the area where he did not shine. While he was deemed to be a poetic virtuoso with a scalpel, when it came to words, to expressing his thoughts and explaining what he was going to do to any layman, he was sadly lacking in the proper skills and he was aware of that.
However, that was not enough for him to attempt to change anything that he did, or even to attempt to learn how to communicate better than he did. He didn’t have time for that.
Mitch truly felt that successfully operating on an at-risk patient far outweighed making said patient feel better verbally about what was about to happen. His awareness of his shortcoming was, however, just enough for him to acknowledge that this was an area in which he was sorely lacking.
Hence, the second thoughts.
As he drove to the Bedford Rescue Mission now, Mitch readily admitted to himself that he’d agreed to volunteer his services at the local homeless shelter in a moment of general weakness. His mother had ambushed him unexpectedly, showing up on his doorstep last Sunday to remind him that it was his birthday and that she was taking him out to lunch whether he liked it or not.
She had assumed that as with everything else that didn’t involve his operating skills, he had forgotten about his birthday.
He had.
But, in his defense, he’d pointed out to her patiently, he’d stopped thinking of birthdays as something to celebrate around the time he’d turned eighteen. That was the year that his father had died and immediately after that, he’d had to hustle, utilizing every spare moment he had to earn money in order to pay his way through medical school.
Oh, there had been scholarships, but they didn’t cover everything at the school he had elected to attend and he was not about to emerge out of medical school with a degree and owing enough money, thanks to student loans, to feed and clothe the people of a small developing nation for a decade. If emerging debt free meant neglecting everything but his work and his studies, so be it.
Somewhere along the line, holidays and birthdays had fallen by the wayside, as well. His life had been stripped down to the bare
