Healing Dr. Alexander

Before she could say anything else, Kyle came flying into the room, Noah at his heels. “I’m going to kill you!” Sophie’s oldest son shouted as he chased his brother around the center island. “Give it back!” he shouted. “It’s mine!”

“You lost it. Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

“I didn’t lose it—you stole it. Now give it to me!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sophie said, putting a hand on each boys’ head to stop them. “What is going on here?”

“Kyle stole Mr. X,” Noah whined. “He knew I was looking for it and he took it.”

“That’s not true. Noah left it in my room yesterday. I was playing with it and when he saw me, he hit me.”

“You want me to hit you?” Noah sneered as he lunged at his brother. “That wasn’t a hit. That was a love tap.”

Sophie slapped a hand on Noah’s chest and moved him away a good three paces. Then turned in time to see her youngest making faces behind her back.

Jack could tell it was the last straw. Relaxing in his chair, he waited for the fireworks to begin.

* * *

IF THE GROUND opened up and swallowed her now, she’d be totally okay with it. Seriously. An earthquake fracturing a random crack down the middle of her kitchen. It would be better than this. Like it wasn’t bad enough that her kids had soaked her wounded neighbor to the skin an hour ago, now they had to start World War Twenty-Seven while he was sitting here watching? Fan-freaking-tastic.

“Give it to me,” she said holding her hand out for the action figure. She had to work hard to keep her voice level. After a week of getting up before dawn to work on arguments for the three cases she had going to court in the next couple of weeks, she was running on caffeine and adrenaline and not much else.

“But, Mom,” Kyle whined. “He left it in my room. That makes it mine.”

“No! I left it there because you distracted me. You couldn’t read your stupid baby book so I helped you. Now give it back! It’s mine.”

“Actually, it’s mine!” she told him, wiggling her fingers in a way that the boys knew meant business. Seconds later she was holding the latest cartoon villain and releasing her grip on two sulky little boys. The joys of motherhood were myriad and many, she reminded herself as she herded them to the table. Myriad and many.

Settling herself at the table, she risked a glance at the neighbor. What had possessed her to invite him over for a home-cooked meal? Yes, he’d looked a little lonely and she’d felt bad for him, but now he looked shell-shocked, and she couldn’t blame him. In the space of a couple hours, he’d been attacked by water-gun-toting maniacs, blabbered at by her at about a million miles an hour, and now he’d witnessed her children acting like…well, she wasn’t going to go there. It was a wonder he hadn’t run out screaming into the night.

An awkward silence descended on the table as she dished out the lasagna and garlic bread. Her boys were busy glaring at each other and the neighbor was pursing his lips and looking at everything but her. At first, she thought it was because he was embarrassed or annoyed, but then she realized he was trying to keep from laughing. The knowledge relaxed her immediately, and she dished up the food with a grin instead of a grimace.

“So, Jack,” she said after everyone was served. “How are you settling into the house?”

“I’m managing. It’s bigger than my last place so I’m going to have to do some shopping to fill it up.”

Before she could respond, Noah butted in. “I’m glad you moved in. I like you a lot better than our last neighbor.”

Jack turned to him, a bemused look on his face. “You don’t know me.”

“Yeah, well, old prune face would never have a water fight with us!”

Jack looked at her, baffled, like he had no idea whether to laugh or wait for her to scold the boy. Sophie smiled. She knew she should admonish her son but Reece really had been an old prune face, despite being under thirty. “Tommy brought a frog to school today!” Kyle contributed. “He had it hidden in his backpack but it got loose when he went in to get his snack. It hopped around the room before landing right in the middle of Mrs. Erickson’s desk.”

“What did Mrs. Erickson do?” Sophie asked.

“She screamed. Then she grabbed the butterfly net from our science kit and chased it around the room. Which was working until Jackson decided he wanted to help. He knocked over the aquarium and Nessy got out.”

Nessy was the class pet—a brown and black python that most of the kids in the class adored. There were a few hold-outs however and Sophie burst out laughing as she imagined the chaos that had to have ensued when Kyle’s sweet, soft-spoken kindergarten teacher attempted to capture a wily snake and a frog hell-bent on escape.

“How’d she catch them?” Jack asked. Kyle responded with a vivid tale about the combined efforts of the entire kindergarten class. Everyone, even Noah, laughed. The ice had officially melted.

After dinner, Sophie excused the boys to go play their nightly half hour of video games while she cleaned up the kitchen. As she stood to collect the plates, Jack insisted on helping her carry them to the sink. She wanted to protest—from the way he’d carefully avoided using his right hand during dinner, she could tell it was bothering him. But she was afraid her refusal would hurt his pride.

“So, I can tell from your accent that you’re not from Atlanta,” she said as they worked together.

He cleared his throat. “No, I’m from Boston.”

“That’s the accent I’m hearing. I knew it wasn’t Southern, but I couldn’t quite place it. What brings you here?”

“Work. A friend of mine runs a clinic down here and she needed a hand. I wanted a change of scenery, so here I am.”

“A clinic? You’re a—”

“I’m a trauma surgeon.” He choked a little, then corrected himself. “I’m a doctor.”

She glanced at his injured hand, which clearly wouldn’t be much help in a delicate surgery. It was balled into a fist where it rested against his thigh, the scars a livid purple white against his tanned skin. She had an overwhelming urge to reach out and stroke them, but she withheld the urge. Which was a good thing because when she looked up again, he was scowling at her.

An apology trembled on the tip of her tongue. She was embarrassed to be caught staring and felt bad because it was obviously a new and touchy subject for him. But she found herself unable to say she was sorry. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her, like he was daring her to say something. Or maybe it was the way he was so obviously caught up in the pain and confusion of having to be something different than what he’d always been.

She could relate to that. She’d had to reinvent herself a couple times so far—once when she was eighteen and had finally escaped from the foster-care system and again after Jeff had died in Afghanistan and she’d been left to raise two little boys alone. Neither time had been easy, but she’d made it through just fine.

But it seemed ridiculous to ignore his injury when they were both so aware of it. She’d hated it when she’d run into people after Jeff had died and they’d either drown her in pity or ignore the subject like it had never happened, even though it was written all over their faces So she decided to simply be straightforward about his injury.

“What happened?” she asked. “If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.”

His face turned a mottled red and when he answered he was looking at a spot over her shoulder instead of directly at her face. “I was shot.”

Her knees shook a little, before she locked them in place. Jeff had died from gunshot wounds. “In Iraq?”

“No.” He looked at her strangely. “Why would you think that?”

“I’m sorry. With your injuries, I figured you were a veteran—”

“I already told you. I’m a doctor.”

“I know. It’s just…not many civilian doctors get themselves shot.”

“I didn’t get myself shot.” He spoke so softly and precisely that she could tell she’d touched another sore spot.

“I’m sorry. I seem to be putting my foot in it a lot today. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. We can talk about something else if it will make you feel better.” He’d tensed up so much that she really wished she’d never brought the subject up. Maybe he didn’t feel the same way she did, that it was better to get the elephant in the room out in the open rather than hide it behind a sheer curtain three sizes too small. She hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

He didn’t answer for a while. She was about to attempt to broach some other, much less harmful subject—although she didn’t have a clue what that might be—when he said, “I was operating on a patient when it happened.”

“In Boston?” She couldn’t imagine a gunman getting into the operating room of a major hospital.

“In Somalia. I ran a clinic for a charity organization there.”