Miracle For The Neurosurgeon

Until her prom two years later. When no one had invited Mary the first week after the school prom kick-off announcement, Alexandra had begged Wesley to invite her. He’d fought it at first, knowing there had to be several guys who’d love to take a girl like Mary, unless they were snooty and let her being poor get in the way of good taste. By the end of week two Alexandra had gotten her mother involved, and what had seemed beneath him as a twenty-year-old university student had been foisted on him. Two-three years older than all the others attending, he’d been volunteered to take Mary to the prom.

If he’d let himself look deep down, he wouldn’t have been able to deny he still had vague feelings for her. He’d become a sophisticated pre-med student and a seventeen-year-old woman was not only jail bait but socially undesirable. The Prince of Westwood had taken her to the prom anyway, just so his family could wear the “aren’t we good people” badge.

His worldly-wise self hadn’t expected to be knocked off his feet when he’d seen Mary that night in the dress his mother had bought. Not as pricey or special as Alexandra’s dress, of course, but perfectly suited to her. His conscience had been dealt its first blow when he’d picked her up at the ratty mobile home park she’d lived in, her parents not even bothering to make an appearance. Maybe they’d been embarrassed? Regardless, he’d taken Mary back to his house where Alexandra and her friends had waited to take before-prom pictures, wondering how such a lovely flower had grown in such bleak surroundings.

Then he’d spent the entire evening keeping her at arm’s length, being a boorish cosmopolitan-minded university man, The Prince of Westwood lecturing her on making something of her life. Explaining to her how insignificant something like a high school prom registered in the course of a lifetime. So why was he still thinking about it now?

While on his soapbox that night, he’d warned her about guys—like himself—who’d love to take advantage of her.

So wise. So stupid. So moved by her poverty. So protective of her. Out of obligation, he’d asked her to dance and when holding her he’d made the mistake of looking into those eyes, a shade darker than her pastel green dress. Innocent and beautiful and calling out to his soul. To love her.

He’d known he couldn’t. He hadn’t been nearly enough of a man to risk that. When he’d taken her home, out of gratitude she’d thrown her arms around his neck, and he’d nearly kissed her the way he’d wanted to all evening. But he’d known it would change everything if he did, and he couldn’t stray from his calling. Nothing could keep him from medical school, and surely getting involved with a girl like Mary would change his life. For the better? Who knew?

How pompous he’d been, lecturing her on making something of her life. To do it for herself because no one else could.

He stopped the repetitions and stared out the gym window down to where her crazy little house stood.

Wes had seen the disappointment in Mary’s gaze after their chaste kiss the night of the prom, yet her sweetness had remained. She’d dutifully thanked him and promised not to let him down, playing her “kid sister” role perfectly. Before he’d left, he’d told her how beautiful she looked and even in the dark of night she’d beamed. So princely. Such power. All the more reason to save her from him. Yet he’d walked away wondering who between them had the most power over the other and sure he’d left a piece of his heart behind. Forever.

The least he could do was let her share her expertise with him now. Who knew, he might learn something, and if that helped his recovery and goal to get back to work again, it would be worth all of these memories bombarding him about his unwanted guest.

He’d had enough of the free weights and trained his sight across the room, out of that blasted window...to her house.

Returning to university that next afternoon, it had been easy to brush the moment—their special night—under the table and move on. Not really, but he’d worked at it at least. Truth was he’d carried those memories around with him for a decade until they’d been replaced with an amazing kiss they’d shared at his sister’s wedding several years later.

He rolled under the pull-up bar and grabbed hold, lifting himself out of the wheelchair, pressing his chin to the bar, over and over, until sweat rolled down his temples and his arms trembled.

Still on the fast track to success back then, he’d been about to become engaged to Giselle, a young woman of his social standing, with all the proper credentials and diplomas to be a rich doctor’s wife and a doctor herself. Plus she’d been vetted by dear old Dad. Yes, the decision had been cold and calculated, but it fit in with his future. To this day, long after his engagement had fallen apart, his medical practice had taken off and his bank account had doubled—but what did success matter anymore?—he’d recalled that champagne-inspired kiss he’d shared with Mary at Alexandra’s wedding with a longing smile.

He let go of the bar and landed with a plop in his waiting wheelchair—his special, no-choice buddy for the rest of his life—remembering the night of his sister’s wedding.

Mary had changed at twenty-four. She’d become a woman who knew herself and how to tempt a man. She’d taken control of her life just like she’d promised the night of the prom, and she’d radiated confidence and inner peace because of it. Always reaching for that next step on his ladder to the pinnacle, Wes had wanted that. A taste of her secret recipe for contentment. She’d also happened to look amazing in the strapless maid-of-honor dress. It had been ice blue, he vividly recalled, enough to make him smile.

A forgotten sensation tickled down his spine until it reached the location of his spinal cord injury and stopped. He glanced out the window again, watching her sweep her tiny porch as he experienced phantom tingles in his toes. What was that about? Maybe he’d pulled something during his workout?

He’d always known Mary deserved a family of her making, a place to call home. A shot with a decent guy. He’d also had the wisdom to know that they were never meant to be together, so he’d never followed through on his “what if” thoughts. BP—before paraplegia. Useless, silly thoughts, meant only for thinking, savoring even, but never acting on. Until it was too late... AP—after paraplegia.

He wiped his face with the towel, searching the room for another form of man-against-machine torture to take his mind off these wandering thoughts. What was the point? He chose the cable machine, first lowering the sides of his specially made workout wheelchair, then grabbing the bar to begin a series of triceps cable extensions.

Was this how she lived now? Dragging her mini-house with her everywhere she went like a mega-sized backpack? What kind of vagabond life was that for a woman like Mary? She’d been raised in a trailer park by inattentive parents. He’d always pegged her as a girl who wanted to set down roots, who wanted a family more than anything else in the world, the kind she deserved, not the one she’d been born into. Though he could never picture a guy worthy of her, he’d still imagined her settling down, raising children. Now, apparently, she traveled the country alone. In that thing. A house suited more for a mouse.

The irony didn’t take long to sink in about him wondering about what kind of life she led. Take a look at yourself. More money than one person could ever use, living alone in a fortress made of the latest building materials, a ten-million-dollar view of the Pacific Ocean out his front door, yet completely alone.

The last thing he needed to do was examine his own situation. Nope, he was determined to ignore that.

He shook his head. He wasn’t ready to think about the AP future. Not after failing miserably when he’d tried to go back to work prematurely three months ago. How the humiliation had burned like a branding iron when his department head had suggested he’d come back too soon, telling him to take more time off to get a better handle on balancing his demanding job with being in a wheelchair.

His father’s words to live by had infused his way of thinking. Failure is not an option.

The problem was, he already had. Failed. Big time.

He glanced out the window again, catching sight of the back of Mary as she pushed into her doll house.

One finger skimmed the area on his cheek where she’d bussed him when she’d first entered his house. He hadn’t had the chance to dodge it. Oddly enough, her touch had produced a sweet warm feeling, as she always had for him, and had unleashed his wrath for catching him off guard, for daring to make him feel something. Because these days he, like his legs, refused to feel a thing, other than pain from working out too hard and too long. Which he believed was strength. As crazy as it seemed, physical pain reminded him he was still alive, not locked away by his own choice in this castle by the sea.

He guided his top-of-the-line workout wheelchair down the hall, past the specially built elevator to his bedroom, where he would have slammed the damn door if he could’ve only figured out how to get the right amount of leverage to do it.

This was his truth now. He was a guy stuck in a chair.

* * *

Mary went about the business of settling her home after another long journey. For the last two years and over a half-dozen moves, she’d lived in the tiny house she’d helped design and for which she’d paid cash. Another lesson she’d learned inadvertently from her parents.

She’d chosen to bring her house along with her wherever she got assigned, rather than stay in cold, short-term rentals or soulless extended-stay hotels. This was home. She’d carefully chosen the floor plan to meet her every need, yet using the smallest amount of space necessary. That had turned out to be two hundred and fifty square feet. She’d gone the woodsy cabin route, yet the repurposed materials they’d used to build the house were surprisingly light, making it easy to travel, as long as she was willing to drive a pickup truck. Which had cost nearly as much as the house!

Her living room space came complete with a large enough mounted flat-screen TV. The kitchen had been a bit trickier, yet she’d made it state-of-the-art enough to make do, since she enjoyed cooking. She’d settled for a two-burner gas stove, minimal counter space but with a built-in table that folded down and opened up when it was time to eat or if she needed a place to knead bread dough or cut out cookies. The half-sized refrigerator kept her eating fresher and healthier, since she didn’t have much storage. Yes, the kitchen sink had to double up for face-washing and tooth-brushing, but for payoff she’d managed a nearly full-sized shower, with a stackable mini-washer/drier nearby and a petite toilet, all at the back of the ground-floor living space.

She chuckled, thinking of her mini-house as two stories, but her favorite spot in the entire tiny house was her loft bedroom. That counted as a story, didn’t it? Plus, the permanent wood ladder she needed to climb to get to the loft doubled as a small A-framed bookcase downstairs. No space went to waste, and she liked living like that. Unlike the ratty tin and Formica filled trailer she’d been raised in, this was truly a home. Cozy. Warm. Filled with life. Her life.

She might not be able to stand up straight in her bedroom but, whichever city she set the house up in, each morning she could peer out of the small “second story” window at the head of her bed to greet the day. The view changed often, and so far she liked it that way. This time, she had the luxury of parking on Wesley’s grand Malibu estate, and she was guaranteed to see the ocean first thing every sunrise. If she hadn’t been so depressed about seeing him, she’d be excited about living here for the next two months. What she needed was a serious attitude adjustment.

She sat on the long pillowed and comfy couch, which doubled as a storage bench, with a cup of tea, and thought about Wesley. His situation broke her heart and she’d proved it with her meltdown on his doorstep earlier. He’d always been her hero, the guy with the world at his fingertips. The Prince of Westwood! Invincible. He’d made her want to be better than who she was, to build a dream then follow it to the end. Because of him, she’d pursued a doctorate after her post-graduate P.T. degree. She took a sip of hot black tea, thinking of his intelligent eyes, hers welling up again as her heart pinched.

The man might be considered disabled by everyday standards, but he was also a skilled neurosurgeon, and the world still needed him. She couldn’t allow him to hide away in his gym day in and day out.

It seemed he had to relearn how to be himself. The confident, outgoing guy he used to be. That was a task far beyond her physical therapist’s pay scale. All she could hope was for their once shared friendship and mutual respect to pull him back to what he’d been before the accident. Not the gym rat he’d become. Didn’t he know that true strength came from inside, not from muscles?

Her phone rang. It was Alexandra. “How’d things go?”

“A little rocky at first, but he’s agreed to let me stay for now.”

“How does he look?”

Great! Sexy as ever. “Determined, and obviously buffer than I’ve ever seen him.”

“If anyone can get through to him, I know you can.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Promise?” Mommy! Mommy! Mary heard children’s voices in the background. With three kids, Alexandra never seemed to make it through a phone call without interruption.

“Promise.”

“I’m going to have to cut things short.”

“I understand. I’ll keep you posted. Give those kids a hug from me, and two for Rosebud, okay?”

“Can you believe little Rose is one now?”

“Unreal.” She’d missed her birthday from being out of state, but had seen videos, and had also had face time with her on the computer when little Rosebud had opened the gift she’d sent—a small rocking horse that talked to the rider. Rose had loved it and the grin on her face when she’d opened the package had managed to wrap around Mary’s heart and change her life forever.

They hung up, and Mary remembered the day she’d first held Rose when she was less than a week old. The tiny bundle, completely helpless, had still managed to get her needs across with grunts and stretches, cries and flailing pink spindly arms. And the newborn had felt more amazing than anything Mary had ever held in her life.

Her education and traveling had kept her away from the births of Alexandra’s first two children, Oliver and Bailey. But she’d been given the honor of becoming Rose’s godmother so she couldn’t very well miss out on meeting her right off. That meet and greet had changed her life.

A loving warmth fanned over her skin as she remembered how deeply she’d been moved by holding her goddaughter. How the tiny baby had reached into her heart and planted a need she’d never dared to dream of before.

As she stared out of the two decent-sized windows of her tiny home, looking out toward the beach, she thought of her own situation. She was at a crossroads in life and, at nearly thirty-four, she finally admitted what she really wanted. More than anything. A child.

It was little Rosebud’s fault. And Matthew’s, the sturdy little six-month-old she’d held just last week. Her patient, his mother, had been instructed to do some exercises and the baby had needed to be held. Mary had thought nothing of helping out until the sturdy boy with those chubby dimpled hands, two chins and a Buddha belly had looked into her eyes and squealed with joy. She’d never wanted to cuddle, squeeze and kiss a baby more in her life. Oh, yeah, she wanted one.

Now she dreamed of having a child. Illogical, yes, with no man in her life. Living completely without roots. An inconsistent job that took her all over the country. Yet she’d finally heeded the whisperings of her body that had been building for years, and with the recent help of two little ones, that whisper had turned into a scream. She wanted to be a mother more than anything. To have a baby all her own...before it was too late.

Finishing off her tea, she stood and walked the few short feet to her kitchen sink. How exactly did a woman go about such a task on her own?

She glanced at the mansion up the walk, which may as well be a prison for its current purpose of shutting out the world for Wesley Van Allen, M.D. Then she put her yearning for a baby aside. Wes needed to be her first priority for now.

She was adamant about setting a time limit with him, though. Two months. Tops. She’d allowed for the lapse in a paying job into her annual budget for exactly that amount of time. If she intended to pursue her dream of having a child on her own, she’d need to change jobs to one where she could settle down in one place in order to be a stable parent. It was her chance to provide for her baby what she’d never had herself. Permanence, unconditional love, protection and opportunity. And, father or no father, she wanted it with all of her might.

She washed her teacup, deciding to take a walk on the gloriously beautiful beach. Maybe when she got back she’d crack open that bottle of wine she’d been saving, sit on her cozy front porch, have a toast to her latest post, and lift a glass to her future plans. Truth was, she could spend the entire evening daydreaming about becoming a mother, but...

Right now, her long-ago—but never forgotten—first crush had to come first.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING, Rita met Mary at the door and escorted her as far as the stairs, which Mary took two at a time, priming herself for a fight when she reached the gym. Instead, she found Wesley dressed, freshly shaved, and with his hair tied up, waiting for her. Surprise.

“This is a change.” She smiled, entering the workout room, but Wesley, dressed in a black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, didn’t exactly return it. At least he didn’t scowl.

“The sooner we get on with this, the sooner...” He stopped himself.

But she had a hunch what he’d planned on saying was, the sooner you’ll be gone. “Two months. Remember? Give me two months and you’ll be a different man.”

Now came the deadpan stare. “I already am a different man.”

She refused to take the bait. “You may be buffer than I ever remember, but there’s more work to be done, though the outcome will be less obvious...” she held up her index finger “...but necessary.” Without giving him a moment to protest, she grabbed a stool on wheels by the nearby wall in his top-of-the-line equipped gym and rolled over to his wheelchair. “I need to do a complete evaluation of your muscles and reflexes.”

He pulled in his chin and his brows pushed down.

“You didn’t think I was going to start you on exercises without first evaluating your motor and sensory status, did you?” From her large shoulder bag she pulled out a multi-paged form. “Let’s get started.”

“I’ve already been through this.”

She’d learned from his online records—which she’d been approved to view—that he’d had sufficient occupational training for activities of daily living. She’d also learned about his past and personal medical history, which, to be honest, prior to the accident had been uneventful. But if there was any health issue, she’d leave that part up to his primary physician. He certainly seemed independent from the looks of him, all dressed and ready to go so early in the morning.

“Yes, but you haven’t had a thorough examination in several months, and I need to compare your current status with the last one.”

Her plan was to measure muscles, grade their power, tone and level of flaccidity. She’d test modalities of sensation, both superficial and deep, above his injury and compare them to the American Spinal Injury Impairment Scale. He’d nearly severed his spinal cord at T11-12, which made him paraplegic but able to sit on his own, which he obviously handled like the Prince of Westwood, and that definitely helped with breathing and the ability to deep cough. Both important for general health and well-being.

After the first part of the evaluation, which took a good half-hour, though impressed with his upper body strength and the fact he’d increased muscle mass since his last evaluation, she was most concerned about the decrease in the use of joints below his waist. With him being a doctor, she’d have thought he would have cared about such things, but she hadn’t taken into account his mental outlook. He was an achiever and worked like the devil on what he could change, in his case developing strength and muscles like a regular Adonis, while ignoring the part he had zero control over—his hips and lower extremities.

She continued with her examination and as she used her hands to feel and measure his thighs, she sensed his discomfort and decided to lighten the mood. “Hey, it’s not like you haven’t had women groping and crawling all over you before, right?”

“They were usually naked.”

He’d actually tried to make a joke—or a snide remark, but she preferred to think of it as a joke—and she couldn’t let his effort lie flat so she played along. “Are you asking me to take off my clothes?”

She pinned Wesley’s caramel eyes with her own, wondering where she’d gotten the nerve to be so bold, but rode it out in spite of her inner cringing. Acting this way felt completely wrong. He didn’t look away and it sent a subtle shudder right down her middle.

“That’s a thought,” he said, his voice a rough whisper that definitely wasn’t snide.

She’d never pull something like this with a patient, and as long as she was here to help she’d expect nothing less from herself. “Excuse me, Wes. That was uncalled for. I apologize for crossing the line. You being an old friend shouldn’t make a difference.”

He didn’t let her off the hook but studied her, his head tipped just so as he did. Inside, she squirmed, wishing she’d never pretended to be bold, waiting to see if she’d offended him and if he was going to let her have it.

“I’m still considering your first offer.” His were now the eyes doing the pinning...and the teasing. The internal cringing doubled. He was testing her. She may as well be naked since she couldn’t hide the total body goose-bumps.

“Gah! You win. I had no business acting all vampy with you. I’m the least sexy person on earth.”

“Says who?”

“Oh, trust me, I am. Anyway, you win. I bow to your poker face.” She went overboard, taking the ditzy route, hoping to keep him from realizing what she instantaneously had. He was paralyzed from the waist down. She felt safer with him. It was a sad truth she’d have to face herself with later in the mirror. She’d judged him without even realizing it, putting him in the “safe” male category, becoming gutsier as a result.

For that one instant, she understood how he must feel about the rest of the world judging him as a man. She’d inadvertently labeled him as less of a threat and had acted differently than she would’ve with any other male patient, simply because he was a friend sitting in a wheelchair. Inwardly, she shook her head. Ashamed.

He was an incredibly smart man, and intuitive, and, well, with friends like her, no wonder he’d become a recluse and an overachieving gym rat. Barbells didn’t judge!

She took a deep breath and continued the examination using only the most impeccable professional skills from then onward.

And her heart broke again as she discovered how stiff and nearly locked his hips, knees and ankle joints were. She had to get him back on track as this weakness would eventually impact on all the strength he’d developed above the waist. Not to mention his circulation and oxygen uptake. He might feel like “half” a man these days, but half of him was a lot, and the best parts, his brain and those strong shoulders and arms, would help keep the rest of him going. As long as he was willing. But he couldn’t ignore the parts that didn’t work.

She glanced at him. He still stared her down, keeping her feeling naked without a place to hide.

“So here’s what I propose.” She sat back on the rolling stool, and met him as close to knee to knee as she could get with his feet on the wheelchair footrests. “We work on a regimen to improve your lower body strength with passive range of motion exercises at first.”