Chapter Two
Devaney’s skin had gone from pale and dull to outright green. She looked terrible, and she clutched a hand to her stomach.
“Hey, Chase, my man. I think we’re done here. You can go ahead and get dressed, okay?”
He talked to Chase while the kid pulled his clothes back on—he played lacrosse like his big brother but on Clover Hills’ under-ten squad.
“I’m not as good as Logan. I asked if I could take chess lessons instead but Dad said I had to play because Bishops play lacrosse. But like, there areliterallybishops on a chess board.”
Chase was funny, but Devaney didn’t laugh. She’d probably heard this argument before, but she didn’t even smile. Nah, she put her hand over mouth and her lashes fluttered.
He was about to ask if she was feeling okay—she clearly wasn’t—or if there was something he could do to help, but she swallowed hard and gave Chase a weak smile.
“Okay, bud, all done. Let’s go pick up some tacos for dinner.”
Chase did a fist pump. “I love tacos! Can I get the ones with the cheese melted on the inside and the extra guac?”
“Sure can,” Devaney said as she nodded and gave him a pained smile. She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door but after taking a couple of steps, she doubled over and wretched.
It was far from the first time someone had puked in his office, but usually it was the kids and not the parents. The weird thing was that Chase didn’t seem alarmed. Like his mom throwing up was something that happened all the time. What the hell?
“Chase, why don’t you go out to the waiting room and tell Logan your mom’s not feeling well? Tell Flora at the front desk too. Just wait out there for a few minutes while I help your mom, okay?”
The boy nodded, his gaze wandering over his mom who was now on her knees, heaving again. That poor woman. He hoped it wasn’t a stomach bug because that was the last thing he needed—there was never just one case of stomach flu. Food poisoning maybe?
“Hey, I’ll take good care of her, promise.”
“Okay,” Chase granted before walking through the door and swinging it shut again.
Now he could focus on Devaney. Mrs. Bishop?
He did notice now with her hands splayed over the linoleum that she wasn’t wearing her wedding band anymore. And some women got really upset if you used their married last names after a divorce. He couldn’t blame them. Probably safest not to call her Mrs. Bishop then.
He crouched down by her side and put a hand between her shoulder blades.
“Devaney? What’s going on? Do you think it was something you ate?”
She was breathing hard and what he wanted to do was pick her up, bring her over to the house, and cuddle her. Figure out what was wrong and either do something to make her feel better or just help her through it if there was nothing he could do.
He fucking hated those times. Had he really gone through four years of med school and three more of a fellowship to tell people there was nothing he could do to help? One of the worst parts of being a doctor—there were just some things he couldn’t fix.
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes.
“Doctor Southerland, I am so, so sorry. This is… Here, I’ll clean it up. I—”
“You’ll do no such thing. Sit down. Doctor’s orders. And I think if you’ve vomited on my floor you can call me Eric.”
Poor thing put her hands over her eyes and groaned.
He hadn’t meant to embarrass her further. So sensitive. He needed to be more careful.
Eric crouched behind her, put an arm around her waist and grasped her forearm, helped her to stand and led her over to the exam table where he had her sit until he could pull out the extension and then helped her put her feet up and lie back against the recline.
“Eyes closed. Hold on a second.”
Out of the cabinet he grabbed a washcloth, soaked it under the faucet and wrung it out before folding it and placing it over Devaney’s closed eyes.
“That should help. I’m gonna get this cleaned up and then I’ll lower the lights.”