1 Chapter 1

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor of the rehab wing of University Medical Center. The door opened and Ryan Phillips stepped back to let two of his fellow workers exit before him. He held his venti mocha against his chest to keep it safe. Exiting the cab himself, he walked to the reception desk. It felt strange to be carrying only one mocha into work: strange and sad at the same time. But it was better this way. No chance of being torn apart anymore.

“Morning, Ry,” always cheerful Rita, the receptionist in the cubicle, sang out. How’s the handsomest guy in the clinic doing today?”

“Good morning, Rita,” he replied with a smile.

He avoided making any comment on his current state of being. He had always been rankled by the perfunctory ‘fine’ response everyone always gave when you knew damn well half the time they weren’t. So, to avoid thinking himself a hypocrite by saying he was okay when he wasn’t, he just said, “I’m the only guy in the clinic, Rita. And it’s, ‘most handsome,’” the language therapist in him interjected.

“Well, you didn’t used to be the only guy, and even then you were the most handsomest.”

Ouch! He left himself open to that. Rita’s good natured teasing reminded him, as did the single venti mocha he carried, that Jeff was no longer around.

As if to rub salt into a wound she didn’t know existed, Rita asked, “Have you heard from Jeff since he left? How’s he doing over at St. Joe’s? That’s where he went, right?”

“Er…Yeah, that’s right…St. Joe’s. No, I haven’t heard from him.”

Technically, that wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t talked to Jeff since he’d left his position at the U for a new job in physical therapy at the other major hospital in town two weeks earlier. He had received several phone calls which, when he had seen Jeff’s number come up on caller I.D., he let go to voicemail. They were still there, unheard. I should just delete them, he thought. But somehow, he couldn’t do that either, just yet.

“That’s strange,” Rita was saying, “you two seemed so close.”

Once again, Ryan let the virtue of silence intervene for him.

“Well, when you get in touch with him, tell him ‘hi’ from me.”

“I will,” Ryan said. Then to change the subject, he added, “So, what’s the schedule for today?”

“Here you go.” Rita scanned a sheet of paper. “Your ten o’clock cancelled just before you came in so I didn’t have a chance to change it on the printout. But that will give you a chance to look in on this referral you got from…let’s see…Dr. Newman, in neurosurgery.”

Rita handed Ryan the printout of his schedule and the referral paperwork. He stood for a moment looking over the information he had received.

“Morning, Ry, Rita,” a female voice said.

Ryan looked up. “Hi, Gwen,” he said to the young woman, also a therapist in the clinic, who had just arrived to check in for her day’s assignments.

Gwen and Rita started a conversation; Ryan took the opportunity to carry his Starbucks and papers to his therapy room/office. He set them on the desk and opened the blinds to let in the morning light. His room faced west and in the afternoon the sun shining through the windows was blinding at times. But the soft light of morning reflecting off the trees in their blazing fall colors made him glad he had this spectacular view.

Sitting behind his desk, he went over the schedule. At nine he had a session with an outpatient: Bobby Jenkins, a twelve year old with a stuttering problem. Ten was free so he could address the referral he had just received. At eleven he had a joint session with Julie, an occupational therapist, and Mrs. Welty, a stroke patient. He would work on pertinent vocabulary while the O.T. concentrated on meal preparation skills. The afternoon was full, too. He would go over that part of the schedule at lunch. Right now he wanted to look at the referral information on this new patient.

Name: André Thompson. Age: 46. Diagnosis: Post-op Ruptured Arteriovenous Anomaly repair to the left parietal lobe. Possible loss of language and motor function. Service request: Full language evaluation and prescription for therapeutic intervention if needed. Referring Physician: Reed Newman.

Ryan thought how a case such as this would have been one he and Jeff would possibly have handled together: he would be doing the language remediation, Jeff the physical therapy. He thought of how they would joke about a threesome with the distinguished and handsome Dr. Newman, even though that would never happen: at least as far as Ryan was concerned. He let himself think about the times they had joked about things such as this over the three years they had worked together. He allowed himself to wallow for a few seconds, before roughly bringing himself back to the present with a stern remonstration to let the past lie in the past. He got up and started to prepare for Bobby.

* * * *

Ten o’clock found him donning the required white lab coat for his trip to the ninth floor of the main hospital. As he walked past the nurse’s station, a nurse looked up.

“Hi Ryan,” she said with a smile. “Here to see Mr. Thompson?”

“Yes,” Ryan replied, returning the smile.

“Well, he’s in 346. Dr. Newman is there with the family explaining things. If you get in there quick you can get credit for another miracle if the edema goes down.”

“That’s me, Annie Sullivan, Miracle Worker,” he quipped. He thought about the number of times he had been present when a patient with stroke, closed head injury or other head trauma began to spontaneously recover language as a result of reduced brain swelling. The families who witnessed these ‘miraculous’ recoveries often gave him the credit for it and heaped praise on him. It had become a hospital in-joke.

Ryan stopped at the open door to the room. He looked in and saw Dr. Newman, a woman and two teenagers. Evidently becoming aware of Ryan’s presence, the woman looked over to him. Dr. Newman followed her gaze and turned around.

“Ah, Mr. Phillips.” Dr. Newman turned to him and Ryan stepped forward. As he did, he looked beyond the group and saw the form of a man lying on the bed. His head was bandaged, an I.V. dripped into his arm and the heart monitor gave a steady beep, beep. His chest rose and fell regularly. Even at a distance, Ryan could see the man had a rugged, attractive look to him. Ryan felt himself stir in his Calvins. He couldn’t deny, despite his vow to swear off relationships which had, up to that point, only left him wounded, he still could respond to the sight of a nice-looking man.

“Mr. Phillips is one of our speech pathologists. I have asked him to evaluate your husband…”

“Ex-husband,” Mrs. Thompson corrected tersely.