Читать онлайн книгу «Tortured by Her Touch» автора Dianne Drake
Tortured by Her Touch
Dianne Drake
The first kiss is the deepest!Ex-army doc Marc Rousseau might be devastatingly sexy, but he specialises in being difficult! No longer able to practise as a surgeon, he’s working with injured war veterans alongside stunning Dr Anne Sebastian…the one woman who sees beyond his gruff exterior!Marc knows Anne’s off-limits—especially as she’s unlikely to trust any man again—but being around her is such sweet torture! And when a late-night swim leads to a steamy kiss Marc and Anne start to wonder…dare they take a chance on a future together?Army DocsTwo brothers, divided by conflict, meet the women who will change their lives… for ever!
Dear Reader (#u8cfc6332-4baa-543f-9bc5-8caa600cd96e),
Back in the day, when I was actively pursuing a nursing career, I worked at the Veterans’ Hospital. The patients I was fortunate enough to serve were a wholly amazing and heroic group of men and women. It always amazed me to watch them fight their battles with such courage.
When I was asked to write this book I knew immediately where my setting had to be. It was an honour to pay tribute to the brave soldiers who had once been under my care. Especially in the persona of Marc Rousseau, a doctor who comes home from the war badly damaged. My story is inspired by two people I know—people who fell in love despite great obstacles. David is a paraplegic who married his nurse—an inspiring story because the disability was never part of their relationship. True love sees no boundaries.
My heroine, Anne, never sees the disability in the man she loves. All she wants to do is encourage him—the way all people in love want to encourage each other. It’s a story of two people coming to terms with love, not disability.
I’d like to thank Mills and Boon for giving me the opportunity to show that love can shine through adversity.
Wishing you health and happiness …
Dianne
PS Please feel free to email me at
DianneDrake@earthlink.net (mailto:DianneDrake@earthlink.net) or connect to my Facebook page or Twitter account through links posted to my website at dianne-drake.com (http://www.dianne-drake.com)
Now that her children have left home, DIANNE DRAKE is finally finding the time to do some of the things she adores—gardening, cooking, reading, shopping for antiques. Her absolute passion in life, however, is adopting abandoned and abused animals. Right now Dianne and her husband, Joel, have a little menagerie of three dogs and two cats, but that’s always subject to change. A former symphony orchestra member, Dianne now attends the symphony as a spectator several times a month and, when time permits, takes in an occasional football, basketball or hockey game.
Tortured by Her Touch
Dianne Drake
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ARMY DOCS
Two brothers, divided by conflict, meet the women who will change their lives … for ever!
Army medics Marc and Nick Rousseau were at the top of their field when they were caught in an IED explosion in Afghanistan that left Marc paralysed and Nick unscathed. Now out of the army, the estranged brothers are on opposite sides of the country and struggling to put the past behind them … until they each meet a woman who challenges them in unimaginable ways.
Now, as these generous and caring women open the brothers’ eyes to new worlds of possibility, can Marc and Nick finally forgive the past and reclaim the bond they once shared?
To the soldiers
at the W. 10th St. Veterans Administration Hospital and the men and women who care for them.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u7bad2983-dd6b-5397-a766-562bd77416fb)
Dear Reader
About the Author (#u0c985876-1078-5fb2-ad52-cf11f3ab963a)
Title Page (#uc13fab31-0cf5-5661-b009-0619159a613b)
Introduction (#u6b51b0e7-2786-5bc2-aabb-56527c988376)
Dedication (#u113db7e4-f63d-5b21-8c3e-13cecf18bca8)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f8f8ac75-444c-5f43-a555-c1ae6683e378)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_de641010-db64-54b8-8c75-35ceaf4525ef)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9906c55a-e783-5c0d-9907-28d4f34dfad2)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e99a9380-e0fe-5e82-8211-5ff05ec2e4a7)
“AT FIRST THERE was nothing. I was running across the field, going after my brother Nick, who’d been given direct orders not to be out there, but had recklessly gone to rescue someone, and the next thing …”
Dr. Marc Rousseau swallowed hard and closed his eyes, as if trying to remember the day that had forever changed his life. Or destroyed it, depending upon which point of view you preferred. “He’d gone to rescue a buddy, and in the end he rescued me. Nick, the irresponsible one, could have gotten us both killed. He shouldn’t have done it.”
It was always there, always on his mind, if not on the edges, then running straight into it. That fateful day, as some might call it. He called it that day from hell. “It didn’t trip immediately, so I wasn’t directly on it. Thank God for that. But in the blink of an eye I was cold and hot at the same time. With these weird sensations. I mean, I knew right away there was pain, but I was so distanced from my body at that exact second I wasn’t even relating that the injury had happened to me. And in my mind all I could do was think, I need to help someone. I’m a doctor. I’ve got to go help someone.
“It probably took me a good two minutes of lying out there on the battlefield before I realized I was the one who needed help. That I was the one who’d sustained the injury. The one who was screaming.”
He picked up the glass of iced water sitting on the desk of the chief of staff and took a drink. “The hell of it was, even after I knew I’d been hit, I still had to be told. My body may have known it, but my mind wouldn’t accept that my body gave in so easily. All I wanted to do was get back out there in the field and do what I was supposed to do, but I couldn’t move, except for wiggling around in the dirt. And the blood … there was so much of it, but it couldn’t have been mine. There was nothing inside me that allowed for the possibility that I was wounded. After all, I was the medic, a healer who’d volunteered to be there, not a soldier in the real sense of the word.
“Sure, I’d had my combat training, but my job was to put bodies back together, not to become one of those bodies. But I was, and I think I realized it for the first time—really realized it—when they brought the stretcher out for me. The people who worked for me were there to carry me off the battlefield.”
“And how did that make you feel?” Dr. Jason Lewis asked. Jason was a kind man, about Marc’s age—thirty-six—with thinning blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Whereas Marc was bulky and dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression that belied nothing but torture.
“How did I feel? I felt angry as hell at first. Like, how dare they do that to me! Don’t they know that I fix everybody, including the people we’re fighting?”
“But IEDs are impersonal. They’re just meant to destroy whatever gets in their way.”
“Tell me about it,” Marc muttered.
“I don’t suppose I really have to,” the doctor replied. “So what happened after they came to rescue you?”
“They gave me a phone, told me to call anybody I liked. Girlfriend, parent, my brother, who was out there on that battlefield somewhere, trying to save lives.”
“What for?”
“That’s a protocol when they think you’re going to die. I had a back full of shrapnel, nails, God only knows what else sticking in my spine. It’s a bad sign, with so much bleeding, and I was bleeding out. My body was trying to die. There was so much trauma to my spine they didn’t see how I’d survive it.”
“But you obviously didn’t die.”
“Too much self-righteous indignation, I suppose. You go through these stages like after a death—denial, anger, all that crap. And I went straight to anger …”
“And stayed there?”
“A lot of the time, yes.” He shrugged. “Don’t like it, don’t want to be there, but it happens, and that’s something you need to know if you hire me.”
“Do you really think that’s the right attitude for someone who’s applying to head one of the veteran outreach rehab programs?”
“Do you really think it’s not?” he challenged the doctor. “Anger turned inward can be harmful, I suppose. But when you turn it outward on your situation, you can make it work for you. The angrier I got, the harder I worked. The harder I worked, the better I healed.”
“Did it really work for you, Dr. Rousseau? I know you were a top-notch surgeon, and those days are now behind you. You’ll never operate again, no matter how angry you get. How does that make you feel?”
“Mad as hell that someone had so much control over me as to change my life the way they did. I had a plan that got wasted, a life that got altered, and none of it was of my doing, so I’m angry, but I have that right. And like I said, I fight it like I fight all my other battles. It’s just one of the many, I suppose. And I won’t even deny that I’d rather be a surgeon, but that’s not going to happen.”
“See, the thing is, I’m concerned that your bitterness will be a detriment to our patients—the ones who want to make it back all the way or the ones who are fighting to get back as much as they can. I don’t want your anger or your personal preference in being a surgeon as opposed to a rehab doc influencing them. I don’t even want them seeing it.”
“It won’t and they won’t.”
“How can I be sure of that?”
“I don’t suppose you can when all you have is my word. But you do have my word. The thing is, I’ve made it back as far as I can go. Granted, I’m a paraplegic now, but who better to work with the men and women like me than me? I mean, I understand what it’s like to have your life taken away from you and in its place you’re given something that’s going to fight you every day of your life. I know how hard you have to work just to keep your head above water. And that’s where I’m coming from.”
“But will your internal struggles prevent you from recognizing someone who’s in such great depths of despair he or she might be contemplating suicide? Because we run into those patients every now and then.”
“I contemplated it myself for a while, so I know the symptoms.”
“What’s ‘a while’? Define that in terms of duration, if you will.”
“Weeks, maybe. I wouldn’t work at improving, and all I wanted to do was die. I mean, what was the point? I couldn’t have what I wanted—my girlfriend had walked out on me because I was suddenly not what she wanted, my friends shunned me for fear they’d say or do the wrong thing. My family couldn’t be around me without crying. My brother was so consumed with survivor’s guilt he couldn’t stand to look at me—he was an army doc who escaped the field in one piece and he was also the one who convinced me to join up. He blames himself for my condition because he disobeyed orders and ran out onto the battlefield. Finds it very difficult being around me now, even though I understand that’s just the way my brother is. He blames himself for my condition because of it.”
“Because of your disability or your attitude?”
“I’m not deluding myself, Doctor. It was my attitude, but my attitude was precipitated by my disability. So I turned my back on the people who still cared—so much so they couldn’t stand to be around me any longer. They tried and I pushed them away.”
Marc shifted positions in his wheelchair, raised himself up with massive arms, then lowered himself again. “There were questions about how much ability I’d regain, whether or not I’d be able to take care of myself, find a new life, function as a man … It’s overwhelming, and it scared me, and the more frightened I was, the more I just wanted it all to end. But I’m not a quitter and that quitting attitude just made me angry, which pushed me harder to prove I was OK. It’s been a vicious circle, as you can see. Was then, still is. But I get through it.”
“Then you’re not over it?”
“I can cope with it now. But I do need to stay busy and find something other than myself to focus on, which is why I retrained, served a second residency at Boston Mercy Hospital, and why I’m sitting here, applying for this job.”
“Meaning you’re going to take all that pent-up frustration and turn yourself into a first-class rehab doctor.”
“Amazing what a healthy dose of anger can do, isn’t it? You know what they say …” Marc’s eyes went distant for a second, but for only a second. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Well, it hasn’t killed me so far.”
“I saw your records, talked to your chief resident at Boston Mercy General. You did a good job there, but what makes you think you can translate that into doing a good job here, where you’re a full staff member with staff responsibilities as well as administrative duties?”
“I know how to lead, and people do listen to me. And as they say, I’ve got street cred now. If you came into your clinic, who would you rather listen to—someone like you who’s never experienced anything more than a shaving cut, or me?”
“You’ve got a good point, Dr. Rousseau.”
The man was trying to get his goat. He knew that. But he also knew Jason Lewis had the right to prod as hard as he wanted since what he was going to get was basically a brand-new doctor in the field. “Good enough to offer me the position?” They’d been talking back and forth for weeks—by phone, on the internet, texting. This whole interview process was dragging him down. He knew he was a liability—a great big one. But he also knew he was a good doctor. So which one outweighed the other?
Lewis laughed. “I will say you’ve got guts to go along with your attitude.”
“And that’s all I’ll need to get through to some of these guys and gals. So offer me a job on the spot, and I’ll see what I can do to curb my attitude.”
“On the spot? You want me to offer you a job on the spot without going to the board first, or talking to the people who will be working closest with you?”
Marc arched his eyebrows. “You’ve got the power, haven’t you? And it’s not like this interview process hasn’t been going on in some form for quite a while.”
“Oh, I’ve got the power, but I’m still not sure you’re the right candidate.”
“Let’s see. I’ve got administrative experience, I’m a good doctor, I have practical experience … What more do you need?”
Dr. Lewis shook his head. “On paper you’re the perfect candidate.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want this clinic turning out a whole battalion of you. And I’m afraid that’s what you’re going to do.”
“In other words, you don’t believe I have the ability to separate my personal from my professional life. So tell me, are you able to do that? Do you never take your work home with you or bring your personal life to work?”
“Most days I’m good,” Lewis said.
“And most days, I will be, too. All I’ve got is my word. I know I’ve got some attitude adjustments to make still, but that could also be a strength in helping my patients, in making them understand how they’re not the only ones. So, on the spot?” He held out a confident hand to shake with Dr. Lewis.
Lewis took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and extended his hand to Marc. “On the spot, but it’s a probationary spot. Three months to start with, then a reevaluation.”
“That’s all I can ask for,” Marc said. “Thank you.”
“I’m warning you, Rousseau, when you’re on my time you’re a rehab doctor, nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand me?”
Marc nodded. “So I’m assuming my office is more accessible than yours because this one is too small for good maneuverability?” Inwardly, he was pleased by the offer. Now all he had to do was see if it was a match made in heaven or hell.
Anne Sebastian looked out her window at the gardens stretching as far as she could see. But it wasn’t the garden she was seeing. In fact, she was seeing red! “Seriously, you hired him to head physical rehab?”
Jason Lewis shrugged. “He has the qualifications we need.”
“And an attitude that precedes him. I have a friend at Mercy who said—”
“He’ll adjust,” Jason interrupted. “In spite of what you’ve heard, he’ll fall into our routine nicely.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked, too perplexed to turn around to confront her brother-in-law.
“Then I’ll fire him, the way I would any other staff member who becomes a detriment to the facility or its patients.”
She spun around. “No, you won’t. It’s not in you to do something like that. Especially since he’s a wounded soldier.”
“Then we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed he works out, won’t we?”
Anne heaved a dubious sigh. “Hannah married a real softie. You know that, don’t you?”
Jason blushed. “You do know that no one else on my staff talks to me the way you do?”
“Family prerogative. Besides, she’s confined to bed until she delivers, so, as your wife’s twin sister, older by eight minutes, might I remind you, it’s up to me to make sure things are running the way they should.”
Anne was an internist who’d earned an additional PhD in psychology, and turned her medical practice into one that specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder. Her sister, an ear specialist, worked with combat vets who’d suffered hearing loss due to trauma. And Jason was also a radiologist who oversaw all the X-rays generated in his clinic.
Jason overexaggerated a wince. “A daughter. Between you two and her, I’ll never be able to win an argument.”
“Poor Jason,” Anne teased.
“Poor Jason is right. Speaking of which, our new hire, Marc Rousseau …”
“Do we have to talk about the man?”
“Not if you don’t want to. But since your office is going to be close to his, I was hoping you’d show him some consideration.”
“Consideration?” she asked. “If you mean taking him on as a case …”
“Not as a case. As a colleague who, like you, started over. It wasn’t easy for you. Remember? Anyway, he comes with glowing references as a doctor and miserable mentions as a human being. He admits his anger. Almost embraces it. But to get his skills, we take the whole package. That’s all there is. Promise. No underhanded scheme to try and fix him or anything like that. Just be his friend. Make him aware that he’s welcome here.”
“Why did you hire him, Jason, when you’ve got so many doubts?”
“Because he can unquestionably do the job. That’s my first consideration. And I’m also thinking that he’s one of the soldiers who got overlooked in the process. It happens every day, Anne, and you know that better than anybody else. We get the worst ones, the ones who can’t function, for whatever reason. With one in every eight soldiers suffering from PTSD and only about thirty percent of those ever getting help, the rest are living in a personal hell.
“They could benefit from what we do here, and I happen to think Marc Rousseau might be great at spotting troubling issues others have missed. He’s perceptive.” He raised teasing eyebrows. “And who better to put a man in his place if he needs it than you?”
She winced. “All it takes is a bad marriage. Want to hear my opinions on that?”
Jason smiled sympathetically. “Ah, Bill. The vanquished husband. I could go beat him up if that makes you feel any better.”
“I’m sounding like the one with the rotten attitude, aren’t I?”
“You’ve been through your share of misery.”
“And come through it wiser than I was.”
“Look, I know the divorce was tough, but you never let it affect your work when you were going through the various aspects of it. I gave you the benefit of the doubt and hired you pretty much untested in PTSD because I believed in you, and I’d hope you’d do the same for Marc. Give him the same chance I gave you.”
“Tough divorce is an understatement. It was devastating, discovering how many times Bill cheated on me when I was overseas.”
“And you’re better off being rid of him.”
“I am, but still …” She shrugged. “Look, I know Rousseau by the reputation that precedes him, but I wouldn’t recognize him if he walked right by me, and I’m still a little on edge.”
“Then you don’t know?” Jason frowned. “I’d assumed since you knew he was a returning wounded soldier …”
“Know what?”
“Marc Rousseau is a paraplegic. Incomplete, lower injury. Full sensation, but not enough muscle recovery to get his legs back under him.”
Anne’s eyes widened. “Bad attitude and disabled?”
“Well, for sure, if you can survive working with him, you’ll regain some of the self-confidence you lost in the divorce mess. But the man is worth saving because he’s a damned good doctor and I want him to work out here, Anne. We need him as much as he needs us. So, besides your self-confidence, I’ll give you a trophy or something for enduring him.”
“Damn the disability …”
Jason laughed. “It gets you in the soft spot every time, doesn’t it?”
“How did it happen?”
“He was a medic, got hit by shrapnel … nails, wire, that kind of stuff … from an IED. Was a pretty bad injury, touch and go for a while. But luckily—if you can call anything about it lucky—his injury could have been worse. He’s pretty independent. In fact, the only thing he can’t do is walk.”
“And that’s not going to happen?”
Jason shook his head. “He’s in the chair for the count.”
“With a lot of anger issues you’re attributing to PTSD.”
“He worked through the physical end of it like a man possessed, but he neglected … himself. Lost himself in the whole affair. Which is a damn shame because he saved lives, was commended as a battlefield surgeon.”
Anne walked over to her desk and sat down. “OK, I’ll cut him some slack, but only some. That’s the best I can offer you right now.”
“He’s going to be spotting a lot of your patients and referring them to you. You do realize that, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“And I’m not going to soft-pedal this. He’ll be a challenge, Anne, but, unlike Bill and all his affairs, it won’t be directed at you.”
All Bill’s affairs. She’d been overseas in one medical capacity or another for three tours, while the husband who’d vowed to be true had been tracked to nine different affairs. Even Bill’s attorney hadn’t tried too hard to help him during nearly a year of divorce proceedings. “I can take on a challenge as long as it’s not personal,” Anne replied. “And apart from a husband having all those affairs while his wife was off, serving her country, I don’t think anything could be much more challenging than that.”
“I really want Marc stable enough to stay with us,” Jason said. “We need someone who’s been through it so he can get to others who are going through what he did.”
“I know. And you’re right. So I’ll be on my good behavior with him.”
“And you’ll help him get acclimated to the way we do things here?”
“Yes,” she answered. “But he’s got to meet me halfway.”
“That takes believing in himself. And what better way to do that than being involved in his job?”
“When does he start?”
“He’s started. I couldn’t see any reason to put him off. I hired him on the spot and sent him down to his office.”
“Then there was no point to this discussion.”
Jason smiled. “You’re my other volatile physician, so I thought I’d give you fair warning. Let’s just call it a family courtesy.”
“Speaking of which, tell Hannah I’ll be by soon,” Anne said as Jason headed to her door, leaving her to study her surroundings. She loved this place, loved the contemporary chrome look. Most of all, she loved the Gallahue Rehabilitation Center for Veterans for the good work it did. It was small, limited in the cases it could take. But the services it offered, thanks largely to Maynard and Lois Gallahue in memory of their fallen son, were amazing and much more extensive than one might expect from a relatively small clinic. And waiting lists for admittance were long.
Rumors had it the Gallahue Foundation for returning wounded soldiers would be upping its contribution, and she’d heard other notable companies were making funds available. So, as far as Anne was concerned, the sky here was the limit. She hoped so, anyway, because she saw the work being done every day. Witnessed firsthand the miracles.
“Got a minute?” she asked a little while later, poking her head through the semi-open door that read “John Hemmings” in gold letters and would soon read “Marc Rousseau”.
“Depends on what you want to do with that minute. If you’ve come to gawk, then, no, I don’t have a minute.” Marc looked up at her. “If you’ve come to be sociable, I’m not sociable. And if you’ve come about a patient, I haven’t even figured out how to fill out all my employment forms, so patients are a no-go as well for the next day or so.”
His office was sparse—a desk with a chair shoved into the corner, empty shelves, no diplomas. It was as if the man didn’t exist. But he did, and she couldn’t help but admire his massive, muscular arms, and the way his reading glasses slid to the end of his nose, revealing clear, dark brown eyes. And his hair cut … longish, over the collar, dark brown as well. He was goose-bumps-up-the-arm handsome, but the attitude … wow, was it bad!
“So, have you had enough time to get what you came for?” he asked her.
“What do you mean?”
“Your first glimpse of a doctor in a wheelchair.”
Truth was, she hadn’t even noticed the wheelchair.
“That’s why I didn’t stand to greet you. Can’t.” He shrugged indifferent shoulders. “Don’t particularly want to, either.”
“You are a piece of work, Dr. Rousseau.”
He stared at her over the top of his glasses for a moment. Appraising her. Taking in every last little bit. “So how would you like it if someone came to your office just to look at your blond hair …?” Shoulder length with a slight wave. “Or your green eyes. How would you like that, Miss …?”
“Dr. Anne Sebastian.”
“How would you like that, Dr. Sebastian?”
“Actually, if a man wants to look, it’s not a big deal.”
“If you were in a wheelchair, it would be.”
“Then that’s who you are? Who you want to be known as? The doctor in the wheelchair?”
“Your minute’s up,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose and turning his attention to the mountains of employment paperwork on his desk.
“Then give me another minute.”
“And the reason for that would be?”
“Lunch?” She heard herself say the words, and couldn’t believe they’d come out of her mouth. What in the world had possessed her?
“Seriously? You want to have lunch with me? Or did you draw the short straw and you’re the one elected to be nice to the disabled guy?”
“Believe me, if that was the reason, I’d be the first one backing out of it and running away. And I do mean running because I’m not about to give in to your poor-me-in-a-wheelchair attitude and cop some wary attitude when I’m forced to be around you.”
Marc actually laughed. “My reputation really has preceded me, hasn’t it?”
“Let’s just say that one of your former colleagues at Mercy wished me luck and said something to the effect that it was better me than her.”
“If I were insulted, I’d try to guess which one, but I really don’t give a damn because this is a job and I’m not here to win a popularity contest.”
“Trust me, you’d come in last place.”
He actually gave her a genuinely nice smile. “Is your motive really just to ask me to lunch?”
Her heart fluttered just a bit all because of a single smile. “Someone has to.”
“I can carry my own tray.”
“In our doctors’ dining room we have table service. Otherwise, by the end of the week, I’m sure someone would have already dumped their tray on your head.”
“Lucky for me,” he said as he wheeled out from behind his desk. “And just so you’ll know, I’m an incomplete, I have full sensation, full function, except for walking.”
“And just so you’ll know, I don’t give a damn about your sensation or your function or any other man things you might wish to confide.”
“Man hater, are you? Or do you prefer the ladies?”
“Oh, I prefer men. Just not right now and not for the foreseeable future.”
“I’m assuming it’s a long, sad story,” he said as he followed Anne to the hall.
“Longest and saddest. And the rest of it’s none of your business.”
“You know how hospital staff talks,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
“Let ‘em talk. Better them than me.” Surprisingly, he picked up a brisk pace, one she found quite difficult to keep up with. Was he testing her or trying to prove something? Admittedly, he did have a lot of strength, and the way he wheeled was something to behold, something athletic.
“Keep up,” he said, slowing his pace a little. “I don’t know where the dining room is, and I’m trusting that you’re going to show me sometime this afternoon. But at that slow pace …”
“Just shut up and wheel,” she said as a smile crept to her face. Yes, he was going to be a challenge. Maybe her biggest one ever. But he did have a grudge to work out, and a whole lot of anger he was going to have to learn to curb. Without therapy! Now, that was the part that was going to be difficult for her—just as Jason had anticipated—not getting involved in such a way as to help him solve his issues.
“By the way, since you asked me to lunch, you are paying for it, aren’t you?”
“Seriously?” she said, fighting back a laugh. If she did get through to this hulk of a man, Jason was going to owe her big time. Big, big time!
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_3f1999e4-7163-5c7f-bed1-8fe122b48f0d)
“I UNDERSTAND YOU met him,” Jason said to Anne.
“He sat at one end of a table for eight, I sat at the other. Nobody sat between us. And we didn’t talk. Not one word. I paid for his lunch and when he was through eating, he left. Thanked me for my hospitality and simply left.”
“But other than that, how was he?”
“Rude, arrogant, obnoxious, fixed on his work to the point of not even noticing anybody else there.” Her office was adjacent to her treatment room, and both were very relaxed and cozy. An immediate warm feeling drifted down over most of her patients when they came in, and that was done on purpose. Her walls were medium blue, her furniture a lighter blue accented in white, and the music piped in was a soothing Vivaldi or Bach. Atmosphere made a difference in so many of her cases, and she tried hard to achieve that comfort, as comfort equated to trust.
“But workable?”
“That, I don’t know. He’s as resistant a person as I’ve ever met. So this one is going to be the flip of a coin.”
“But you’ll try, since the majority of your referrals will come from him?”
“For a while. But if I see that he’s not working out, you’ll hear from me, Jason. And probably not just me.” Just as that threat rolled off her tongue, she received a text. When she checked it, it said: “See. I don’t bite. Lunch tomorrow?”
Anne sighed.
“What?” Jason asked.
“Nothing. Just an invite to lunch tomorrow,” she said, forcing a smile. “Lucky me.”
Jason headed for the door. “Just be careful, Anne, and you’ll be fine.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle him.” How was the question, though, especially since Jason seemed to have made her the one-person welcome committee, probably owing to her background in psychiatry. If the shrink couldn’t handle him, no one else could, either. What an assumption!
It was going on to seven that evening when Anne finally decided to call it quits. Long days were her norm, especially since she had nothing or no one to go home to. But that was OK because the last time she’d had someone to go home to, he’d been going to other homes. A lot of them. And it made her wonder how she could have been so truly wrong about the man.
Had she expected him to stay faithful while she was overseas? Of course she had. She would have. In fact, she’d been faithful when he’d been the one overseas, fighting, and she’d been stateside, working in a military hospital. It would have never occurred to her to cheat on him, and now she went home to a big, empty house every night, fixed herself a microwave dinner, caught up on some reading, showered and went to bed.
Big night. And nights were the worst, which was why she put in at least a dozen hours a day at the hospital. It was better than going home.
Flipping off the lights, she opened up the door and nearly tripped over Marc, who was merely sitting outside her office door. “What do you want?” she snapped.
“You bought me lunch, so I owe you a meal. Dinner?”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Her heart skipped a beat as she did like the idea of eating with him but she didn’t want to sound too anxious.
“Maybe an apology for being such a jerk today.”
“Apology accepted. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“Married, divorced from a lousy cheater, work longer hours than any other doc at Gallahue. I’m betting your evening consists of a microwave dinner and reading medical journals until you fall asleep.”
“I do watch the eleven o’clock news.”
“The epitome of a boring life. Which is why I thought dinner with me is better than dinner with the microwave. Besides, I have some questions to ask you.”
“If they pertain to the hospital, ask Jason.”
“Don’t you find him a little boring?” Marc asked.
“As a chief of staff or as my brother-in-law? Because I’m actually quite fine with him in both capacities.”
“Ah, a family tie.”
“He’s married to my twin sister, so that makes him family.”
“And you spend all the holidays with them, right?”
“How did you know about my divorce?” she asked.
“People talk.”
“But you haven’t even started to practice here yet.”
“And like I said, people talk.”
“They talk to people who give them a warm and fuzzy feeling, and you haven’t got a warm or fuzzy feeling in you.”
“Then it has to be the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“People don’t see you when you’re in a wheelchair. For some reason, you’re invisible to them, so they talk around you.”
“And people are talking about me?”
“About how your divorce became final recently. Apparently, he’s been fighting you for everything, but you won. Left the man practically destitute.”
“People know too much,” she snapped. “It was an ugly divorce. But since he’s the one who deserted the marriage and left me holding a whole lot of hard feelings, and debt, what can I say other than I’m glad he got everything that’s coming to him?”
“And you’re going to get …”
“First, sell my house. Then buy a nice little cottage, maybe take up gardening. I’d like a cat, too.”
“A cat?”
She smiled. “Everything that makes life nice.”
“No man?”
“Absolutely not! Been there, don’t want to go back.”
“Good, then I’m not taking out another man’s woman to dinner tonight.”
“I didn’t accept your invitation, and I don’t intend to.”
“Because we’re not compatible?” That was an understatement.
“Because I don’t particularly like you.”
Rather than being angry, Marc smiled. “Do you realize how many people actually put up with me and my attitude just because I’m in a wheelchair? They find that if they deny me or do something other than what I want, they’re doing something deeply wrong or offensive. The man’s a wounded war veteran and it’s important to appease him.”
“Appease you? Let me tell you, your wheelchair’s not off-putting, Marc. But your attitude is. So thanks for the invitation but I’d rather curl up with a good medical journal than suffer another meal with you.” With that, she strode away, the sound of angry heels clicking on the floor tile. Rather than frowning, though, a slight smile actually turned up the corners of her lips. This was going to be interesting.
“Well, then, we’ll stick to the plan. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.”
She turned back to give him a stiff glare, but what came off was more confused than anything, and she hated wearing her emotions on her sleeve, as they always sent out the wrong impression. “Not if your life depended on it, Marc Rousseau,” she said, trying to remain rigid, although her insides were quivering. “Not if your life depended on it!”
Anne snuggled down on her sofa with a glass of white grape juice and a medical journal and a soft Schubert quintet playing in the background. She wasn’t really so physically tired as she was mentally stressed. Nothing had gone well today. Two of her patients had had emotional breaks—big ones. One had tried to jump out her window until he remembered her office was on the first floor, and then he’d simply smashed furniture. After which he’d apologized and offered to pay for the damages. The other had sat in her office and wept uncontrollably for over an hour, until she’d finally had him sedated and checked in for a night of observation.
Shutting her eyes, she rotated her ankles for a moment, then sank further back into the sofa pillows, not sure if, when the time came, she’d be able to get up and make it all the way upstairs to the bedroom.
She really did hate this house. Hated everything in it because it stood for a happier time—a time when love had been fresh and exciting and she’d known it would last forever. And it wasn’t like Bill hadn’t known she’d be serving overseas when he’d asked her to marry him. He’d be good with it, he’d claimed. There was nothing for her to worry about.
Stupid her, she’d believed him. And on her first leave, she’d come back to a marriage she’d believed was as stable as it had ever been in their three years. But on her second trip stateside he’d seemed more remote. He’d claimed he was tired, too much work, just getting over a cold … there’d been a whole string of excuses, but by the end of her leave, things had been normal again, and she’d returned overseas happy to know that the next time she came home it would be for good.
But when that day came, she’d found earrings in a drawer on her side of the bed. And a bra. And panties. It had seemed, as the days had gone by, there had been more and more excuses for Bill to invent. None of them plausible. Then her neighbor, an older lady, had commented on the succession of housekeepers who’d come and gone at odd hours of the day and night. “Sometimes two, three times a week!” Mrs. Gentry had exclaimed.
One check with the cleaning service confirmed her suspicion. The cleaning service cleaned every Friday morning. Once a week. No more, no less. Her accountant had verified that with the checks that had been written. He’d also recommended the best lawyer in Port Duncan, New York.
“Protect your assets, Anne. Bill’s been doing a lot of spending while you were gone, and if you want to keep anything for yourself, it’s time to lawyer up.” Said by James Callahan, the attorney she’d hired that day.
Through it all, though, Anne had been numb. She had been unable to function. Betrayal. Fragments of memories left over from Afghanistan. Things she hadn’t been able to forget … or fix. No, it hadn’t made sense, but it had seemed like her world had been closing in around her. She’d been unable to breathe half the time. The other half of the time, she hadn’t been able to quit crying. Vicious circle. Every day. Sucking the life out of her every day. Little pieces of it just falling away, one at a time.
She’d almost been at the point of complete breakdown when she’d realized she couldn’t control what was happening to her, so she’d sought counseling. Her condition hadn’t been diagnosed as PTSD, but the emotional conflict had given her a deep understanding of those who did suffer through it—the confusion, the anger, the pain. After seeing it on the field and coming up to the edge of it herself, before she’d realized it, she’d been in a PhD program, coupling what she knew as an MD with learning about stress disorders. It had seemed a logical place for her to be. Where she’d wanted to be.
For that part of her life, she’d put her divorce on hold and concentrated only on herself. Fixing herself first, retraining herself second. Of course, her intention had been to restart divorce proceedings once the rest of it was behind her. One trauma at a time was what she’d learned. Deal with one at a time. And while Bill had been a problem, he hadn’t been a trauma. In fact, getting rid of him would be her easiest fix.
So then, a whole year after she’d decided to take that fix, he’d come after her, claiming that her being gone had caused him PTSD. Of all the low, miserable things to do …
“But he learned,” she said as she shut her book and decided she was comfortable right where she was. “When I got through with him, he’d learned to pick his women dumb and dependent. God forbid he should ever get a fighter again or she might do worse to him than I did.”
Sighing, she shut her eyes, and while she expected to go to sleep with visions of Bill in her choke hold filling her dreams, the person there tonight was … Marc. And he was smiling.
“Nice smile,” she whispered as she dozed off. Yes, it was a very nice smile to go to sleep with.
He’d been in bed two hours now, alternately staring at the ceiling, then watching the green numbers on the digital clock. The harder he tried to sleep, the more he couldn’t. Marc’s first thought was a nice cup of hot herbal tea—something soothing. Then in his mind he added brandy to it, just a sip, but the problem with that was he wasn’t a drinker. Never had been. No booze, no pills. Just a bad attitude to get him through.
So what got Anne through? he wondered. She seemed pretty straightforward. Even functional, considering her divorce.
“Some people are made to be more functional,” he told his orange-striped tomcat named Sarge, who was stretched out on the bed, snoozing quite contentedly. Sarge was huge, a Maine Coon weighing in at twenty-five pounds. He’d been cowering on Marc’s doorstep one day, all beaten and bloody, and there hadn’t been a muscle or sinew in Marc’s body that could have shut the door on him because he’d known exactly how the cat had felt—defeated. So he’d taken him in, nursed him back to health, yet hadn’t named him, as his intention had been to turn him over to a no-kill rescue shelter for adoption.
Except the damned cat had these soulful big green eyes that Marc had been unable to resist. So he’d eventually called him Sarge, mostly because his huge size reminded him of an overwhelmingly large and tender-hearted sergeant he’d had working for him in Afghanistan, and he and the cat had become best buddies.
“She’s something, Sarge,” he told the cat as he pulled a can of cat tuna off the shelf. “And so damn obvious it’s laughable. The lady’s in charge of the PTSD program, and I’m sure I’m supposed to be her secret conquest.” He chuckled as he filled the cat bowl and laid it on the floor at the back door to his apartment—a door never used, due to the six steps down. Management had offered to ramp it for him, but he’d told them, no, that one door was plenty. He lived a Spartan life, didn’t need people fawning all over him. Especially his family. He wondered where Nick was right now. Maybe living it up somewhere and doing every dumb thing in the book just to prove he could. He shuddered, thinking about his brother’s lifestyle. Wild. Carefree. Nothing mattered. Most of all, he wondered if Nick even appreciated the freedom he had to do so many stupid things.
Whatever the case, his parents, Jane and Henry, had been ready to drop everything to take care of him, but that was too clingy. No phone calls or texts, he’d said. He was fine. No sad faces, no mother’s tears, no overcompensation from his dad. A cat was good, though. You fed him, watered him, changed his pan, and he didn’t give a hang whether or not all that came from a paraplegic or someone who could walk.
And he never should have asked Anne Sebastian out, not even for a make-good on a very miserable lunch. What had he expected? That she’d actually want to go with him after he’d been so obnoxious? “I deserved it,” he told the cat, who was busy gulping down his food. “I’m not exactly dating material and, God knows, I don’t have friends.” But for one brief moment, he’d actually thought a couple hours with Anne might be nice.
So much for thinking. So much for anything that resembled a normal life. This was it. A tiny apartment, a cat and an SUV that had been fixed for him to drive. Yep, that was his life. Except he did have a job to add to that mix now. Admittedly, he was looking forward to the work, to having the chance to help others like himself. “Time to go do the weights,” he said to his cat as he spun his chair around and went to the second bedroom, which had been turned into a workout room. “Wanna come spot me, Sarge?” he called out. The cat’s response was to simply stop in the hall outside the workout room and wash his face.
“Some friend you are!”
“He’s interesting,” Anne said to Hannah, her twin sister, the next evening. Hannah was now confined to bed as much as possible as she was nearing her due date and she’d been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Anne perched herself on the side of the bed with a carton of ice cream and two spoons, ready to eat their favorite—vanilla fudge. Even at the age of thirty-five, they were still identical in every way that counted, right down to the clothes they picked out and the food they liked and disliked.
“Jason said he’s pretty bitter.”
“I suppose I would be, too, if that had happened to me. I mean, I deal with returning soldiers every day who come back just like Dr. Rousseau … like him and worse. I was lucky. All I had to come back to was …”
“How is Bill, by the way?”
“Even though the divorce is final, he’s still fighting me just as hard as ever.” Anne wrung her hands nervously, then continued on in a shaky voice, “For two cents, I’d just hand it all over to him and walk away, but my attorney believes I’m entitled to my share since I was the one off fighting for my country while Bill was spending his time on the golf course and in our bed, so he’s not going to let Bill go back and amend the settlement.”
She shrugged, then patted her sister’s enormous belly. “Glad we never had children to enter into the mix. Don’t know how I would have handled having to have interaction with him because of a child. This way, I don’t ever have to deal with him again. I just refer him to my lawyer.” She let out a ragged sigh. “It’s better that way.”
“But children are going to be nice.”
“For you. And I predict I’m going to make a great aunt. Spoil the baby rotten, then send her home to her mother.”
“Instead of dating? You know, going out, having fun. Have a life. It’s been a long time coming.”
“But I’m not really going to do the dating thing for a while, if ever.”
“You may change your mind,” Hannah said as she scooped a spoon of ice cream from the container. “When you meet the right man, or realize you’ve already met him.”
“Who? Marc?”
Hannah shrugged.
“Ha! Those pregnancy hormones have gone to your brain and left you with an imagination as big as your belly.”
Hannah shrugged again. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not.”
“You’re the acquiescent one, Hannah, and I’m—”
“The stubborn one,” Hannah supplied. “I know. But relationships don’t always make sense. Don’t follow a logical pattern.”
“Tell me about it. Look what I fell for the first time around.” Anne winced. She’d fallen head over heels in days, maybe in minutes. Had married in mere weeks. “Yeah, well, next time, if there is a next time, I won’t be looking for perfection as much as compatibility. Too bad Jason is taken, because I think you got the last good man. He doesn’t happen to have a secret brother hidden somewhere, does he?”
Hannah laughed. “Men like that don’t stay available too long, sis. I’m lucky I got Jason when I did because it was only a matter of time until some other fortunate woman would have plucked him off the market.”
Anne couldn’t help but wonder if Marc had been married or engaged or near the plucking stage prior to his accident. “Well, right now I have a nemesis who’s going to fight me every step of the way and that’s the only man I want to contend with for a while. And, trust me, that’s enough for anyone.”
“He’ll come round,” Hannah said, taking another bite of ice cream. “Once he gets settled into the routine, you’ll persuade him. Or let’s say out-stubborn him. Poor man doesn’t even know what’s headed his direction.”
Anne jabbed her spoon into the ice cream. “I think he’s equal to it. And I think he’s going to be lots of fun,” she said with a sarcastic grimace on her face to Hannah. “About as much fun as a sticker bush with large stickers.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_27fa991a-6895-59c5-b7a1-c05f5e377e52)
HIS APARTMENT WASN’T much in the way of square footage, but it didn’t matter because there wasn’t much that he needed in this world and that included space. But he did have to admit that his office was everything he could have wanted, and more. It was spacious, accessible. Larger than his apartment, actually.
“You like it?” Anne asked as she followed him in through the door.
“Are you my appointed keeper now?”
“In a way, I suppose you could say that. We’re the only two with offices and treatment rooms at this end of the building, and physical rehab has enough space it’s practically a wing unto itself, so I’m appointed by proximity.”
“Don’t need a keeper, don’t need the proximity either.”
“Not your choice, Marc. This is the way the hospital is laid out and, as it stands, our offices are back to back. If you don’t like it, well …” She shrugged her shoulders. “Too bad. Because I don’t think they’re going to rearrange an entire hospital wing to suit your needs. It is what it is, so get used to it.”
“Look, Doctor, I know you’re probably only following orders, but I’m perfectly capable of managing this department on my own. Tell your brother-in-law that if he believes I need a keeper, he can have my keys back.” He fished his set of keys from his pocket and held them out for her. “Take them. I don’t want this job after all.”
Rather than taking the keys, she merely stood back and laughed at him. “You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?”
He looked like he’d been stung by a bee, the words shocked him that much. “I came here to do a specific job, and I’m good at it.”
“When you don’t let yourself get in the way. Which probably is too often,” she quipped.
“And you know what it’s like?”
“To be you? No, I don’t. I can’t even imagine. But I do know what it’s like to be the new person in the door where everybody’s watching you and waiting for you to mess up. I was there not that long ago, and it was as if every time I turned around someone was staring at me or whispering. Probably because I’m Jason’s sister-in-law who came in here with her own set of problems. The difference between you and me was that I wasn’t so thin-skinned on my way in the door. Nor was I so defensive. I just came to do a job and so far that’s what I’ve done.”
“You’re calling me thin-skinned?”
She shrugged. “Maybe not thin-skinned so much as overly sensitive. You’re adjusting to a new life, where everything is different, and it seems like every little thing bothers you.”
“So I’m either thin-skinned or overly sensitive?”
“Maybe a little. I mean, I had my divorce going on when I got here and it was a struggle not to let it follow me in the door. But I succeeded.”
Marc spun in his chair to see her. “I don’t think you can compare yours to mine.”
“No. I got out in one piece.”
“Out of what?”
“The war. Afghanistan. Three tours. I was a major in the army, which outranks you as a captain.” She smiled. “Just in case you’re interested.”
“You served?” he asked, totally stunned.
“Three times overseas, would have gone back for four. I ran a field hospital.”
“Sorry, I had no idea.”
“Because I don’t wear it as some sort of badge. I just come to work, recognize PTSD when I see it, and go to work trying to fix it.”
“And you think you’re seeing it in me.”
“The bigger question is, do you think you’re seeing it in yourself? See, the thing is, you won’t get fixed, or even helped, if you don’t want to. That’s the deal with PTSD. You have to be willing to accept treatment in order to get past it, or at least know how to deal with it.”
“Well, my injuries are all on the outside,” he snapped, slapping his leg. “Something counseling isn’t going to fix, if that’s what you were going to ask. I healed fine, and I live fine. Better than a lot of the men and women coming back. So save your healing touch for them, Major …” he gave her a mock salute “… because I don’t need it and I don’t need you.”
“But some of your patients will, and I’m wondering if you’ll be objective enough to know which ones. Because they usually don’t ask, Doctor. In fact, part of your responsibility will be to make referrals to me and that, quite frankly, worries me.”
“Why? Don’t you think I can do my job?”
“Honestly, no, I don’t. When Jason brought your name to the board as someone to investigate, I voted against you because everything I’d heard, not to mention everything I’d read, indicated you were still fighting your own demons. But he out-talked me, swayed the voting members over to his side to give you an interview, and I lost. So here you are on a trial basis being exactly the way I predicted you’d be.”
“It’s nice to know who your enemies are.” He arched skeptical eyebrows. “Especially when they make no effort to hide themselves.”
“You’re not my enemy, Marc, and I’m not yours. But I’m not sure you’re capable of being a responsible colleague, either. At least, nothing you’ve shown me so far gives me the impression that you are.”
“Maybe that’s because you haven’t seen me work as a doctor.”
“And maybe that’s because you’ve never worked in physical rehab. According to your résumé this is your first job in that specialty. You’re here straight from your residency.”
“So tell me, how long had you worked in your specialty when your sister’s husband hired you to work here?”
“That’s different. He knew me.”
“But no experience means no experience. Isn’t it all the same?”
“You’re trying to twist my words,” she said, struggling to stay calm.
“What I said was that you got hired based on who you’d been and not who you were. In my opinion, if that’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. Unless nepotism carries more weight than skills do.”
“I’m not debating your skill as a doctor. You come with a lot of commendations, including a Medal of Honor.”
“Then what are you debating?”
“Your past, your attitude. A couple of people in rehab with you said you were the worst case in the bunch. Your therapist agreed, and said you fought everything and everybody. She said when someone crossed you, you simply shut them out, and that went for the whole team assigned to you. Yet the people who worked with you on the battlefield gave you glowing praises. Which tells me that the before version of you is the real you and you’re keeping it hidden. Or, in other words, you’re afraid to let it back out.”
“So you have done your homework.” Laughing derisively, he simply shook his head.
“To be honest, Marc, I’ve done a ton of homework on you, starting with your trip back to med school to do a physical rehab residency. Couldn’t have been easy.”
He winced. “It was … fine. I mean, what were my choices? Take a desk job somewhere, teach? I wanted to practice, and this gave me an opportunity. Who better to teach someone like me than me?”
“Maybe someone with more compassion?” Anne snapped.
“You haven’t seen my level of compassion, so it’s not fair of you to judge me. And, no, this isn’t PTSD talking. It’s one angry-as-hell former army medic talking—one who lost the use of his legs and had to change his whole life plan. So I’m not like you, Anne, who had emotional difficulties because I couldn’t cope. If a hysterical outbreak was all it took to get me out of the chair, I’d be happy to become hysterical in a heartbeat.”
She drew in a bracing breath. She was used to being challenged by patients. Happened every day. Their tragedies were greater than hers, their suffering more—something she couldn’t possibly understand, so many of them told her. But she’d been to the very depths of hell, too, and she knew what that felt like. Maybe not in the same way others experienced it, because no two people went through it the same way. But like Marc, she’d had to fight hard to come back. And who knew? Maybe one day he’d finally understand that suffering was suffering, no matter the form in which it came.
“Look, we have a meet-and-greet tomorrow to give you a chance to meet all your new colleagues. I was wondering, since you’re new in town, if you’d like to grab a quick dinner afterward.”
“You’re asking me on a date?”
“Not a date, but I thought that since these meet-and-greets are usually pretty boring, you might appreciate the opportunity to get out of there a little early without looking like some pathetic loser who leaves there alone.”
“Aren’t you the picture of compassion?” he said, his voice perfectly even.
“Just trying to be friendly. That is, if you’re capable of being friendly.”
“I can be as friendly as the next guy when I have to be.”
“I have a degree in psychology as well as medicine, Doctor. Want me to tell you in how many ways that sounded antisocial?”
“You are stubborn, aren’t you?” He actually laughed out loud. “And you think I don’t know?”
“Go ahead, call it what it is … stubborn. I am stubborn, I like it and I own it.”
A hint of a smile crinkled his eyes. “Well, you’ve met your match. My stubbornness is going to put yours to shame.”
“And you’re proud of it?”
“About as much as you are.”
She studied him for a moment and noticed that he’d visibly relaxed in his chair. Was he all bark, no bite? She doubted that. But she also doubted that his bite was worse than his bark. Marc Rousseau was hiding behind his disability, and doing so by lashing out. It was a typical scenario for an atypical man. Somehow, she looked forward to the challenge. No, he wasn’t her patient, but when had that ever stopped her? “OK, then. Tomorrow after the meet-and-greet. Would you prefer Greek or Chinese?”
“I would prefer a bowl of cold cereal, alone.”
“I didn’t hear that as an option, Doctor. So Chinese it is.”
“Chinese,” he muttered as he rolled away from her. “I hate Chinese.”
“Then Greek it is.”
“Hate Greek.”
“Then there’s an all-night diner down the street and I’m sure they serve cold cereal.” She smiled. “See you then, if not sooner.”
What had she just done? Actually, she didn’t have time to think about it on her way to her group session. Every morning was reserved for private patients who were not yet ready to face others, and every afternoon was much the same, except she blocked out two hours after lunch for her group session where anybody was welcome to sit in and talk.
Talking was cathartic. Too bad she hadn’t talked more. If she had, she might not have found herself in the depths of despair after she’d learned about Bill. But that’s where she’d ended up. Too much trauma, too much death, too many patch jobs that just hadn’t been good enough. She’d held up in the field just fine because she’d had a real purpose there, but when she’d come home to face all the things a family practitioner had to face—coughs and sore throats and gallstones—she’d broken in half. That, plus a failing marriage and her whole life had started to decompose.
And it wasn’t like her patients back home had needed her any less than her patients in the field. But what she hadn’t felt was … vital. The divorce had robbed her. So had her medical practice, as she hadn’t felt like she’d made a difference at the end of the day since she’d come back.
Sure, she could have re-upped, but she’d have been assigned stateside this time, doing exactly what she’d been doing when she’d parted ways with the army. So on those evenings when she’d been alone and she’d thought about the direction her life was taking, she’d let her depression out, fretted a little, cried a lot. Until her hands had started to shake and her mind had started to get muddled. Then there’d been missed work and missed days, and weeks that had gone by in a blur because she’d been unable to force herself to get out of bed in the morning.
Oh, she’d known it had been depression. But she’d never attributed it to PTSD. That was for other soldiers, the ones on the battlefield who came home battered either physically or emotionally. No, Anne Sebastian just felt tired and irritable, and she hadn’t wanted to face her days head-on. With family swooping in, trying to get her to do one thing or another. “Get help,” they’d kept telling her. “It’s not an embarrassment to admit you need help.”
Then one day a dear friend from her army days had come to visit, thanks to Anne’s parents. Her friend, Belinda McCall, also an army doc, had admitted she’d had trouble. Hers had been temper, and outbreaks, and crying jags. Her diagnosis—severe depression.
“I’m just going through a bad divorce,” Anne had replied. “And I can control my moods whenever I want to.”
“Can you?” Belinda had asked. “Are you sure?”
Had she been sure? Of course she’d been sure. She wasn’t a weak person. Only a person going through a bad patch.
“Must be a pretty damned bad patch for you to miss work,” Belinda had taunted her as she’d handed her a brochure for a program in Oregon for returning soldiers suffering from stress-related disorders and depression.
Long story short, she’d seen herself in the description—sleeping on the job, listless. Then one day she’d curled up on an exam table and just dozed off in the middle of the day. After the fire rescue squad had knocked her door in, she’d made the phone call. Two years later, with counseling for depression behind her, she’d had her PhD in hand and had reemerged into the world ready to treat soldiers with PTSD like she’d seen in the clinic. So many of them so often misdiagnosed or forgotten. And as luck would have it, she’d landed the job at a little veterans’ rehab clinic in Chicago. One run by her brother-in-law.
It had been a fresh start. What a perfect place to start over!
But was it a good place for Marc to start over? Her demons had been put to bed before she’d got here, but she had a hunch his biggest demons were still in front of him. He’d faced his disability and dealt with it as much as he could on his own. Or as much as he would allow. And he had great credentials as a doctor. So maybe he intended to spend his time behind his work, the way she’d tried doing.
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Dianne Drake
The first kiss is the deepest!Ex-army doc Marc Rousseau might be devastatingly sexy, but he specialises in being difficult! No longer able to practise as a surgeon, he’s working with injured war veterans alongside stunning Dr Anne Sebastian…the one woman who sees beyond his gruff exterior!Marc knows Anne’s off-limits—especially as she’s unlikely to trust any man again—but being around her is such sweet torture! And when a late-night swim leads to a steamy kiss Marc and Anne start to wonder…dare they take a chance on a future together?Army DocsTwo brothers, divided by conflict, meet the women who will change their lives… for ever!
Dear Reader (#u8cfc6332-4baa-543f-9bc5-8caa600cd96e),
Back in the day, when I was actively pursuing a nursing career, I worked at the Veterans’ Hospital. The patients I was fortunate enough to serve were a wholly amazing and heroic group of men and women. It always amazed me to watch them fight their battles with such courage.
When I was asked to write this book I knew immediately where my setting had to be. It was an honour to pay tribute to the brave soldiers who had once been under my care. Especially in the persona of Marc Rousseau, a doctor who comes home from the war badly damaged. My story is inspired by two people I know—people who fell in love despite great obstacles. David is a paraplegic who married his nurse—an inspiring story because the disability was never part of their relationship. True love sees no boundaries.
My heroine, Anne, never sees the disability in the man she loves. All she wants to do is encourage him—the way all people in love want to encourage each other. It’s a story of two people coming to terms with love, not disability.
I’d like to thank Mills and Boon for giving me the opportunity to show that love can shine through adversity.
Wishing you health and happiness …
Dianne
PS Please feel free to email me at
DianneDrake@earthlink.net (mailto:DianneDrake@earthlink.net) or connect to my Facebook page or Twitter account through links posted to my website at dianne-drake.com (http://www.dianne-drake.com)
Now that her children have left home, DIANNE DRAKE is finally finding the time to do some of the things she adores—gardening, cooking, reading, shopping for antiques. Her absolute passion in life, however, is adopting abandoned and abused animals. Right now Dianne and her husband, Joel, have a little menagerie of three dogs and two cats, but that’s always subject to change. A former symphony orchestra member, Dianne now attends the symphony as a spectator several times a month and, when time permits, takes in an occasional football, basketball or hockey game.
Tortured by Her Touch
Dianne Drake
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ARMY DOCS
Two brothers, divided by conflict, meet the women who will change their lives … for ever!
Army medics Marc and Nick Rousseau were at the top of their field when they were caught in an IED explosion in Afghanistan that left Marc paralysed and Nick unscathed. Now out of the army, the estranged brothers are on opposite sides of the country and struggling to put the past behind them … until they each meet a woman who challenges them in unimaginable ways.
Now, as these generous and caring women open the brothers’ eyes to new worlds of possibility, can Marc and Nick finally forgive the past and reclaim the bond they once shared?
To the soldiers
at the W. 10th St. Veterans Administration Hospital and the men and women who care for them.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u7bad2983-dd6b-5397-a766-562bd77416fb)
Dear Reader
About the Author (#u0c985876-1078-5fb2-ad52-cf11f3ab963a)
Title Page (#uc13fab31-0cf5-5661-b009-0619159a613b)
Introduction (#u6b51b0e7-2786-5bc2-aabb-56527c988376)
Dedication (#u113db7e4-f63d-5b21-8c3e-13cecf18bca8)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f8f8ac75-444c-5f43-a555-c1ae6683e378)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_de641010-db64-54b8-8c75-35ceaf4525ef)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_9906c55a-e783-5c0d-9907-28d4f34dfad2)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e99a9380-e0fe-5e82-8211-5ff05ec2e4a7)
“AT FIRST THERE was nothing. I was running across the field, going after my brother Nick, who’d been given direct orders not to be out there, but had recklessly gone to rescue someone, and the next thing …”
Dr. Marc Rousseau swallowed hard and closed his eyes, as if trying to remember the day that had forever changed his life. Or destroyed it, depending upon which point of view you preferred. “He’d gone to rescue a buddy, and in the end he rescued me. Nick, the irresponsible one, could have gotten us both killed. He shouldn’t have done it.”
It was always there, always on his mind, if not on the edges, then running straight into it. That fateful day, as some might call it. He called it that day from hell. “It didn’t trip immediately, so I wasn’t directly on it. Thank God for that. But in the blink of an eye I was cold and hot at the same time. With these weird sensations. I mean, I knew right away there was pain, but I was so distanced from my body at that exact second I wasn’t even relating that the injury had happened to me. And in my mind all I could do was think, I need to help someone. I’m a doctor. I’ve got to go help someone.
“It probably took me a good two minutes of lying out there on the battlefield before I realized I was the one who needed help. That I was the one who’d sustained the injury. The one who was screaming.”
He picked up the glass of iced water sitting on the desk of the chief of staff and took a drink. “The hell of it was, even after I knew I’d been hit, I still had to be told. My body may have known it, but my mind wouldn’t accept that my body gave in so easily. All I wanted to do was get back out there in the field and do what I was supposed to do, but I couldn’t move, except for wiggling around in the dirt. And the blood … there was so much of it, but it couldn’t have been mine. There was nothing inside me that allowed for the possibility that I was wounded. After all, I was the medic, a healer who’d volunteered to be there, not a soldier in the real sense of the word.
“Sure, I’d had my combat training, but my job was to put bodies back together, not to become one of those bodies. But I was, and I think I realized it for the first time—really realized it—when they brought the stretcher out for me. The people who worked for me were there to carry me off the battlefield.”
“And how did that make you feel?” Dr. Jason Lewis asked. Jason was a kind man, about Marc’s age—thirty-six—with thinning blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Whereas Marc was bulky and dark. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression that belied nothing but torture.
“How did I feel? I felt angry as hell at first. Like, how dare they do that to me! Don’t they know that I fix everybody, including the people we’re fighting?”
“But IEDs are impersonal. They’re just meant to destroy whatever gets in their way.”
“Tell me about it,” Marc muttered.
“I don’t suppose I really have to,” the doctor replied. “So what happened after they came to rescue you?”
“They gave me a phone, told me to call anybody I liked. Girlfriend, parent, my brother, who was out there on that battlefield somewhere, trying to save lives.”
“What for?”
“That’s a protocol when they think you’re going to die. I had a back full of shrapnel, nails, God only knows what else sticking in my spine. It’s a bad sign, with so much bleeding, and I was bleeding out. My body was trying to die. There was so much trauma to my spine they didn’t see how I’d survive it.”
“But you obviously didn’t die.”
“Too much self-righteous indignation, I suppose. You go through these stages like after a death—denial, anger, all that crap. And I went straight to anger …”
“And stayed there?”
“A lot of the time, yes.” He shrugged. “Don’t like it, don’t want to be there, but it happens, and that’s something you need to know if you hire me.”
“Do you really think that’s the right attitude for someone who’s applying to head one of the veteran outreach rehab programs?”
“Do you really think it’s not?” he challenged the doctor. “Anger turned inward can be harmful, I suppose. But when you turn it outward on your situation, you can make it work for you. The angrier I got, the harder I worked. The harder I worked, the better I healed.”
“Did it really work for you, Dr. Rousseau? I know you were a top-notch surgeon, and those days are now behind you. You’ll never operate again, no matter how angry you get. How does that make you feel?”
“Mad as hell that someone had so much control over me as to change my life the way they did. I had a plan that got wasted, a life that got altered, and none of it was of my doing, so I’m angry, but I have that right. And like I said, I fight it like I fight all my other battles. It’s just one of the many, I suppose. And I won’t even deny that I’d rather be a surgeon, but that’s not going to happen.”
“See, the thing is, I’m concerned that your bitterness will be a detriment to our patients—the ones who want to make it back all the way or the ones who are fighting to get back as much as they can. I don’t want your anger or your personal preference in being a surgeon as opposed to a rehab doc influencing them. I don’t even want them seeing it.”
“It won’t and they won’t.”
“How can I be sure of that?”
“I don’t suppose you can when all you have is my word. But you do have my word. The thing is, I’ve made it back as far as I can go. Granted, I’m a paraplegic now, but who better to work with the men and women like me than me? I mean, I understand what it’s like to have your life taken away from you and in its place you’re given something that’s going to fight you every day of your life. I know how hard you have to work just to keep your head above water. And that’s where I’m coming from.”
“But will your internal struggles prevent you from recognizing someone who’s in such great depths of despair he or she might be contemplating suicide? Because we run into those patients every now and then.”
“I contemplated it myself for a while, so I know the symptoms.”
“What’s ‘a while’? Define that in terms of duration, if you will.”
“Weeks, maybe. I wouldn’t work at improving, and all I wanted to do was die. I mean, what was the point? I couldn’t have what I wanted—my girlfriend had walked out on me because I was suddenly not what she wanted, my friends shunned me for fear they’d say or do the wrong thing. My family couldn’t be around me without crying. My brother was so consumed with survivor’s guilt he couldn’t stand to look at me—he was an army doc who escaped the field in one piece and he was also the one who convinced me to join up. He blames himself for my condition because he disobeyed orders and ran out onto the battlefield. Finds it very difficult being around me now, even though I understand that’s just the way my brother is. He blames himself for my condition because of it.”
“Because of your disability or your attitude?”
“I’m not deluding myself, Doctor. It was my attitude, but my attitude was precipitated by my disability. So I turned my back on the people who still cared—so much so they couldn’t stand to be around me any longer. They tried and I pushed them away.”
Marc shifted positions in his wheelchair, raised himself up with massive arms, then lowered himself again. “There were questions about how much ability I’d regain, whether or not I’d be able to take care of myself, find a new life, function as a man … It’s overwhelming, and it scared me, and the more frightened I was, the more I just wanted it all to end. But I’m not a quitter and that quitting attitude just made me angry, which pushed me harder to prove I was OK. It’s been a vicious circle, as you can see. Was then, still is. But I get through it.”
“Then you’re not over it?”
“I can cope with it now. But I do need to stay busy and find something other than myself to focus on, which is why I retrained, served a second residency at Boston Mercy Hospital, and why I’m sitting here, applying for this job.”
“Meaning you’re going to take all that pent-up frustration and turn yourself into a first-class rehab doctor.”
“Amazing what a healthy dose of anger can do, isn’t it? You know what they say …” Marc’s eyes went distant for a second, but for only a second. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Well, it hasn’t killed me so far.”
“I saw your records, talked to your chief resident at Boston Mercy General. You did a good job there, but what makes you think you can translate that into doing a good job here, where you’re a full staff member with staff responsibilities as well as administrative duties?”
“I know how to lead, and people do listen to me. And as they say, I’ve got street cred now. If you came into your clinic, who would you rather listen to—someone like you who’s never experienced anything more than a shaving cut, or me?”
“You’ve got a good point, Dr. Rousseau.”
The man was trying to get his goat. He knew that. But he also knew Jason Lewis had the right to prod as hard as he wanted since what he was going to get was basically a brand-new doctor in the field. “Good enough to offer me the position?” They’d been talking back and forth for weeks—by phone, on the internet, texting. This whole interview process was dragging him down. He knew he was a liability—a great big one. But he also knew he was a good doctor. So which one outweighed the other?
Lewis laughed. “I will say you’ve got guts to go along with your attitude.”
“And that’s all I’ll need to get through to some of these guys and gals. So offer me a job on the spot, and I’ll see what I can do to curb my attitude.”
“On the spot? You want me to offer you a job on the spot without going to the board first, or talking to the people who will be working closest with you?”
Marc arched his eyebrows. “You’ve got the power, haven’t you? And it’s not like this interview process hasn’t been going on in some form for quite a while.”
“Oh, I’ve got the power, but I’m still not sure you’re the right candidate.”
“Let’s see. I’ve got administrative experience, I’m a good doctor, I have practical experience … What more do you need?”
Dr. Lewis shook his head. “On paper you’re the perfect candidate.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want this clinic turning out a whole battalion of you. And I’m afraid that’s what you’re going to do.”
“In other words, you don’t believe I have the ability to separate my personal from my professional life. So tell me, are you able to do that? Do you never take your work home with you or bring your personal life to work?”
“Most days I’m good,” Lewis said.
“And most days, I will be, too. All I’ve got is my word. I know I’ve got some attitude adjustments to make still, but that could also be a strength in helping my patients, in making them understand how they’re not the only ones. So, on the spot?” He held out a confident hand to shake with Dr. Lewis.
Lewis took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and extended his hand to Marc. “On the spot, but it’s a probationary spot. Three months to start with, then a reevaluation.”
“That’s all I can ask for,” Marc said. “Thank you.”
“I’m warning you, Rousseau, when you’re on my time you’re a rehab doctor, nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand me?”
Marc nodded. “So I’m assuming my office is more accessible than yours because this one is too small for good maneuverability?” Inwardly, he was pleased by the offer. Now all he had to do was see if it was a match made in heaven or hell.
Anne Sebastian looked out her window at the gardens stretching as far as she could see. But it wasn’t the garden she was seeing. In fact, she was seeing red! “Seriously, you hired him to head physical rehab?”
Jason Lewis shrugged. “He has the qualifications we need.”
“And an attitude that precedes him. I have a friend at Mercy who said—”
“He’ll adjust,” Jason interrupted. “In spite of what you’ve heard, he’ll fall into our routine nicely.”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked, too perplexed to turn around to confront her brother-in-law.
“Then I’ll fire him, the way I would any other staff member who becomes a detriment to the facility or its patients.”
She spun around. “No, you won’t. It’s not in you to do something like that. Especially since he’s a wounded soldier.”
“Then we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed he works out, won’t we?”
Anne heaved a dubious sigh. “Hannah married a real softie. You know that, don’t you?”
Jason blushed. “You do know that no one else on my staff talks to me the way you do?”
“Family prerogative. Besides, she’s confined to bed until she delivers, so, as your wife’s twin sister, older by eight minutes, might I remind you, it’s up to me to make sure things are running the way they should.”
Anne was an internist who’d earned an additional PhD in psychology, and turned her medical practice into one that specialized in post-traumatic stress disorder. Her sister, an ear specialist, worked with combat vets who’d suffered hearing loss due to trauma. And Jason was also a radiologist who oversaw all the X-rays generated in his clinic.
Jason overexaggerated a wince. “A daughter. Between you two and her, I’ll never be able to win an argument.”
“Poor Jason,” Anne teased.
“Poor Jason is right. Speaking of which, our new hire, Marc Rousseau …”
“Do we have to talk about the man?”
“Not if you don’t want to. But since your office is going to be close to his, I was hoping you’d show him some consideration.”
“Consideration?” she asked. “If you mean taking him on as a case …”
“Not as a case. As a colleague who, like you, started over. It wasn’t easy for you. Remember? Anyway, he comes with glowing references as a doctor and miserable mentions as a human being. He admits his anger. Almost embraces it. But to get his skills, we take the whole package. That’s all there is. Promise. No underhanded scheme to try and fix him or anything like that. Just be his friend. Make him aware that he’s welcome here.”
“Why did you hire him, Jason, when you’ve got so many doubts?”
“Because he can unquestionably do the job. That’s my first consideration. And I’m also thinking that he’s one of the soldiers who got overlooked in the process. It happens every day, Anne, and you know that better than anybody else. We get the worst ones, the ones who can’t function, for whatever reason. With one in every eight soldiers suffering from PTSD and only about thirty percent of those ever getting help, the rest are living in a personal hell.
“They could benefit from what we do here, and I happen to think Marc Rousseau might be great at spotting troubling issues others have missed. He’s perceptive.” He raised teasing eyebrows. “And who better to put a man in his place if he needs it than you?”
She winced. “All it takes is a bad marriage. Want to hear my opinions on that?”
Jason smiled sympathetically. “Ah, Bill. The vanquished husband. I could go beat him up if that makes you feel any better.”
“I’m sounding like the one with the rotten attitude, aren’t I?”
“You’ve been through your share of misery.”
“And come through it wiser than I was.”
“Look, I know the divorce was tough, but you never let it affect your work when you were going through the various aspects of it. I gave you the benefit of the doubt and hired you pretty much untested in PTSD because I believed in you, and I’d hope you’d do the same for Marc. Give him the same chance I gave you.”
“Tough divorce is an understatement. It was devastating, discovering how many times Bill cheated on me when I was overseas.”
“And you’re better off being rid of him.”
“I am, but still …” She shrugged. “Look, I know Rousseau by the reputation that precedes him, but I wouldn’t recognize him if he walked right by me, and I’m still a little on edge.”
“Then you don’t know?” Jason frowned. “I’d assumed since you knew he was a returning wounded soldier …”
“Know what?”
“Marc Rousseau is a paraplegic. Incomplete, lower injury. Full sensation, but not enough muscle recovery to get his legs back under him.”
Anne’s eyes widened. “Bad attitude and disabled?”
“Well, for sure, if you can survive working with him, you’ll regain some of the self-confidence you lost in the divorce mess. But the man is worth saving because he’s a damned good doctor and I want him to work out here, Anne. We need him as much as he needs us. So, besides your self-confidence, I’ll give you a trophy or something for enduring him.”
“Damn the disability …”
Jason laughed. “It gets you in the soft spot every time, doesn’t it?”
“How did it happen?”
“He was a medic, got hit by shrapnel … nails, wire, that kind of stuff … from an IED. Was a pretty bad injury, touch and go for a while. But luckily—if you can call anything about it lucky—his injury could have been worse. He’s pretty independent. In fact, the only thing he can’t do is walk.”
“And that’s not going to happen?”
Jason shook his head. “He’s in the chair for the count.”
“With a lot of anger issues you’re attributing to PTSD.”
“He worked through the physical end of it like a man possessed, but he neglected … himself. Lost himself in the whole affair. Which is a damn shame because he saved lives, was commended as a battlefield surgeon.”
Anne walked over to her desk and sat down. “OK, I’ll cut him some slack, but only some. That’s the best I can offer you right now.”
“He’s going to be spotting a lot of your patients and referring them to you. You do realize that, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“And I’m not going to soft-pedal this. He’ll be a challenge, Anne, but, unlike Bill and all his affairs, it won’t be directed at you.”
All Bill’s affairs. She’d been overseas in one medical capacity or another for three tours, while the husband who’d vowed to be true had been tracked to nine different affairs. Even Bill’s attorney hadn’t tried too hard to help him during nearly a year of divorce proceedings. “I can take on a challenge as long as it’s not personal,” Anne replied. “And apart from a husband having all those affairs while his wife was off, serving her country, I don’t think anything could be much more challenging than that.”
“I really want Marc stable enough to stay with us,” Jason said. “We need someone who’s been through it so he can get to others who are going through what he did.”
“I know. And you’re right. So I’ll be on my good behavior with him.”
“And you’ll help him get acclimated to the way we do things here?”
“Yes,” she answered. “But he’s got to meet me halfway.”
“That takes believing in himself. And what better way to do that than being involved in his job?”
“When does he start?”
“He’s started. I couldn’t see any reason to put him off. I hired him on the spot and sent him down to his office.”
“Then there was no point to this discussion.”
Jason smiled. “You’re my other volatile physician, so I thought I’d give you fair warning. Let’s just call it a family courtesy.”
“Speaking of which, tell Hannah I’ll be by soon,” Anne said as Jason headed to her door, leaving her to study her surroundings. She loved this place, loved the contemporary chrome look. Most of all, she loved the Gallahue Rehabilitation Center for Veterans for the good work it did. It was small, limited in the cases it could take. But the services it offered, thanks largely to Maynard and Lois Gallahue in memory of their fallen son, were amazing and much more extensive than one might expect from a relatively small clinic. And waiting lists for admittance were long.
Rumors had it the Gallahue Foundation for returning wounded soldiers would be upping its contribution, and she’d heard other notable companies were making funds available. So, as far as Anne was concerned, the sky here was the limit. She hoped so, anyway, because she saw the work being done every day. Witnessed firsthand the miracles.
“Got a minute?” she asked a little while later, poking her head through the semi-open door that read “John Hemmings” in gold letters and would soon read “Marc Rousseau”.
“Depends on what you want to do with that minute. If you’ve come to gawk, then, no, I don’t have a minute.” Marc looked up at her. “If you’ve come to be sociable, I’m not sociable. And if you’ve come about a patient, I haven’t even figured out how to fill out all my employment forms, so patients are a no-go as well for the next day or so.”
His office was sparse—a desk with a chair shoved into the corner, empty shelves, no diplomas. It was as if the man didn’t exist. But he did, and she couldn’t help but admire his massive, muscular arms, and the way his reading glasses slid to the end of his nose, revealing clear, dark brown eyes. And his hair cut … longish, over the collar, dark brown as well. He was goose-bumps-up-the-arm handsome, but the attitude … wow, was it bad!
“So, have you had enough time to get what you came for?” he asked her.
“What do you mean?”
“Your first glimpse of a doctor in a wheelchair.”
Truth was, she hadn’t even noticed the wheelchair.
“That’s why I didn’t stand to greet you. Can’t.” He shrugged indifferent shoulders. “Don’t particularly want to, either.”
“You are a piece of work, Dr. Rousseau.”
He stared at her over the top of his glasses for a moment. Appraising her. Taking in every last little bit. “So how would you like it if someone came to your office just to look at your blond hair …?” Shoulder length with a slight wave. “Or your green eyes. How would you like that, Miss …?”
“Dr. Anne Sebastian.”
“How would you like that, Dr. Sebastian?”
“Actually, if a man wants to look, it’s not a big deal.”
“If you were in a wheelchair, it would be.”
“Then that’s who you are? Who you want to be known as? The doctor in the wheelchair?”
“Your minute’s up,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose and turning his attention to the mountains of employment paperwork on his desk.
“Then give me another minute.”
“And the reason for that would be?”
“Lunch?” She heard herself say the words, and couldn’t believe they’d come out of her mouth. What in the world had possessed her?
“Seriously? You want to have lunch with me? Or did you draw the short straw and you’re the one elected to be nice to the disabled guy?”
“Believe me, if that was the reason, I’d be the first one backing out of it and running away. And I do mean running because I’m not about to give in to your poor-me-in-a-wheelchair attitude and cop some wary attitude when I’m forced to be around you.”
Marc actually laughed. “My reputation really has preceded me, hasn’t it?”
“Let’s just say that one of your former colleagues at Mercy wished me luck and said something to the effect that it was better me than her.”
“If I were insulted, I’d try to guess which one, but I really don’t give a damn because this is a job and I’m not here to win a popularity contest.”
“Trust me, you’d come in last place.”
He actually gave her a genuinely nice smile. “Is your motive really just to ask me to lunch?”
Her heart fluttered just a bit all because of a single smile. “Someone has to.”
“I can carry my own tray.”
“In our doctors’ dining room we have table service. Otherwise, by the end of the week, I’m sure someone would have already dumped their tray on your head.”
“Lucky for me,” he said as he wheeled out from behind his desk. “And just so you’ll know, I’m an incomplete, I have full sensation, full function, except for walking.”
“And just so you’ll know, I don’t give a damn about your sensation or your function or any other man things you might wish to confide.”
“Man hater, are you? Or do you prefer the ladies?”
“Oh, I prefer men. Just not right now and not for the foreseeable future.”
“I’m assuming it’s a long, sad story,” he said as he followed Anne to the hall.
“Longest and saddest. And the rest of it’s none of your business.”
“You know how hospital staff talks,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
“Let ‘em talk. Better them than me.” Surprisingly, he picked up a brisk pace, one she found quite difficult to keep up with. Was he testing her or trying to prove something? Admittedly, he did have a lot of strength, and the way he wheeled was something to behold, something athletic.
“Keep up,” he said, slowing his pace a little. “I don’t know where the dining room is, and I’m trusting that you’re going to show me sometime this afternoon. But at that slow pace …”
“Just shut up and wheel,” she said as a smile crept to her face. Yes, he was going to be a challenge. Maybe her biggest one ever. But he did have a grudge to work out, and a whole lot of anger he was going to have to learn to curb. Without therapy! Now, that was the part that was going to be difficult for her—just as Jason had anticipated—not getting involved in such a way as to help him solve his issues.
“By the way, since you asked me to lunch, you are paying for it, aren’t you?”
“Seriously?” she said, fighting back a laugh. If she did get through to this hulk of a man, Jason was going to owe her big time. Big, big time!
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_3f1999e4-7163-5c7f-bed1-8fe122b48f0d)
“I UNDERSTAND YOU met him,” Jason said to Anne.
“He sat at one end of a table for eight, I sat at the other. Nobody sat between us. And we didn’t talk. Not one word. I paid for his lunch and when he was through eating, he left. Thanked me for my hospitality and simply left.”
“But other than that, how was he?”
“Rude, arrogant, obnoxious, fixed on his work to the point of not even noticing anybody else there.” Her office was adjacent to her treatment room, and both were very relaxed and cozy. An immediate warm feeling drifted down over most of her patients when they came in, and that was done on purpose. Her walls were medium blue, her furniture a lighter blue accented in white, and the music piped in was a soothing Vivaldi or Bach. Atmosphere made a difference in so many of her cases, and she tried hard to achieve that comfort, as comfort equated to trust.
“But workable?”
“That, I don’t know. He’s as resistant a person as I’ve ever met. So this one is going to be the flip of a coin.”
“But you’ll try, since the majority of your referrals will come from him?”
“For a while. But if I see that he’s not working out, you’ll hear from me, Jason. And probably not just me.” Just as that threat rolled off her tongue, she received a text. When she checked it, it said: “See. I don’t bite. Lunch tomorrow?”
Anne sighed.
“What?” Jason asked.
“Nothing. Just an invite to lunch tomorrow,” she said, forcing a smile. “Lucky me.”
Jason headed for the door. “Just be careful, Anne, and you’ll be fine.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle him.” How was the question, though, especially since Jason seemed to have made her the one-person welcome committee, probably owing to her background in psychiatry. If the shrink couldn’t handle him, no one else could, either. What an assumption!
It was going on to seven that evening when Anne finally decided to call it quits. Long days were her norm, especially since she had nothing or no one to go home to. But that was OK because the last time she’d had someone to go home to, he’d been going to other homes. A lot of them. And it made her wonder how she could have been so truly wrong about the man.
Had she expected him to stay faithful while she was overseas? Of course she had. She would have. In fact, she’d been faithful when he’d been the one overseas, fighting, and she’d been stateside, working in a military hospital. It would have never occurred to her to cheat on him, and now she went home to a big, empty house every night, fixed herself a microwave dinner, caught up on some reading, showered and went to bed.
Big night. And nights were the worst, which was why she put in at least a dozen hours a day at the hospital. It was better than going home.
Flipping off the lights, she opened up the door and nearly tripped over Marc, who was merely sitting outside her office door. “What do you want?” she snapped.
“You bought me lunch, so I owe you a meal. Dinner?”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Her heart skipped a beat as she did like the idea of eating with him but she didn’t want to sound too anxious.
“Maybe an apology for being such a jerk today.”
“Apology accepted. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“Married, divorced from a lousy cheater, work longer hours than any other doc at Gallahue. I’m betting your evening consists of a microwave dinner and reading medical journals until you fall asleep.”
“I do watch the eleven o’clock news.”
“The epitome of a boring life. Which is why I thought dinner with me is better than dinner with the microwave. Besides, I have some questions to ask you.”
“If they pertain to the hospital, ask Jason.”
“Don’t you find him a little boring?” Marc asked.
“As a chief of staff or as my brother-in-law? Because I’m actually quite fine with him in both capacities.”
“Ah, a family tie.”
“He’s married to my twin sister, so that makes him family.”
“And you spend all the holidays with them, right?”
“How did you know about my divorce?” she asked.
“People talk.”
“But you haven’t even started to practice here yet.”
“And like I said, people talk.”
“They talk to people who give them a warm and fuzzy feeling, and you haven’t got a warm or fuzzy feeling in you.”
“Then it has to be the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“People don’t see you when you’re in a wheelchair. For some reason, you’re invisible to them, so they talk around you.”
“And people are talking about me?”
“About how your divorce became final recently. Apparently, he’s been fighting you for everything, but you won. Left the man practically destitute.”
“People know too much,” she snapped. “It was an ugly divorce. But since he’s the one who deserted the marriage and left me holding a whole lot of hard feelings, and debt, what can I say other than I’m glad he got everything that’s coming to him?”
“And you’re going to get …”
“First, sell my house. Then buy a nice little cottage, maybe take up gardening. I’d like a cat, too.”
“A cat?”
She smiled. “Everything that makes life nice.”
“No man?”
“Absolutely not! Been there, don’t want to go back.”
“Good, then I’m not taking out another man’s woman to dinner tonight.”
“I didn’t accept your invitation, and I don’t intend to.”
“Because we’re not compatible?” That was an understatement.
“Because I don’t particularly like you.”
Rather than being angry, Marc smiled. “Do you realize how many people actually put up with me and my attitude just because I’m in a wheelchair? They find that if they deny me or do something other than what I want, they’re doing something deeply wrong or offensive. The man’s a wounded war veteran and it’s important to appease him.”
“Appease you? Let me tell you, your wheelchair’s not off-putting, Marc. But your attitude is. So thanks for the invitation but I’d rather curl up with a good medical journal than suffer another meal with you.” With that, she strode away, the sound of angry heels clicking on the floor tile. Rather than frowning, though, a slight smile actually turned up the corners of her lips. This was going to be interesting.
“Well, then, we’ll stick to the plan. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.”
She turned back to give him a stiff glare, but what came off was more confused than anything, and she hated wearing her emotions on her sleeve, as they always sent out the wrong impression. “Not if your life depended on it, Marc Rousseau,” she said, trying to remain rigid, although her insides were quivering. “Not if your life depended on it!”
Anne snuggled down on her sofa with a glass of white grape juice and a medical journal and a soft Schubert quintet playing in the background. She wasn’t really so physically tired as she was mentally stressed. Nothing had gone well today. Two of her patients had had emotional breaks—big ones. One had tried to jump out her window until he remembered her office was on the first floor, and then he’d simply smashed furniture. After which he’d apologized and offered to pay for the damages. The other had sat in her office and wept uncontrollably for over an hour, until she’d finally had him sedated and checked in for a night of observation.
Shutting her eyes, she rotated her ankles for a moment, then sank further back into the sofa pillows, not sure if, when the time came, she’d be able to get up and make it all the way upstairs to the bedroom.
She really did hate this house. Hated everything in it because it stood for a happier time—a time when love had been fresh and exciting and she’d known it would last forever. And it wasn’t like Bill hadn’t known she’d be serving overseas when he’d asked her to marry him. He’d be good with it, he’d claimed. There was nothing for her to worry about.
Stupid her, she’d believed him. And on her first leave, she’d come back to a marriage she’d believed was as stable as it had ever been in their three years. But on her second trip stateside he’d seemed more remote. He’d claimed he was tired, too much work, just getting over a cold … there’d been a whole string of excuses, but by the end of her leave, things had been normal again, and she’d returned overseas happy to know that the next time she came home it would be for good.
But when that day came, she’d found earrings in a drawer on her side of the bed. And a bra. And panties. It had seemed, as the days had gone by, there had been more and more excuses for Bill to invent. None of them plausible. Then her neighbor, an older lady, had commented on the succession of housekeepers who’d come and gone at odd hours of the day and night. “Sometimes two, three times a week!” Mrs. Gentry had exclaimed.
One check with the cleaning service confirmed her suspicion. The cleaning service cleaned every Friday morning. Once a week. No more, no less. Her accountant had verified that with the checks that had been written. He’d also recommended the best lawyer in Port Duncan, New York.
“Protect your assets, Anne. Bill’s been doing a lot of spending while you were gone, and if you want to keep anything for yourself, it’s time to lawyer up.” Said by James Callahan, the attorney she’d hired that day.
Through it all, though, Anne had been numb. She had been unable to function. Betrayal. Fragments of memories left over from Afghanistan. Things she hadn’t been able to forget … or fix. No, it hadn’t made sense, but it had seemed like her world had been closing in around her. She’d been unable to breathe half the time. The other half of the time, she hadn’t been able to quit crying. Vicious circle. Every day. Sucking the life out of her every day. Little pieces of it just falling away, one at a time.
She’d almost been at the point of complete breakdown when she’d realized she couldn’t control what was happening to her, so she’d sought counseling. Her condition hadn’t been diagnosed as PTSD, but the emotional conflict had given her a deep understanding of those who did suffer through it—the confusion, the anger, the pain. After seeing it on the field and coming up to the edge of it herself, before she’d realized it, she’d been in a PhD program, coupling what she knew as an MD with learning about stress disorders. It had seemed a logical place for her to be. Where she’d wanted to be.
For that part of her life, she’d put her divorce on hold and concentrated only on herself. Fixing herself first, retraining herself second. Of course, her intention had been to restart divorce proceedings once the rest of it was behind her. One trauma at a time was what she’d learned. Deal with one at a time. And while Bill had been a problem, he hadn’t been a trauma. In fact, getting rid of him would be her easiest fix.
So then, a whole year after she’d decided to take that fix, he’d come after her, claiming that her being gone had caused him PTSD. Of all the low, miserable things to do …
“But he learned,” she said as she shut her book and decided she was comfortable right where she was. “When I got through with him, he’d learned to pick his women dumb and dependent. God forbid he should ever get a fighter again or she might do worse to him than I did.”
Sighing, she shut her eyes, and while she expected to go to sleep with visions of Bill in her choke hold filling her dreams, the person there tonight was … Marc. And he was smiling.
“Nice smile,” she whispered as she dozed off. Yes, it was a very nice smile to go to sleep with.
He’d been in bed two hours now, alternately staring at the ceiling, then watching the green numbers on the digital clock. The harder he tried to sleep, the more he couldn’t. Marc’s first thought was a nice cup of hot herbal tea—something soothing. Then in his mind he added brandy to it, just a sip, but the problem with that was he wasn’t a drinker. Never had been. No booze, no pills. Just a bad attitude to get him through.
So what got Anne through? he wondered. She seemed pretty straightforward. Even functional, considering her divorce.
“Some people are made to be more functional,” he told his orange-striped tomcat named Sarge, who was stretched out on the bed, snoozing quite contentedly. Sarge was huge, a Maine Coon weighing in at twenty-five pounds. He’d been cowering on Marc’s doorstep one day, all beaten and bloody, and there hadn’t been a muscle or sinew in Marc’s body that could have shut the door on him because he’d known exactly how the cat had felt—defeated. So he’d taken him in, nursed him back to health, yet hadn’t named him, as his intention had been to turn him over to a no-kill rescue shelter for adoption.
Except the damned cat had these soulful big green eyes that Marc had been unable to resist. So he’d eventually called him Sarge, mostly because his huge size reminded him of an overwhelmingly large and tender-hearted sergeant he’d had working for him in Afghanistan, and he and the cat had become best buddies.
“She’s something, Sarge,” he told the cat as he pulled a can of cat tuna off the shelf. “And so damn obvious it’s laughable. The lady’s in charge of the PTSD program, and I’m sure I’m supposed to be her secret conquest.” He chuckled as he filled the cat bowl and laid it on the floor at the back door to his apartment—a door never used, due to the six steps down. Management had offered to ramp it for him, but he’d told them, no, that one door was plenty. He lived a Spartan life, didn’t need people fawning all over him. Especially his family. He wondered where Nick was right now. Maybe living it up somewhere and doing every dumb thing in the book just to prove he could. He shuddered, thinking about his brother’s lifestyle. Wild. Carefree. Nothing mattered. Most of all, he wondered if Nick even appreciated the freedom he had to do so many stupid things.
Whatever the case, his parents, Jane and Henry, had been ready to drop everything to take care of him, but that was too clingy. No phone calls or texts, he’d said. He was fine. No sad faces, no mother’s tears, no overcompensation from his dad. A cat was good, though. You fed him, watered him, changed his pan, and he didn’t give a hang whether or not all that came from a paraplegic or someone who could walk.
And he never should have asked Anne Sebastian out, not even for a make-good on a very miserable lunch. What had he expected? That she’d actually want to go with him after he’d been so obnoxious? “I deserved it,” he told the cat, who was busy gulping down his food. “I’m not exactly dating material and, God knows, I don’t have friends.” But for one brief moment, he’d actually thought a couple hours with Anne might be nice.
So much for thinking. So much for anything that resembled a normal life. This was it. A tiny apartment, a cat and an SUV that had been fixed for him to drive. Yep, that was his life. Except he did have a job to add to that mix now. Admittedly, he was looking forward to the work, to having the chance to help others like himself. “Time to go do the weights,” he said to his cat as he spun his chair around and went to the second bedroom, which had been turned into a workout room. “Wanna come spot me, Sarge?” he called out. The cat’s response was to simply stop in the hall outside the workout room and wash his face.
“Some friend you are!”
“He’s interesting,” Anne said to Hannah, her twin sister, the next evening. Hannah was now confined to bed as much as possible as she was nearing her due date and she’d been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Anne perched herself on the side of the bed with a carton of ice cream and two spoons, ready to eat their favorite—vanilla fudge. Even at the age of thirty-five, they were still identical in every way that counted, right down to the clothes they picked out and the food they liked and disliked.
“Jason said he’s pretty bitter.”
“I suppose I would be, too, if that had happened to me. I mean, I deal with returning soldiers every day who come back just like Dr. Rousseau … like him and worse. I was lucky. All I had to come back to was …”
“How is Bill, by the way?”
“Even though the divorce is final, he’s still fighting me just as hard as ever.” Anne wrung her hands nervously, then continued on in a shaky voice, “For two cents, I’d just hand it all over to him and walk away, but my attorney believes I’m entitled to my share since I was the one off fighting for my country while Bill was spending his time on the golf course and in our bed, so he’s not going to let Bill go back and amend the settlement.”
She shrugged, then patted her sister’s enormous belly. “Glad we never had children to enter into the mix. Don’t know how I would have handled having to have interaction with him because of a child. This way, I don’t ever have to deal with him again. I just refer him to my lawyer.” She let out a ragged sigh. “It’s better that way.”
“But children are going to be nice.”
“For you. And I predict I’m going to make a great aunt. Spoil the baby rotten, then send her home to her mother.”
“Instead of dating? You know, going out, having fun. Have a life. It’s been a long time coming.”
“But I’m not really going to do the dating thing for a while, if ever.”
“You may change your mind,” Hannah said as she scooped a spoon of ice cream from the container. “When you meet the right man, or realize you’ve already met him.”
“Who? Marc?”
Hannah shrugged.
“Ha! Those pregnancy hormones have gone to your brain and left you with an imagination as big as your belly.”
Hannah shrugged again. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not.”
“You’re the acquiescent one, Hannah, and I’m—”
“The stubborn one,” Hannah supplied. “I know. But relationships don’t always make sense. Don’t follow a logical pattern.”
“Tell me about it. Look what I fell for the first time around.” Anne winced. She’d fallen head over heels in days, maybe in minutes. Had married in mere weeks. “Yeah, well, next time, if there is a next time, I won’t be looking for perfection as much as compatibility. Too bad Jason is taken, because I think you got the last good man. He doesn’t happen to have a secret brother hidden somewhere, does he?”
Hannah laughed. “Men like that don’t stay available too long, sis. I’m lucky I got Jason when I did because it was only a matter of time until some other fortunate woman would have plucked him off the market.”
Anne couldn’t help but wonder if Marc had been married or engaged or near the plucking stage prior to his accident. “Well, right now I have a nemesis who’s going to fight me every step of the way and that’s the only man I want to contend with for a while. And, trust me, that’s enough for anyone.”
“He’ll come round,” Hannah said, taking another bite of ice cream. “Once he gets settled into the routine, you’ll persuade him. Or let’s say out-stubborn him. Poor man doesn’t even know what’s headed his direction.”
Anne jabbed her spoon into the ice cream. “I think he’s equal to it. And I think he’s going to be lots of fun,” she said with a sarcastic grimace on her face to Hannah. “About as much fun as a sticker bush with large stickers.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_27fa991a-6895-59c5-b7a1-c05f5e377e52)
HIS APARTMENT WASN’T much in the way of square footage, but it didn’t matter because there wasn’t much that he needed in this world and that included space. But he did have to admit that his office was everything he could have wanted, and more. It was spacious, accessible. Larger than his apartment, actually.
“You like it?” Anne asked as she followed him in through the door.
“Are you my appointed keeper now?”
“In a way, I suppose you could say that. We’re the only two with offices and treatment rooms at this end of the building, and physical rehab has enough space it’s practically a wing unto itself, so I’m appointed by proximity.”
“Don’t need a keeper, don’t need the proximity either.”
“Not your choice, Marc. This is the way the hospital is laid out and, as it stands, our offices are back to back. If you don’t like it, well …” She shrugged her shoulders. “Too bad. Because I don’t think they’re going to rearrange an entire hospital wing to suit your needs. It is what it is, so get used to it.”
“Look, Doctor, I know you’re probably only following orders, but I’m perfectly capable of managing this department on my own. Tell your brother-in-law that if he believes I need a keeper, he can have my keys back.” He fished his set of keys from his pocket and held them out for her. “Take them. I don’t want this job after all.”
Rather than taking the keys, she merely stood back and laughed at him. “You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?”
He looked like he’d been stung by a bee, the words shocked him that much. “I came here to do a specific job, and I’m good at it.”
“When you don’t let yourself get in the way. Which probably is too often,” she quipped.
“And you know what it’s like?”
“To be you? No, I don’t. I can’t even imagine. But I do know what it’s like to be the new person in the door where everybody’s watching you and waiting for you to mess up. I was there not that long ago, and it was as if every time I turned around someone was staring at me or whispering. Probably because I’m Jason’s sister-in-law who came in here with her own set of problems. The difference between you and me was that I wasn’t so thin-skinned on my way in the door. Nor was I so defensive. I just came to do a job and so far that’s what I’ve done.”
“You’re calling me thin-skinned?”
She shrugged. “Maybe not thin-skinned so much as overly sensitive. You’re adjusting to a new life, where everything is different, and it seems like every little thing bothers you.”
“So I’m either thin-skinned or overly sensitive?”
“Maybe a little. I mean, I had my divorce going on when I got here and it was a struggle not to let it follow me in the door. But I succeeded.”
Marc spun in his chair to see her. “I don’t think you can compare yours to mine.”
“No. I got out in one piece.”
“Out of what?”
“The war. Afghanistan. Three tours. I was a major in the army, which outranks you as a captain.” She smiled. “Just in case you’re interested.”
“You served?” he asked, totally stunned.
“Three times overseas, would have gone back for four. I ran a field hospital.”
“Sorry, I had no idea.”
“Because I don’t wear it as some sort of badge. I just come to work, recognize PTSD when I see it, and go to work trying to fix it.”
“And you think you’re seeing it in me.”
“The bigger question is, do you think you’re seeing it in yourself? See, the thing is, you won’t get fixed, or even helped, if you don’t want to. That’s the deal with PTSD. You have to be willing to accept treatment in order to get past it, or at least know how to deal with it.”
“Well, my injuries are all on the outside,” he snapped, slapping his leg. “Something counseling isn’t going to fix, if that’s what you were going to ask. I healed fine, and I live fine. Better than a lot of the men and women coming back. So save your healing touch for them, Major …” he gave her a mock salute “… because I don’t need it and I don’t need you.”
“But some of your patients will, and I’m wondering if you’ll be objective enough to know which ones. Because they usually don’t ask, Doctor. In fact, part of your responsibility will be to make referrals to me and that, quite frankly, worries me.”
“Why? Don’t you think I can do my job?”
“Honestly, no, I don’t. When Jason brought your name to the board as someone to investigate, I voted against you because everything I’d heard, not to mention everything I’d read, indicated you were still fighting your own demons. But he out-talked me, swayed the voting members over to his side to give you an interview, and I lost. So here you are on a trial basis being exactly the way I predicted you’d be.”
“It’s nice to know who your enemies are.” He arched skeptical eyebrows. “Especially when they make no effort to hide themselves.”
“You’re not my enemy, Marc, and I’m not yours. But I’m not sure you’re capable of being a responsible colleague, either. At least, nothing you’ve shown me so far gives me the impression that you are.”
“Maybe that’s because you haven’t seen me work as a doctor.”
“And maybe that’s because you’ve never worked in physical rehab. According to your résumé this is your first job in that specialty. You’re here straight from your residency.”
“So tell me, how long had you worked in your specialty when your sister’s husband hired you to work here?”
“That’s different. He knew me.”
“But no experience means no experience. Isn’t it all the same?”
“You’re trying to twist my words,” she said, struggling to stay calm.
“What I said was that you got hired based on who you’d been and not who you were. In my opinion, if that’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me. Unless nepotism carries more weight than skills do.”
“I’m not debating your skill as a doctor. You come with a lot of commendations, including a Medal of Honor.”
“Then what are you debating?”
“Your past, your attitude. A couple of people in rehab with you said you were the worst case in the bunch. Your therapist agreed, and said you fought everything and everybody. She said when someone crossed you, you simply shut them out, and that went for the whole team assigned to you. Yet the people who worked with you on the battlefield gave you glowing praises. Which tells me that the before version of you is the real you and you’re keeping it hidden. Or, in other words, you’re afraid to let it back out.”
“So you have done your homework.” Laughing derisively, he simply shook his head.
“To be honest, Marc, I’ve done a ton of homework on you, starting with your trip back to med school to do a physical rehab residency. Couldn’t have been easy.”
He winced. “It was … fine. I mean, what were my choices? Take a desk job somewhere, teach? I wanted to practice, and this gave me an opportunity. Who better to teach someone like me than me?”
“Maybe someone with more compassion?” Anne snapped.
“You haven’t seen my level of compassion, so it’s not fair of you to judge me. And, no, this isn’t PTSD talking. It’s one angry-as-hell former army medic talking—one who lost the use of his legs and had to change his whole life plan. So I’m not like you, Anne, who had emotional difficulties because I couldn’t cope. If a hysterical outbreak was all it took to get me out of the chair, I’d be happy to become hysterical in a heartbeat.”
She drew in a bracing breath. She was used to being challenged by patients. Happened every day. Their tragedies were greater than hers, their suffering more—something she couldn’t possibly understand, so many of them told her. But she’d been to the very depths of hell, too, and she knew what that felt like. Maybe not in the same way others experienced it, because no two people went through it the same way. But like Marc, she’d had to fight hard to come back. And who knew? Maybe one day he’d finally understand that suffering was suffering, no matter the form in which it came.
“Look, we have a meet-and-greet tomorrow to give you a chance to meet all your new colleagues. I was wondering, since you’re new in town, if you’d like to grab a quick dinner afterward.”
“You’re asking me on a date?”
“Not a date, but I thought that since these meet-and-greets are usually pretty boring, you might appreciate the opportunity to get out of there a little early without looking like some pathetic loser who leaves there alone.”
“Aren’t you the picture of compassion?” he said, his voice perfectly even.
“Just trying to be friendly. That is, if you’re capable of being friendly.”
“I can be as friendly as the next guy when I have to be.”
“I have a degree in psychology as well as medicine, Doctor. Want me to tell you in how many ways that sounded antisocial?”
“You are stubborn, aren’t you?” He actually laughed out loud. “And you think I don’t know?”
“Go ahead, call it what it is … stubborn. I am stubborn, I like it and I own it.”
A hint of a smile crinkled his eyes. “Well, you’ve met your match. My stubbornness is going to put yours to shame.”
“And you’re proud of it?”
“About as much as you are.”
She studied him for a moment and noticed that he’d visibly relaxed in his chair. Was he all bark, no bite? She doubted that. But she also doubted that his bite was worse than his bark. Marc Rousseau was hiding behind his disability, and doing so by lashing out. It was a typical scenario for an atypical man. Somehow, she looked forward to the challenge. No, he wasn’t her patient, but when had that ever stopped her? “OK, then. Tomorrow after the meet-and-greet. Would you prefer Greek or Chinese?”
“I would prefer a bowl of cold cereal, alone.”
“I didn’t hear that as an option, Doctor. So Chinese it is.”
“Chinese,” he muttered as he rolled away from her. “I hate Chinese.”
“Then Greek it is.”
“Hate Greek.”
“Then there’s an all-night diner down the street and I’m sure they serve cold cereal.” She smiled. “See you then, if not sooner.”
What had she just done? Actually, she didn’t have time to think about it on her way to her group session. Every morning was reserved for private patients who were not yet ready to face others, and every afternoon was much the same, except she blocked out two hours after lunch for her group session where anybody was welcome to sit in and talk.
Talking was cathartic. Too bad she hadn’t talked more. If she had, she might not have found herself in the depths of despair after she’d learned about Bill. But that’s where she’d ended up. Too much trauma, too much death, too many patch jobs that just hadn’t been good enough. She’d held up in the field just fine because she’d had a real purpose there, but when she’d come home to face all the things a family practitioner had to face—coughs and sore throats and gallstones—she’d broken in half. That, plus a failing marriage and her whole life had started to decompose.
And it wasn’t like her patients back home had needed her any less than her patients in the field. But what she hadn’t felt was … vital. The divorce had robbed her. So had her medical practice, as she hadn’t felt like she’d made a difference at the end of the day since she’d come back.
Sure, she could have re-upped, but she’d have been assigned stateside this time, doing exactly what she’d been doing when she’d parted ways with the army. So on those evenings when she’d been alone and she’d thought about the direction her life was taking, she’d let her depression out, fretted a little, cried a lot. Until her hands had started to shake and her mind had started to get muddled. Then there’d been missed work and missed days, and weeks that had gone by in a blur because she’d been unable to force herself to get out of bed in the morning.
Oh, she’d known it had been depression. But she’d never attributed it to PTSD. That was for other soldiers, the ones on the battlefield who came home battered either physically or emotionally. No, Anne Sebastian just felt tired and irritable, and she hadn’t wanted to face her days head-on. With family swooping in, trying to get her to do one thing or another. “Get help,” they’d kept telling her. “It’s not an embarrassment to admit you need help.”
Then one day a dear friend from her army days had come to visit, thanks to Anne’s parents. Her friend, Belinda McCall, also an army doc, had admitted she’d had trouble. Hers had been temper, and outbreaks, and crying jags. Her diagnosis—severe depression.
“I’m just going through a bad divorce,” Anne had replied. “And I can control my moods whenever I want to.”
“Can you?” Belinda had asked. “Are you sure?”
Had she been sure? Of course she’d been sure. She wasn’t a weak person. Only a person going through a bad patch.
“Must be a pretty damned bad patch for you to miss work,” Belinda had taunted her as she’d handed her a brochure for a program in Oregon for returning soldiers suffering from stress-related disorders and depression.
Long story short, she’d seen herself in the description—sleeping on the job, listless. Then one day she’d curled up on an exam table and just dozed off in the middle of the day. After the fire rescue squad had knocked her door in, she’d made the phone call. Two years later, with counseling for depression behind her, she’d had her PhD in hand and had reemerged into the world ready to treat soldiers with PTSD like she’d seen in the clinic. So many of them so often misdiagnosed or forgotten. And as luck would have it, she’d landed the job at a little veterans’ rehab clinic in Chicago. One run by her brother-in-law.
It had been a fresh start. What a perfect place to start over!
But was it a good place for Marc to start over? Her demons had been put to bed before she’d got here, but she had a hunch his biggest demons were still in front of him. He’d faced his disability and dealt with it as much as he could on his own. Or as much as he would allow. And he had great credentials as a doctor. So maybe he intended to spend his time behind his work, the way she’d tried doing.
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