Doctor's Secret (Carver Family) Read online

  Doctor’s Secret

  Lyz Kelley

  Contents

  A special gift just for you.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  More Books By Lyz Kelley

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  Chapter 1

  Dr. Garrett Branston slowed his brisk pace long enough to put on his best game face, and then took a confident step into the hospital room. “Ready for surgery, champ?”

  “Y-y-you b-bet,” Jacob managed to stutter.

  Garrett tried to ignore the odor of sickness hovering over the room like a thundercloud. The air crackled with fear. He tapped Jacob’s Yankee’s cap. “Are you feeling lucky today?”

  Swollen arms lay on top of the bedcovers, and most likely swollen legs beneath the sheet. The boy’s bluish-gray lips and fingernails and shallow breathing created a sense of urgency.

  “Y-y-yep.” Jacob took a labored breath. “C-c-can I w-w-wear it in surgery? It b-b-brings me luck.”

  Gone, thankfully, was the raspy breathing caused by a lung infection.

  Jacob’s grandmother stood, smoothed her dress, and then shuffled to the edge of the bed to pose with her standard haughty attitude. “That old thing should be tossed. It’s not sterile and will give you an infection. And we don’t want an infection, now do we?”

  Jacob’s eyes shuttered like window blinds to fend off the building tension.

  Garrett placed a stethoscope on the boy’s chest, listening to the irregular thrum-thrum, thrum-thrum, thrum-thrum.

  “Tell you what.” Garrett glanced at the nurse who’d come in to complete final surgical preparations, and then returned his attention to Jacob. “I bet we can find a sterile bag for your lucky hat. We’ll tuck it under the covers during surgery. How’s that sound?”

  “Gucci.”

  The brand name tickled Garrett’s funny bone. The word was either Jacob’s word for awesome, that, or poking fun at his grandmother’s knockoff style. Garrett nodded, “just remember, when you’re stable, we’ll get game tickets.”

  “Be-h-h-hind home plate?”

  “Bah.” The boy’s grandmother swatted the air like his sister did when waving bacon smoke out of the kitchen. “Jacob, mind your manners. The doctor’s a busy man. He doesn’t need to be bothered with your nonsense.”

  The muscles in Garrett’s neck tightened. In his book, there was nothing nonsensical about this critically ill little boy.

  To get Jacob’s attention, he picked up the boy’s hand to check his pulse. “I can promise tickets, maybe not behind home plate,” he hedged not having the connections in New York like he had in Los Angeles, “ but I can promise a good view. Right now, I need to talk to your grandmother. Mrs. O’Neal, may I speak with you in the hall?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  He slung the stethoscope around his shoulders, but he’d rather have wrapped it around Mrs. O’Neal’s plump neck. Why did she have to be so critical of the boy?

  The sixty-something woman reminded him of a caricature, like the ones artists sell along a boardwalk or in the park. A rainbow of makeup caked her face. Rhinestone jewelry attached to each appendage. Tight auburn curls framing her face. She reached for her belongings, and then took her time dawdling through the door he held open.

  “Arrogant, manipulating, ass. Don’t you dare treat me like I was a nobody,” she murmured.

  The stench of rotting teeth and bourbon made him choke and close off his nasal airways. He let the reflux settle, stepped out of Jacob’s sight line, and allowed the door to close while discarding several choice phrases he’d like to whip the woman with. He released a long slow breath.

  “Mrs. O’Neal, your grandson is about to have major surgery. I’ll help him get a new, functional heart. Your job will be to make sure everything you say or do over the next few weeks supports a positive outcome. Jacob’s scared. He needs to stay calm. Do you think you can manage that?”

  “Scared? I’ll tell you what scared is, it’s retiring and finding my grandson on my front doorstep with a suitcase in his hand. It’s getting the bill for his surgery and having it eat up my savings. That’s what fear feels like. You knows nothin’ about that.”

  But he did know. He knew what it felt like to be hungry or crawl under his bed at the first sound of gunfire or hide the bruises from the marks his father’s backhand left. He calmed the urge to put the woman on a cart and wheel her sorry self out of the hospital and out of Jacob’s life.

  “Mrs. O’Neal, that little boy in there is fighting for his life, and has only one option left,” he placed a hand under her elbow and guided her toward the nurse’s station. “Let me introduce you to Nurse’s Assistant Summers. She can show you to Admissions and find someone who will make sure you get the payment plan information you need. After that, she can show you to the waiting room in the lobby.” The first-floor waiting room, as far away from Jacob as I can manage.

  The brunette perked up and gestured toward the elevators. Halfway down the hall Mrs. O’Neal abruptly stopped, turned, and produced a narrow-eyed scowl. She adjusted her wig and then gave him the middle finger announcing she’d didn’t care for the way she’d been manipulated and dismissed.

  “You shouldn’t talk to people that way,” Head Nurse Bernard snipped from beside him.

  “What way?”

  “Like the only person who matters is the child. We treat the entire family here at New York General.”

  Since he’d arrived a month ago, the head-nurse had challenged him about the way he spoke to the patients’ parents and the tone he used with the staff. She’d even criticized him for—how did she put it?—poking his snout into nursing issues. Where, according to Ms. Know-It-All, he didn’t belong.

  He considered Nurse Bernard’s comment carefully. “Did you know Jacob believes he’s a burden? That if he’s not around, he won’t be a reminder that his meth-addict mother is a loser—a loser like him? That little boy never allows his grandmother to see him cry, but in the dark, alone at night, he can’t hold back the tears.”

  The nurse’s widening eyes told him she hadn’t known.

  “Since you’re determined to include the entire family,” he continued, “do me a favor and keep that woman busy and away from Jacob until I can implant a heart that will give him a fighting chance. And please find a sterile bag for his lucky baseball cap. I’m going to need all the luck I can get in that operating room, since that robotic unit isn’t installed yet.” He eased his clenched fists open. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I need to prep for surgery.”

  Garrett headed for the operating room while gripping the back of his neck and drawing in an elongated breath to loosen the frustrated knot at the top of his spine. Th
e cardiac robot would have made this surgery easier and reduced the risk of heart failure, but he’d done replacement surgery dozens of times without the intricately designed machine. This one would be just as successful and give Jacob a new start—at least he hoped.

  His life’s mission was to safeguard the innocent. He’d do whatever it took to protect children from physical threats and secure their mental wellbeing. A sour taste rose in his throat, a reminder of his adolescent vulnerability. He never wanted another child to experience that kind of helplessness.

  McKenzie Carver lifted her paintbrush from the giant sea turtle’s back and studied the shell for imperfections. She stepped back from the hall-length ocean scene to widen her perspective and set her brush and palette on the tarp next to tubes of vibrant seafoam greens and coral reds. The crude neon starfish Brianne painted just days ago was now integrated into the surrounding scene. The young cancer-filled patient could barely hold a brush, but she’d been determined to leave her mark, even if it was on a hospital wall.

  McKenzie rubbed the blue and yellow hues from her fingers using a paint-splattered rag. The scent of acrylic blended with her favorite vanilla peach antibacterial gel.

  The clip-clop of nurse’s clogs down the long corridor of the critical-care hospital wing and the whistled rendition of Old MacDonald lifted her spirits. She turned toward New York General’s head pediatric nurse while a smile threatened to form. McKenzie released a chuckle. “Cross-eyed cows—perfect choice for pediatric scrubs.”

  Her friend fluffed her brown curls. “Flatters my gorgeous gumball figure, doncha think?” Beth Bernard stopped at the edge of the drop cloth. “When I heard the hospital board delayed your project meeting, I figured you’d be here, slaving away.”

  “It was my brother’s meeting, not mine. Liam asked me to be there because I’m the one who signs the grant checks.”

  “Liam’s project, yes, but you’re the one that lobbied to get the robotic suite built in the first place, and found a way to pay for it.”

  “After attending that medical conference in France with my father, I realized Caver International had to invest in medical robotic technology. It took us several years, but we managed to develop a line of products we could put our name on. Dad’s been driving us nuts making sure the machine’s installation meets his standards. Liam has asked the board’s permission to use actual surgical footage to demonstrate the machine’s capabilities. If approved, he wants me to design the marketing campaign. To be honest, I’m not sure I’m up for it anymore.”

  “The men in your family sure are pushy,” Beth’s brow crossed the incredulous line. “Speaking of pushy,” Beth winked with a slight grin and blush, “how much longer before we can do the first surgery?”

  “Not long, which is why I don’t understand why the hospital board is putting so much pressure on Liam. Projects this big always are delivered late and go over budget. We’re only a couple of weeks behind because the electrical system was improperly installed and failed the final inspection. I would hate to think what would happen if there was an electrical surge or outage during a surgery and the backup failed.”

  “I heard Dr. Branston’s made a formal complaint about the delay. The guy’s got a stellar resume, but if you ask me, he’s a pig’s hind end.”

  I’d better talk to Dad and Liam. Sounds like I won’t be paying the guy’s salary much longer. “Doesn’t sound good.”

  The skin on Beth’s face crumpled in disgust. “Put it this way...if he demands one more policy change, there’s going to be a mutiny. He wants changes made overnight. Change takes time, and we’re short-staffed. Heck, we’re short everything right now. Speaking of which, I have a favor to ask.”

  McKenzie shoved the paint-smeared rag into her back pocket. “What’s up?”

  “We found a safe-haven baby abandoned a few hours ago. Can you take a rocking shift? You’re the best rocker we have, and the unwanted babe needs your special kind of love.”

  An aching, unfulfilled need seeped into the cracks in her heart. She’d help. How could she refuse? Precious moments of holding babies or helping sick children were what made life worthwhile. Not overseeing international marketing campaigns or giving PowerPoint presentations for the Carver Trust—even if the trust and charity events did provide funding for New York General to receive medically advanced equipment.

  “Tell you what. I’ll rock if you help me clean up. We can make it fast.”

  “You sure?”

  “I helped you create the marketing campaign to get and organize the volunteers. If I can’t fill in when needed, who’s going to?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Beth said, taking a sanitary wipe and scrubbing a bright yellow smear off McKenzie’s cheek.

  Beth’s gaze moved along the corridor’s wall, pausing to study each completed feature. “You added dolphins. And look! A little hermit crab...and a starfish. The kids are gonna love this.” She held up the sanitary wipe. “This must be left over from the angelfish.”

  “Must be.” McKenzie managed a smile for her friend’s sake, but it collapsed again in a heartbeat. McKenzie was too exhausted to hold onto happy.

  “You okay?”

  Okay? No, she wasn’t okay. She wanted to curl into a dust ball and disintegrate.

  Beth laid a gentle hand on her forearm. “What’s wrong? Is it Brianne? You connected with the child and it’s sad that she’s gone.”

  The empathetic concern in her friend’s voice cut through the fog of grief. “Brianne looked so blissfully happy in her favorite pink elephant pajamas and fluffy purple robe.” McKenzie huffed a chuckle. “Within minutes, she’d managed to splatter paint on the tarp, on her shoes, even on her nose.” The precious, picture-perfect image folded into her heart, and she swallowed hard. “Cancer is an evil monster. Children shouldn’t have to die so young, and in such horrible pain.”

  The thought dampened her already strained mood. She squared her shoulders and blinked several times to calm the jumble of emotions. “It might be her, or because my gynecologist is sending me to the fertility clinic to run more tests. My plumbing might be broken.” McKenzie leaned into Beth’s open, safe embrace.

  “Hon, I’m so, so sorry. I know you want a baby, but some women are just not able to make it work. Instead of worrying so much, you should go find a good man, relax, and have some fun.”

  “Have you been talking to my mother?” McKenzie stepped back, sliding a knuckle under her lower lashes to prevent tears from spilling over. “I don’t want a man telling me what to do. In fact, I don’t need one to have a baby.”

  She crouched to grab brushes soaking in water, and then gave them a good whap on the tarp, sending droplets of water in all directions, and then began shoving loose tubes of paint into her grandfather’s old tackle box. Thirty-one, single, childless—what a clichéd life for an overachiever.

  Beth straightened the stethoscope around her neck. “You Carver bunch are an independent lot. What did you decide to do about work?”

  “All I want to do is paint and live a simpler life. Brianne and the rest of the children here are constant reminders of what’s truly important.”

  “It’s not just this project’s marketing campaign. You don’t want to go back, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. In fact, I resigned. The problem is, my brothers won’t accept that I don’t want to be part of the family business or sit on a half-dozen boards. I see no point in pushing out new products every year just to double cash flow. Since my kidnapping, I’ve decided I need to get back to what matters. I want to explore my art and rock babies.”

  “You mean your babies.”

  Beth’s sympathetic expression strengthened her resolve to work toward happiness. Well, at least contentment. What that man did to her wasn’t her fault. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow anyone to feel sorry for her.

  She picked up a tube of blue paint and tightened the lid. “Maybe I do. But as much as I want to have children, it seems I can’t even co
ntrol that part of my life.” She gathered up Nana’s old paintbrushes. “Let’s get this stuff put away. There’s a baby waiting.”

  Within minutes, her apron, sketches, and paints were put away in a locking closet she’d been assigned to store her supplies. She then accompanied Beth through the maze of corridors and over the connecting bridge linking the children’s wing with the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

  White walls and tiles, plus the ever-present smell of cleaning solution, did little to create a calm and caring atmosphere, but McKenzie hoped her mural might provide a small island of happy in the stark hospital environment. Minutes passed while they walked. Beth’s uncharacteristic silence registered, but McKenzie’s churning thoughts prevented her from exploring the reason. The sound of her clogs echoed off the tile with a hollow ca-thunk ca-thunk, reminding McKenzie of the emptiness in her life, in her womb.

  Shaking off the gloom, she focused on Beth’s intense profile. “Did you find the mother?”

  “Nope. Drop and run. The baby’s now a ward of the state.” Beth shoved her hands into her pockets.

  “I hope the mother has the sense to get looked at by someone.”

  “I hope so too. At least the baby is safe, for now.”

  For now? Instant concern welled as she followed Beth into the NICU’s washroom and scrubbed her arms, hands, and fingers. Her mind conjured familiar images of bruises, broken bones, burn marks. How could someone abuse a child so? She could empathize with Beth’s distraction.