One
Laurel Phillips Reiss was a strong, competent, self-sufficient woman. Everyone who knew her said so. She could handle anything.
Anything except this.
Twisting a shredded tissue between her hands, she looked through her lashes at the man sitting in a nearby chair in the hospital waiting room. His sun-streaked blond hair was tousled from running his hands through it. Strong emotions darkened his blue eyes to navy and hardened his chiseled features to resemble granite. Years of manual labor had toned his broad-shouldered body. Jackson Reiss looked fit, tough and strong enough to overcome any adversity.
Except this one.
His eyes met hers. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, but even that silent response was a lie. She wasn’t at all okay.
Other people sat in the waiting room, clustered in tight units as they waited for news of loved ones. Conversations swirled around them, the volume fluctuating from muted to rather loud. Occasional bursts of self-conscious, too-cheery laughter were followed by nervous silences. On the far side of the waiting room, a young woman cried softly. Laurel watched as a man gathered her into his arms to comfort her.
The green upholstered chairs in which Laurel and Jackson sat were crowded together so that their knees almost touched, but they made no effort to close even that small distance. Laurel’s hands were in her lap, and Jackson’s were fisted on his knees. A plain gold band gleamed on the ring finger of her left hand. His hands were bare, since jewelry could be dangerous on the construction sites where he spent most of his time.
There might as well have been a wall between them.
A dark-haired man who looked maybe ten years older than Laurel’s twenty-six approached them with a respectful, slightly weary expression. He wore a white coat over a blue shirt and khakis. His tie was a riot of color. A nametag identified him as Michael Rutledge, M.D. “Mr. and Mrs. Reiss?”
Laurel surged to her feet as Jackson did the same. “How is Tyler?” she asked urgently. “What’s wrong with him?”
“If you’ll both follow me.” He motioned toward a row of doors at one end of the waiting room. “We can talk privately in a conference room.”
Laurel felt a band tighten around her heart. If he wanted to talk to them in private, then something must really be wrong, she thought in despair. Wouldn’t he have already reassured them if everything was fine?
Her body felt stiff and unresponsive when she tried to move. She stumbled a little, and Jackson reached out immediately to steady her. For only a moment, she allowed herself to sag against him, drawing on his strength. But then she squared her shoulders and stepped away from him. “I’m all right,” she murmured.
Her husband nodded and shoved his hands in the pockets of the faded jeans he wore with battered work boots and a denim shirt. Dressed more colorfully in a red jacket and black slacks, Laurel moved a couple of steps ahead of Jackson as she followed the doctor into a small room with four straight-back chairs arranged around a round table.
A box of tissues sat on the table. A smudged white board hung on one wall, and a peaceful painting of mountains and clouds hung on another. A tall green plant stood in one corner; it needed water, Laurel noted automatically, focusing on inconsequential matters until she was certain she had her emotions under tight control.
“Please, Mrs. Reiss.” Dr. Rutledge held a chair for her. “Sit down.”
She would rather have stood, but she sank to the edge of the chair. Jackson took the seat beside her—close, but again witho
ut touching her. Both Laurel and Jackson kept their eyes on the doctor as he took a chair across from them. Laurel started to speak, but discovered that her throat was too tight. Hearing Jackson draw a deep breath, she let him ask the question that was paramount to both of them.
“What’s wrong with our son?”
Before the doctor could reply, a forty-something woman with fiery red hair, a round, freckled face, and a plumply maternal figure knocked once and entered the room, carrying a thick file. “Sorry,” she murmured to the doctor. “I got delayed.”
“No problem.” Dr. Rutledge stood upon the nurse’s entrance. “Mr. and Mrs. Reiss, this is Kathleen O’Hara, the nurse practitioner who has been assigned to Tyler. She’ll be your contact person who can answer all your questions during Tyler’s treatment.”
Nodding perfunctorily to the nurse, Jackson waited only until they were seated before saying again, “What’s wrong with our son?”
Laurel tried to concentrate on the rather technical information the doctor gave them for the next ten minutes or so, but the words seemed to fly past her in a haze. She absorbed just enough to understand that her precious three-year-old son was suffering from a potentially fatal heart-valve defect.
“The good news is that we’ve caught the condition early,” Dr. Rutledge assured them, leaning slightly toward Laurel as he spoke. “All too often the first sign of trouble is when a young person with this defect—usually a male in his late teens or early twenties—drops dead after participating in a rigorous sport. That’s not going to happen with Tyler because we know what we’re dealing with.”
“You said he’ll need a couple of operations. One now and one more as he grows.” Jackson’s voice was rather hoarse. Glancing his way, Laurel saw that the sun lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, and that much of the color had drained from his tanned face. “How dangerous are those operations?”
“I won’t lie to you. There’s always a risk during surgery.” The surgeon spent another few minutes outlining the possible complications, what Laurel had always thought of as the medical “C.Y.A.” spiel. He spoke with practiced compassion, a speech he had obviously made many times before.
Laurel had to make an effort to sit still and listen quietly when every maternal cell within her was urging her to run screaming to Tyler’s side, where she could gather him into her arms and protect him from harm. This wasn’t just any sick child Michael Rutledge was discussing in such bewilderingly complex terms. This was Laurel’s baby. The one perfect part of her life.
Jackson was the one who sprang to his feet, beginning to pace the small room with the barely restrained ferocity of a caged tiger. “How did this happen?” he demanded. “Was Tyler born with this condition or has something gone wrong since?”
“This is a congenital defect. He was born with it.”
Was it her fault? Laurel had tried to take very good care of herself during her pregnancy, staying away from caffeine, alcohol and cigarette smoke, eating plenty of fruits and vegetables, taking her vitamins—everything she had been advised to do. Had she done something wrong, after all?
“The condition is almost always inherited,” the doctor explained further. “The condition occurs most frequently in males. Perhaps one of you can remember uncles or cousins, even siblings who died of heart failure in childhood or early adulthood.”
Laurel looked at Jackson, who was looking back at her in question. She shook her head. Her father had taken off when she was young, but she remembered him as a sports enthusiast who bragged about how healthy his family had always been.
Her mother’s family was known for long life spans. Both of Laurel’s maternal grandparents were still living back in Michigan, as far as she knew, though her extended family had been estranged since her mother had moved here to Portland, Oregon when Laurel was just a baby. Laurel’s mother, Janice, had said often that she expected to live to a ripe old age, since everyone in her family did—even the ones who smoked and drank and ate anything they wanted, she had boasted.