Little Things

Some time later . . . . . . . . minutes? . . . . . . . . hours? . . . . . . . . days? . . . . . . . . she sat up, cried out for the moment. Numbly, she leaned against the wall, still clutching the photograph, thinking back, and trying to comprehend the chain of events that had thrown her life into such complete chaos. The day had begun ordinarily enough. She had been scheduled to work the day shift --- busy, but fairly routine by her standards. Certainly busy enough that she did not have much time to dwell on the fact that he had not gotten back last night as he had expected. Admittedly, that had thrown all her special plans into disarray and she had been disappointed. But he’d be home tonight, giving her the chance to share her news --- something definitely worth looking forward to! And so the day went along, uneventful and seemingly ordinary while, at the same time, full of the anticipation of sharing a brand-new secret with that one special someone in your life. Then, in one horrible crushing instant, the bottom had fallen out of the world.

When I’m alone with only dreams of you that won’t come true, what’ll I do? It all seemed so incredibly impossible, a lingering nightmare of epic proportions. And, yet . . . . . . . .

Wasn’t it just yesterday that she had gone to San Francisco? The exciting offer of a job at San Francisco General, and the long-time-coming, sad realization that there was simply no reason for her to remain in Los Angeles any longer had caused her to schedule an interview with the hospital administrator. It all went well . . . . . . . . far better than she might ever have dared hope . . . . . . . . and the job was hers for the accepting. Promising to have an answer for them the next day, she headed out of the building, intending to spend the next few hours or so of this beautiful day walking along Fisherman’s Wharf and really deciding exactly what it was that she ought to do with the rest of her life. Intent on her thoughts, she started when he spoke to her.

"How did the interview go?" he asked, falling into step with her.

Stopping in her tracks, she turned and looked at him in disbelief. "What are you doing here?" she asked, instantly wishing she could take back the insipid question and offer some other more sophisticated, less shocked reply.

He laughed and seemed not to notice as she struggled to regain her lost composure. Taking her arm and guiding her down the stairs, he continued, "I am sure they were very impressed with you --- your qualifications, I mean." A momentary hesitation, then, "Did you accept the position?"

Always straight and to the point --- at least about all things medical, she thought. Taking a deep breath, she responded, "It’s really a fantastic opportunity." Not certain if that was for his benefit or if it was an effort to convince herself, she rushed on, "The interview went very well. They want me to start the beginning of next month . . . . . . . ."

"Oh . . . . . . . ." he mumbled, a flicker of hurt and deep sadness flashing across his eyes. He was quiet for a moment, and they reached the bottom of the stairs. She stopped, but he did not release his hold on her arm.

A bit taken aback by his unspoken response, she decided that mapping out her plans for the remainder of the day would banish the awkwardness of the moment and help her provide an explanation, so she hastily added, "I was planning to take a walk and decide what to do . . . . . . . ." Still intent on reclaiming any remaining bits of her slipped composure, she focused her attention on an ordinary task, reaching up to gather a few stray strands of hair and confine them again within the barrette that clasped her hair back.

"You haven’t accepted?" he interrupted.

"I have to give them my answer tomorrow." A gentle breeze complicated the hair-clasping task, and she suddenly and impulsively decided to leave the barrette out altogether.

Casually, he inquired, "May I walk with you for a bit then?" He looked at her expectantly, anticipating her agreement. "We could get some lunch along the way . . . . . . . ."

Lately she was always confused whenever he was around. It was harder and harder for her to keep her feelings under control --- feelings he apparently did not want to share --- and the effort always seemed to end up making her feel sadder than ever. All alone, I’m so all alone . . . . . . . . there is no one else but you . . . . . . . .

With a concerted effort, she mentally shook herself, bringing her thoughts back to the present time and place. "Sure," she replied with a nonchalance she definitely did not feel. "Lunch sounds like a great idea. And then you can tell me just what it is that brings you all the way up here."

He smiled that smile --- the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, lit up his face, and made her heart sing --- and turned to guide her across the street. "Any particular place you would like to walk?"

"Along the wharf," she told him as they stepped up onto the sidewalk and followed the signs toward her destination. Small talk swirled around their footsteps, and she decided to simply enjoy this unexpected opportunity to spend a bit of time with him. The casualness of the situation felt uncomplicated and that, in and of itself, was a rarity she was determined to take some small amount of pleasure in experiencing. Careless moments like this close to you . . . . . . . . echoed through her mind.

They reached their destination and, picking their way around pockets of rushing, pushy tourist groups, they headed toward a nearby, momentarily unoccupied bench. Settling down, she gazed out at the rolling waves, then turned to face him and pointedly asked, "So, what brings you here to San Francisco?"

A gust of ocean breeze caught her unclasped hair just then, whipping long, blonde strands across her face. He laughed again --- a quiet sort of laugh that you could hear with your heart as well as with your ears --- and reached over to brush them back out of her eyes. Suddenly his manner seemed very gentle; his eyes grew solemn and serious, and he softly said, "I don’t want you to go."

"You don’t want me to stay, either," she gently chided, feeling the all-too-familiar beginning of tears gathering in the back of her eyes. Defiantly, she shook them away, fiercely vowing that she would not cry . . . . . . . .

He sighed and dropped his hand. His dark eyes were unreadable, but they were filled with the saddest expression she had ever seen. The breeze continued to play in her hair and the moment lingered, hanging between them while the tourists rushed past on their self-important souvenir missions, and the sea gulls lazily flapped by overhead. Their silence was thick with unspoken feelings. The expression remained in his eyes and without looking at her he quietly repeated, "I don’t want you to go."

"What do you want?" she asked, realizing as soon as the words left her mouth that right at this very moment in time she definitely did not want to know the answer to that question.

He took a deep breath, but hesitated before speaking. "If you had asked me that last week," he finally said, "I could have told you exactly what I thought I wanted. Then you came up here --- and it all changed somehow." He paused for a moment, glanced at her, and then looked back out over the waves. He went on, "When I realized that you really meant to take the job . . . . . . . . and leave . . . . . . . ." His voice trailed off, and his eyes brimmed with tears. Her heart was breaking, but she knew this day would end in exactly the same place as all the other days. She blinked fast and swallowed hard to keep her own tears at bay. Realizing that he was still speaking, she fought to focus her attention on what he was saying.

" . . . . . . . . simply cannot imagine you not being at the hospital every day."

The hospital? Work? What did that mean? It made absolutely no sense at all to her and, with a sudden start, she realized she had missed too much of what he had been saying. Confused, and a bit angered that work had somehow intruded on their conversation, she tried to backpedal without admitting she had been inattentive and offered a noncommittal, "Well, the whole idea does take a little bit of getting used to . . . . . . . ."

He gave her a quizzical look, sighed, and turned his attention to the ocean. In an uncomfortable silence they both sat staring out over the waves, each apparently lost in thought in their own separate, private worlds.

Realizing she needed to own up to her inattentiveness, she decided to ’fess up and, even though she was sure she knew the answer, she gently asked, "Does it really matter if I am not at the hospital every day?"

He turned back toward her and spoke with solemnity. "No, it doesn’t," he said. "You don’t ever have to be there again if you don’t want to be. But there are still going to be lots of people who cannot imagine you not being at the hospital every day." He reached out, took her hands in his, and, in a sudden rush, continued, "What matters to me is where you are and whether or not you are part of my life."

She was caught off guard by the earnestness of his words, and discovered that she had no reply for him. Mustering all of her resources, she found her voice and repeated, "Part of your life?"

There were those tears in his eyes again, melting her heart, and it was all she could do to keep from throwing herself into his arms. But she had been down this familiar path too many times before, and she was still certain she knew exactly where it would end. She waited for his response. He was silent for so long that she began to think he would not reply at all. Expectation hung in the air, only to be broken by his sudden and unforeseen, "I love you."

For so long she had hoped and dreamed that he would one day say those very words to her. Now here they were, and she found that she was totally unprepared for them. She felt like Alice, having fallen down the rabbit hole into the strange and unpredictable world of Wonderland. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she remained silent. He let go of her hands and reached up to brush it away. Gently he cupped her face in his hands. "I know I have put a lot of energy into not admitting that," he told her softly. "But there it is --- I love you." Then he added, "And I don’t want you to go."

She dropped her gaze, suddenly afraid of just how much her eyes might reveal to him. She had discovered quite a while back that either he was awfully good at reading her feelings or she was not very good at hiding them from him. But it was also true that reading her feelings and sharing them was not always the same thing at all. There’s no regretting --- in spite of my tears . . . . . . . . Softly she asked again, "What do you want?"

"I want you to marry me."

That was the very last thing she had ever expected to hear him say to her. Completely overcome by the Alice in Wonderland strangeness of the moment, she could not figure out what to say in reply. After a few moments, she managed a weak, "What?" that was more of a puzzlement than a question.

Gently he put his hand under her chin and tipped her face up until she was looking at him. Noting the pools of tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over, he took her hands again. He sat motionless, gazing intently at her, his eyes smiling. After a time he quietly said, "I want you to be my wife. Please marry me."

Still totally bewildered by the unexpected direction in which the day suddenly seemed to have moved, she could not manage much more than a puzzled, "What? When? Where?"

He laughed at her unaccustomed bewilderment, smiled that smile again, and told her, "Marry me. Whenever you want. Wherever you want." The tone of his voice shifted as he softly added, "However you want . . . . . . . . just as long as you say you will." Sensing her lingering bafflement with the unfolding of this unexpected turn of events, he gently offered one more bit of persuasion, saying "I love you" to her once again.

She was still caught in her Alice in Wonderland bewilderment, but it suddenly occurred to her that this definitely was not turning out to be anything like what she had expected. Somehow, though, he seemed to understand this, and he patiently waited for her to finally comprehend it all. In amazement, she realized that she was expected to give him an answer --- and that he wanted her to marry him. Softly, almost uncertainly, she whispered, "Are you really sure you want to marry me?"

Her disbelief did not surprise him. Ever since he had realized that she might actually walk out of his life forever, he had been replaying scenes of their time together in his mind. All the times he had avoided facing up to his feelings, or that he had not acknowledged hers. Deep within himself he knew that he did not truly deserve her, but his heart ached for her nonetheless. With wry amusement, he realized that, having finally admitted his feelings for her, he could not understand his previous reluctance to let his heart speak. He could now wait forever . . . . . . . . as long as she said "Yes" in the end.

"I know that I’m not the greatest . . . . . . . ."

"I love you," she interrupted in a whisper so low he almost didn’t hear it, her beautiful deep blue eyes filled with absolute amazement, as if she’d only this moment discovered that fact.

"I’m not very special, and I have absolutely no idea why you should love me at all, but I’m glad that you do."

She smiled then, a wistful, little-girl-lost-and-found-again sort of smile that seemed to make her look even more angelic than usual. Again she asked, "Are you really sure you want to marry me?" It was a quiet, uncertain question, almost as if she were afraid to hear his answer.

Shifting slightly, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer to him, so that her head was resting on his shoulder. With his other hand, he pointed out across the waves to the moon, just barely visible on the horizon. "See the moon?" he asked. Without waiting for her reply, he continued, "In a very little while, it will be dark and the sky will be full of stars. And I intend to make a wish on every single one of them."

"What will you wish for?" she asked softly.

"For you to be my wife."

. . . . . . . . stars chilled by the winter . . . . . . . . drifted through her mind and she tried to decide what she ought to answer him. A small sigh escaped her lips as she debated silently with herself. He looked down at her, and she felt him tighten his grasp around her shoulders. A heartbeat of a moment out of time that could fill a lifetime . . . . . . . . if only . . . . . . . . if this were some sort of a magic spell, then she wished the magic would freeze this moment and make it last forever.

The gray dusk slowly and surely settled around them, but she seemed unwilling to move, lest the magic of the moment be lost and the spell be broken. After a time, she realized that there was only one answer to give, and she looked up into his eyes. "Yes, my love, I will" she said softly, as much to herself as to him. And with that answer came the realization that the path upon which she would now travel had changed forever.

She had called him "my love" and she had said she would be his wife! Unbidden, tears welled up and filled his dark eyes, then slipped silently down his face, but he seemed not to notice. All he was conscious of was the repeated echo in his mind of her "Yes, my love, I will" and he kept his arm tightly around her shoulder. She seemed content just to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and he did not want anything to cause them to lose this precious moment. After a time, though, she stirred as the fast-falling darkness brought a chilly breeze off the ocean. He shifted, too, and looked into her eyes. She smiled and leaned up into his kiss. And in that instant of time, on a weather-beaten bench on the wharf beside the ocean in San Francisco, all was right and perfect and time existed only in their own private little world.

The photograph had been taken that forever-special day in San Francisco. They had sat on their bench beside the ocean and talked away most of the night, about what and when and where and how and why, and decided that they didn’t need a big fancy fuss as much as they needed to be together. So the next day, after she said, "No, thank you very much" to the job offer ["I’ve had another offer, one I simply can’t refuse!" she told them], they found a small church tucked away in a garden and made the arrangements. Agreeing to meet back there at four, she went off in search of the perfect dress, and he went to find just the right flowers and a surprise for his bride.

The appointed hour duly arrived, and so did each of them. She wore a simple white dress, her hair loose and curled softly about her face. [He was always teasing her, saying that she put those barrettes in her hair just so he could take them out, and so she had decided on this day of days to leave them out and wear her hair down, just for him.] He thought she had never looked more beautiful, and the yellow and white roses he had gotten made her smile. She looked at him and suddenly felt lost in the love she found in his eyes. It was simple and right and precious and perfect, and she vowed to herself that she would always remember every single instant of it. Then, as he turned to kiss her, he hesitated. He cupped her face in his hands, looked into her eyes, softly whispered to her, "I love you --- now and forever," and then gently kissed her. Without thinking, she responded to his comment with "always and ever" and as her mind made the recognition connection, she realized that in that very instant the song had now become their very own for all time.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she fingered the sparkling diamond and gold bracelet that circled her wrist, the one he had given her that day. Whenever she wore it, he said, she would feel his love surrounding her --- and she had worn it every day since. The photograph was still clutched in her hands, a reminder of a perfect moment in time, a perfect day that would always belong to them alone. And now . . . . . . . .

*****

She became aware of the ringing of the telephone, and she realized that it had been jangling insistently for some time now. With a sigh, she stirred and reached for the receiver. "Yes," she muttered mechanically, not really caring who was on the other end of the line.

"Honey, I’m on my way over --- I’ll be right there."

She was too drained to argue and she just sat there on the floor holding onto both the photograph and the telephone receiver. She was still there some twenty minutes later when he came through the door. He knelt down beside her and spoke gently.

"Dixie."

Slowly she looked up at him as he took the telephone receiver from her and replaced it. Taking hold of her, he helped her up and led her to the sofa. Still tightly clutching the photograph as if it were her only lifeline, she offered no resistance . . . . . . . . don’t they know it’s the end of the world. . . . . . . .

"Joe," she began, "please tell me it isn’t true!" she begged. Tears spilled from her eyes, and Joe Early felt the gathering of his own tears.

"I’m so sorry, Dix," he said, realizing as he spoke just how lame that sounded. But there was nothing else to say. "I talked to the police and read the report, I went and looked at the car, I got his things . . . . . . . ."

Wordlessly, Dixie looked at the manila envelope he held out to her. After a moment, she took it and dumped the contents out beside her on the sofa. Some loose change . . . . . . . . keys on a key ring . . . . . . . . Kell’s wallet . . . . . . . . Suddenly she was totally overwhelmed and she couldn’t hold it back any longer. Her heart broke, and she sobbed on Joe’s shoulder. Kell was gone and her world was shattered forever.

Joe did not know how he would hold Dixie together for the next few days, but he knew that he needed to try. As she sobbed on his shoulder, he thought back to another day, just a few short months ago . . . . . . . .

*****

Kell was just back from a few days off and Dixie had returned from that job interview in San Francisco. While he was certain she would accept the position, he was having a particularly difficult time imaging a Rampart without Dix. Still, he realized that there was a whole lot more than just a job involved in her decision, and he supposed she was right to make a clean break of things and go away. Nevertheless, Joe was going to miss this friend a whole lot more than he cared to admit.

Their quiet announcement to him that they had gotten married caught him totally off guard and by surprise. Stunned, he looked at them in amazement and it took a minute for him to comprehend their news. As he realized what they were telling him, he smiled broadly and offered them his congratulations.

Kell, standing with his arm around Dixie’s shoulders, said, "We had to tell you, you’re our best friend. But we have decided not to tell anyone else just yet."

Joe was momentarily surprised, then acknowledged that he understood their reason for that decision. It was that silly new board policy . . . . . . . . the one that said relatives working in the same department would be re-assigned in order to maximize job efficiency. Dixie, of course, wanted to stay in Emergency, and he knew that they really needed her talents there. But, under the board’s new policy, their marriage would mean that she would have to work elsewhere in the hospital. Unless, as they were now suggesting, they simply kept quiet and said nothing . . . . . . . .

"It’s a stupid policy, and I am sure it’ll be rescinded soon. Then we’ll tell everyone," mused Dixie thoughtfully. Joe murmured his agreement with her assessment of the policy and promised to keep their news to himself. He was thrilled for his friends and pleased that they had chosen to share their secret with him.

Life in Rampart Emergency settled back into the same daily routine that it had always had. They were all dedicated professionals, working to save lives and heal the sick and injured. Away from the hospital, Dixie and Kell were able to relax a bit and enjoy their life together. Joe was a frequent dinner guest, delighting in seeing their obvious happiness. Everything in the world seemed to be just about right.

*****

The call came early one Tuesday morning. The request from a colleague for a patient consultation was not at all unusual, although for them such consultations generally did not involve traveling any great distance. But Greg Thompson, the resident heart specialist at Oxnard Memorial Hospital, had an unusual case and he asked Kell to come and examine his patient. It was about a two and a half-hour drive up the coast and Kell wished he could take Dixie along, but she was on duty. He figured he would be back that night, but complications and an unexpected rush into surgery changed all that. He would return the next day he told Dixie when he called with the news.

But it did not happen that way. Instead, two highway patrolmen had come to the hospital with the news that there had been an accident on the Ventura Freeway [and what in the world was Kell doing on the Ventura Freeway in the first place?] . . . . . . . . there had been a crash and a fire --- nothing anyone could do --- and there were no survivors . . . . . . . .

Rampart was stunned. It was a palpable pain . . . . . . . . unexpected . . . . . . . . unbelievable . . . . . . . . unbearable. Grief hung in the hallways, smothering conversation and numbing thoughts.

And Joe needed to find a way to get Dixie through it --- if there could possibly be such a thing as a way through it. She had cried herself to exhaustion and was now leaning against him, unable to move. Suddenly she sat up, looked at Joe, and announced, "I don’t believe it, Joe! It’s just not true!"

"Dix," he began, but she was not listening and she would have no part of his consolations.

"It can’t be Kell --- it has to be a mistake!"

"Dix," he interjected, but she was beyond hearing him at all.

"And these are not Kell’s keys," she went on as she picked the key ring out of the small pile on the sofa next to her. "It isn’t Kell."

"Honey, it’s Kell’s car --- his jacket and medical bag are still in the trunk . . . . . . . ." Joe acknowledged her grief, trying once again to get her to listen; she, however, was intent on her newly-found belief that it simply was not Kell who had been killed in the accident. And the fire that had raged through the car had not left too much behind in its wake . . . . . . . .

Joe gently continued to try and reason with her and, after a time, she seemed to abandon her he’s-still-alive theory and settled back into sadness. Joe planned to stay there, saying he could sleep just fine on the sofa, but she insisted he go home and get some real sleep; reluctantly, he left her with explicit instructions to call him if she were to need anything at all. She promised she would and, against his better judgment, Joe headed for home, leaving her there alone. As soon as he had reached his apartment, he called her. She answered the phone immediately, sounding better than he had expected. As he hung up the phone, he tried with less than complete success to convince himself that he had not made a huge mistake in leaving her alone and that she would be all right.

First thing the next morning, after a fitful night filled with all sorts of things except sleep, he called her, but she did not answer. He stopped by their house, but it was locked and her car was not in the driveway. Knowing her sense of responsibility, he wondered if perhaps she had gone to the hospital, but when he arrived at Rampart, he found that no one had seen her and she hadn’t come in or called. Shock and disbelief still filled the hallways of the hospital, punctuated with pieces of hushed conversations about memorial services and arrangements and ways to help Kell’s family cope. Joe could only worry about Dixie in silence, bound by his few-months-ago promise to say nothing. A busier-than-usual day kept him occupied, but his concern for Dixie was an ever-present ache that settled deep within him. He knew he would have to find her soon . . . . . . . .

Confusion appeared to be the order of the day, and it seemed as if the world were moving through a realm of fog and haze. He noted it in passing, almost dispassionately, and everything somehow moved on past him, as if instructed by autopilot. He let his mind drift off into that pre-set pattern and gave it no more thought.

She left the police station with a copy of the accident report, but she found no consolation there, and no evidence to support her belief that it had not been Kell who had been driving the car. Despite that, she did not waver in her persistent conviction that Kell was somehow still alive. But that raised a plethora of questions, questions for which she had absolutely no clue as to the answers. If he was alive, where was he? And if he had not been in the car, then who was it that had been driving? Sure of herself and determined to find the answers, Dixie set out, driving along up Pacific Coast Highway toward the hospital where she knew Kell had been. If there was an answer, and there certainly had to be one, then you could bet all you owned that Dixie would somehow find it. And she definitely was not the type to let go of a problem until she had uncovered every last one of the facts . . . . . . . .

Ordinarily, she would have enjoyed the drive up the coast. Today the sound of the ocean waves reminded her of San Francisco, and the smell of the crisp salt air brought back the memory of the weather-beaten bench on the wharf. Together the memories conspired to fill her with a sad longing that refused to let go of her and would not be dismissed. She drove on, grateful for the distraction of the busy traffic around her.

She passed Pepperdine University and knew she would soon be on the twisting portion of the road that wound through the rocky cliffs. Oxnard --- and, she hoped, the answers she so desperately sought --- was just beyond those cliffs.

Dr. Thompson shook his head and offered her the appropriate words of consolation at the news of the accident. Dixie brushed them off, still firm in her belief and intent on proving that it had not been Kell who had been killed in the car crash. But Dr. Thompson had not seen or heard from Kell since he had left the hospital the previous day to return home, and he knew of no detours or stops that Kell might have made along the way. Disappointed, Dixie thanked him and rose to go. Suddenly the room swam around her and the next thing she knew, she was lying on the carpet with Dr. Thompson hovering over her.

"Take it easy," he said, helping her to her feet. He sat her back down in the chair and got her some water. He did the usual "doctor checking," but her responses all seemed normal. "Too much stress, shock --- they all take their toll on you, " he told her. "Just sit there for a few minutes . . . . . . . . you’ll be fine."

Dixie knew he was right, and, if the truth be known, she didn’t really feel too much like getting up right that very minute. So she gratefully sat there, sipping the glass of water he had brought her, and tried to relax. Dr. Thompson dismissed the incident with a lack of concern but kept watch over her for the next fifteen minutes or so. He noted with approval that she really did seem to be just fine. She thanked him, said she was feeling much better, and, with her emotions now held firmly in check, she left his office and headed back toward her car.

"What about a memorial service in the hospital chapel?" Mike asked Joe during a brief coffee-break-lull in their day.

Joe, reading the message board, ironically noted the board’s rescinding of their silly policy regarding relatives and duty assignments. "I guess it’s a good idea," he answered listlessly. "We certainly need to do something." Still preoccupied with concern over where and how Dixie might be, he sighed and brought his attention back to the conversation at hand. Ruefully, he admitted to himself that Dixie, always the strong and capable one, had probably gone out to see Kell’s dad and he tried --- with only minimal success --- to tell himself that he was making a major mountain out of a very minor molehill.

Settled back in the car, Dixie realized she had absolutely no idea of where she ought to go next. She was not ready to admit defeat, however, and never even considered heading back toward Los Angeles. Perfunctorily, she started the engine and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. Some insipid song finished its blaring, only to be replaced by a smattering of mostly uninteresting late afternoon news and weather --- the station’s half-hearted attempt to keep the local populace in the know. Dixie, still in search of answers, slowly drove down the road, wondering just where to go next. Her quest for the truth was not faring too well, and a momentary fear that Joe might really be right after all suddenly overcame her. With great difficulty she shook off the feeling and drove on.

Joe made a notation on the man’s chart, ordered some x-rays and a handful of tests and had him admitted for observation. Nothing much to worry about here . . . . . . . .

"It’s a pretty severe concussion," the doctor continued, "but he ought to recover completely. Right now, however, he is still unconscious."

"If you could let me know when I could talk to him . . . . . . . ."

"Sure. I’ll give you a call."

"Thanks."

Joe dialed Dixie’s number for what seemed to him to be at least the millionth time that day --- still no answer. Again he left a message, asking her to please call him at the hospital as soon as she came in. A vague uncomfortableness settled over him, and he found it more difficult than ever to concentrate on the tasks at hand. His musings, however, were cut short by the wail of a siren announcing the arrival of yet another emergency patient. He replaced the receiver and headed for the treatment room.

Dixie suddenly realized she had taken a wrong turn at the last light, and now she had absolutely no idea of where she was. Half-listening to the radio announcer, she pulled the car over to the curb and extracted her trusty Thomas Guide from the spacious glove compartment. When in doubt, always check the map . . . . . .

Convinced that she had finally figured out the correct route, Dixie set off once more. The blaring music returned and again filled the car, serving as a distraction for her grim thoughts. She drove on listlessly, still numbed by the events of the past day. Say it isn’t so, say it isn’t so . . . . . . . . Suddenly she hit the brakes and stopped in a heap. What was it the broadcaster had said? She searched her memory, but could not put it together. Slowly she once again pulled the car over to the side of the road and impatiently waited for the next newscast.

The patient seemed stable and was holding his own, but he decided to wait around for just a little longer anyway. There was something about this case that had him puzzled. Maybe a cup of coffee and a few minutes of uninterrupted thought would help him put the pieces together.

Intent on her mission, she hardly noticed the storm clouds that were gathering in the grey dusk. She parked in the first empty spot she could find and left her car just as the raindrops began to fall. She hurried across the parking lot and through the front door of the hospital. After several attempts to explain her mission to the girl at the front desk, she found herself sitting in a quiet office waiting for a Dr. MacIntyre to arrive.

Joe welcomed the change of shift with something less than grateful enthusiasm. Work had helped to keep him somewhat distracted from the problem at hand, but now his mind was free to focus its total attention on Dixie’s whereabouts. He dialed her number again, and, although he hoped she would be there, he did not really expect her to answer. Leaving yet another message, he sighed sadly and headed for the door, feeling a whole lot older than his years.

Dr. MacIntyre listened intently to her story and tried to decide just what course of action he should take. There was something that he found very disarming and likable about her, even though she sounded almost paranoid. And yet . . . . . . . .

Impulsively, he decided to trust her. She seemed so strong and sure, obviously capable of handling most any situation; yet beneath all the bravado he glimpsed a sort of waif-like fragility in her. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to take her up there . . . . . . . .

He asked her to wait in the hallway for a moment. She agreed, but spent the entire time fretting and pacing. She began to feel lightheaded and realized she needed to eat something. At the end of the hallway, she spotted a vending machine and she wandered down to survey its contents. Deciding on a package of peanut butter crackers, she then headed back down the hall. Her stomach was unsettled, but the crackers seemed to help a bit, so she ate a couple more of them while she waited for the doctor to return. What was taking so long? Time seemed to have come to a complete standstill, and Dixie was finding the waiting to be interminable . . . . . . . .

He held the door open and invited her to enter. She hesitated, suddenly fearful and worried that once inside she would not find what she so desperately hoped and prayed for. Taking a deep breath, she mustered every ounce of strength she had within her and walked past him into the room.

Her breath caught in her throat as she slowly began to walk across the room toward the bed. Her thoughts swirled in a cacophony of images she could no longer control and finally succumbed to the encroaching darkness that settled itself over her as she suddenly crumpled into a little heap on the floor.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the concerned face of Dr. MacIntyre. She was lying on a bed and with a small shock she realized she was in a hospital room. Then it all came back to her in a rush and she remembered that her search for the truth about Kell had brought her to this Camarillo hospital. She started to sit up, only to find herself gently restrained by Dr. MacIntyre’s hands on her shoulders.

"Now, just lie still and take it easy," he was saying to her.

She tried to resist, but found she simply did not have enough strength to overcome the gentle pressure he was putting on her shoulders. With a resigned sigh, she settled back, saying, "I’m OK. Please let me get up."

"Not yet," replied the doctor.

"Well, will you please let me go back . . . . . . . ."

"Sh-h-h-h," admonished the doctor soothingly as he checked her blood pressure. Uncertain as to exactly what had caused her to collapse, he was reluctant to let her continue with the conversation, especially since it sounded as if it might be once again focusing her thoughts on the patient he had taken her to see. "Just rest quietly, please . . . . . . . ."

Frustrated, she tried to relax. Her thoughts were foggy and all jumbled up, but she knew it was important for this doctor to see her as being cooperative. Momentarily, she considered telling him, but she dismissed the notion almost at once. All things in their proper time and order, she told herself, and she lay silent and still as he finished his cursory examination.

"Think you can sit up?" he asked her. Nodding, she did so, albeit somewhat gingerly. But the room stayed steady and the darkness did not fall. She smiled tentatively at the doctor and shifted her position so that her legs hung over the side of the bed. He stepped back and allowed her to stand.

"I think I’m fine," she reported. "I don’t exactly know what happened . . . . . . . ."

"Too much stress," the doctor told her. "Are you sure you feel OK now?"

She nodded as he continued their earlier conversation, asking her, "Did you get your questions answered?"

Immediately, Dixie’s thoughts returned to the patient that he had taken her to see. She realized she had no certain answers, and wondered if he would let her return there. "I am not sure," she admitted. "It’s all very fuzzy. Do you think I could go back?"

Dr. MacIntyre was reluctant, and his hesitation before replying told her he was not too likely to approve that course of action. She quickly gave him her most disarming smile and added, "I promise to behave myself . . . . . . . ."

He shook his head, a small grin playing around the corners of his mouth. He realized that he had been thrust into a mystery and, intrigued by both the lady and her quest, he wanted very much to know just how this little drama would play out. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to take her back there once more. It seemed a very remote possibility that she would collapse again --- all the signs seemed to indicate a simple syncopal episode brought on by situational stress.

She realized she had won him over, but she remained silent, waiting for his response. Her inability to banish the fogginess of the earlier visit frustrated her and now, more than ever, she needed to return to that room to determine for herself exactly what . . . . . . . .

"If you’re sure you’re feeling up to it," he answered, his words interrupting her train of thought.

"I’m fine," she reassured him with a smile as her tenacity asserted itself. "Could we go now?"

He took her arm and escorted her down the hallway. Once more he opened the door and gestured her inside. Watching her intently, he accompanied her as she walked across the room to stand beside the bed of his still-unconscious patient. Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled unimpeded down her cheeks. He had no idea if this was because this might be the person she so desperately sought or because it was not. She did not seem to be inclined to speak, but rather simply stood beside the bed shedding silent tears.

Unmoving, she remained at the bedside as if she were standing guard, her silent tears continuing to fall, and the doctor began to wonder if this might not have been a mistake, after all. The somber mood was broken by the stirring of his patient, and the doctor carefully reached around her to check his pulse. Despite his stirrings, she continued to stand at the bedside, unmoving and silent, with rivers of tears streaming down her face. Gently he guided her over to the chair, sat her down, and then returned to his patient. The man continued to stir, and Dr. MacIntyre knew he was returning to consciousness at last.

With a last quick glance at the seemingly fragile woman in the chair, the doctor turned all of his attention to his patient. He waited as the man slowly opened his eyes and looked around. He seemed confused and uncomprehending, so the doctor spoke carefully to him, "I’m Dr. MacIntyre. You’re in the hospital. You had an accident but you are going to be fine."

The man gave him a perplexed look, then gingerly surveyed the room. He seemed bewildered by the place. "A hospital?" he whispered.

"Yes. Camarillo Community Hospital."

"What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

He searched his memory, but found no answers, and silently shook his head "no."

"You have a concussion," the doctor told him. "It is not uncommon for you to experience some trouble remembering recent events. Don’t worry, it will clear up in a few days and your memory should come back. You need to rest now."

The man sighed and closed his eyes. Dr. MacIntyre satisfied himself that his patient was indeed all right, then turned to the woman, sitting statue-still in the chair. "Shall we go?" he asked her.

With a start she looked up at him, as if she were seeing him for the very first time. "Go?" she asked him. "Why do I have to go? I can’t leave . . . . . . . ."

Rising from the chair, she returned to the man’s bedside, but made no further sound.

"Is he the one you are looking for?" Dr. MacIntyre asked her.

Tenderly she took hold of his hand, being careful not to disturb the IV, and replied, "His name is Kelly Brackett, Dr. Kelly Brackett . . . . . . . ." Her response was so soft he had to strain to hear her, and her answer faded away as she reached out a tentative hand to brush a lock of hair back from Kell’s forehead. Dearest one, if you should leave me . . . . my life would be through . . . . . . . . She did not seem disposed to say anything further, and he was obviously the one she had come in search of, so the doctor moved the chair over by the bed and sat her down in it. She continued to hold his hand and her eyes never left his face as she watched him sleep.

"Don’t stay too long," the doctor told her, but she gave no indication of having heard him. Somehow it seemed better to just leave her there for now than to create a fuss. He made some notations on the chart and quietly left the room. Dixie continued to sit in the chair, holding Kell’s hand as he slept, her eyes riveted to his face. She was beyond all feeling, all understanding, and the only thing that she knew with absolute certainty was that she belonged here in this place, holding his hand. Give me your hand when I’ve lost my way . . . . . . . .

She was still there, unmoving, when Dr. MacIntyre returned the next morning. As Kell stirred in his sleep, she moved to stroke his forehead, and he opened his eyes. He looked at her blankly, and, as recognition dawned, he offered a quirky smile, and whispered, "Hey, love."

"Hey, yourself," she smiled at him, tears threatening to once more spill from her eyes.

Confused, Kell reached a hand to brush her tears away, and he realized that for some strange reason she had been terribly worried. He wondered if he had been hurt that badly? If only he could remember what had happened to him . . . . . . . .

Dr. MacIntyre came across the room then, gently moving her aside and taking charge of his patient. Satisfied with his condition as he drifted off to sleep once more, the doctor turned, took hold of her arm, and walked her out of the room. He sat down with her on the sofa in the waiting room and asked if there was someone she could call.

Dixie looked at him blankly for a moment then realized she needed to call Joe. She gave an affirmative nod and looked around for a phone.

"You can call from my office," he told her, guiding her to the elevator. She seemed more in control than she had been last night, but there was still some strange sort of fragility about her that worried him.

He settled her into a chair, got an outside line, and gave her the phone. Shutting the door behind him, he got a cup of coffee and asked the duty nurse to let him know as soon as she had finished her call.

With almost exaggerated care, Dixie dialed Joe’s number. He answered on the very first ring, surprising her, and she hesitated before she spoke. "Joe, it’s Dixie," she began.

"Dix!" he exclaimed, suddenly flooded with tremendous relief. "Where are you? I have been so worried . . . . . . . ."

Guiltily, she realized she should have called him sooner, or told him her plans, or both. "I’m sorry," she said earnestly. "I didn’t mean to worry you. I just had to find Kell . . . . . . . ."

"Dix," he interrupted, "I thought we had that settled." Alarm bells were ringing in his mind, and he was trying to figure out just how he might find out where she was and get to her before she slipped further into this fantasy of hers. "Can you tell me where you are?"

Dixie recognized the concern in her friend’s voice, and she loved him all the more for it. But she also felt a degree of exasperation as she tried to get a few words in to tell him her news. Finally, she employed her best no-nonsense, Nurse McCall-lecture-time voice to demand, "Joe, listen to me!"

Silence on the other end of the line told her she finally had his full attention and she rushed on. "Kell is here!" she said, unable to keep the joy out of her voice. "He wasn’t in the car; he’s here in the hospital."

"Where is here?" Joe asked her gently.

"Camarillo," she replied.

"I want to talk to his doctor, OK?"

"His name is MacIntyre, and he is not here right now. I can go find him and ask him to call you . . . .. . ."

"No," answered Joe. "I’ll wait while you go get him for me."

"OK," she agreed, placing the receiver down on the desk and going to the door.

Dr. MacIntyre was just finishing his coffee when she opened the door, and he rose from the chair. "All finished with your call?" he inquired.

"Joe would like to talk to you," she replied. "Dr. Joe Early," she added.

He came over to the desk and picked up the telephone. "This is Dr. MacIntyre."

He listened, then said, "Yes, she told me that was his name." Another bit of listening, then, "He doesn’t remember. He has a pretty severe concussion. He had no identification on him." He listened, then said, "Camarillo Community Hospital." They exchanged a few more words, then he hung up the phone. Turning to Dixie, he said, "Your friend will be here in a little while. Why don’t you lie down and try to get some sleep?"

Realizing just how tired she was, Dixie reluctantly agreed, and the doctor settled her down on the sofa in his office. In less than a heartbeat, she was fast asleep. Quietly Dr. MacIntyre closed the door behind him and left her to her dreams.

Determined not to believe it until he had seen him for himself, Joe Early stood incredulously at Kell’s bedside watching his friend sleep. The whole episode, played out over the last few days, somehow seemed surreal and inconceivable, like the residue of some horrible nightmare in which they had all been trapped. He had no idea what had really happened, or who had been driving Kell’s car, but those answers could wait for another day. The only important thing was that he was alive --- Dixie had been right, after all. "Remind me never to disagree with her about anything ever again!" he ruefully told himself.

Kell stirred and Joe focused his attention on the man in the bed. Dixie was nowhere to be seen; Dr. MacIntyre had told him that she was sleeping --- a grand idea, in Joe’s opinion. Kell sighed in his sleep, but did not awaken. Knowing that sleep was the best thing for him, Joe sat down and quietly kept vigil over his dear friend.

Dixie woke with a start, momentarily confused and unsure of where she was. Dr. MacIntyre stuck his head in the door at that instant, smiled at her, and said, "Your friend Joe is here."

Joe? "Where is he?" she asked, still trying to clear the fuzziness out of her head and focus her thoughts.

"Upstairs. Do you want to get some coffee or something to eat before we go up there?"

She shook her head, surprised at her overwhelming desire to simply sit there and cry. Mentally she gave herself a good shake and fought to get some control over her emotions. She was not used to feeling so unsettled and uncertain. It was not a comfortable feeling --- it made her feel too vulnerable --- and she was not sure how to deal with it.

"Would you like to go upstairs now?" Dr. MacIntyre enquired.

She nodded and together they returned to Kell’s room.

Joe was sitting in the chair; Kell was still sleeping. Dixie took all this in as she stood in the doorway, but it was all secondary to her out-of-control feelings and her overwhelming desire to simply sit down and cry. She excused herself, turned away, and headed back down the hallway toward the ladies’ room. She fervently hoped that a few minutes of privacy would allow her to get her emotions in check and give her back the control she so desperately needed in order to get through the day. She sank down in one of the two chairs just inside the door and let the tears come. She cried until she made herself sick; then she splashed cold water on her face and took a deep breath, fighting to rein in the emotions raging within her. Hoping she had managed to gain some measure of control, she headed back for Kell’s room once more.

Kell was awake when she came in, and seemed to be less confused than he had been the night before. Dixie smiled at him as she walked across the room to take his hand. Joe looked at her quizzically, concerned at her appearance. She looked overwrought and unsteady, almost as if she were precariously perched on the edge of a precipice. Kell was going to be OK, so that should not have still been a concern for her. He had expected her to be bouncing off the ceiling with joy --- her tentative, unsettled, and seemingly-reticent manner jangled alarm bells within him.

Joe stepped out of the room, hoping to find Dr. MacIntyre. He was at the nurses’ station, making a notation on a patient’s chart. Joe walked over.

"I’m glad your friend is OK," he said as Joe came up to the counter. "It certainly is a strange situation, though . . . . . . . ."

"Yes, I know," Joe agreed. "I sure would like to know the whole story . . . . . . . ."

"Wouldn’t we all?"

"I’m worried about Dixie," Joe told the doctor. "She seems to be . . . . . . . ." He hesitated, looking for just the right word.

"Unnerved? Fragile?" offered the doctor.

"Yes, I guess so. Whatever it is, it sure isn’t like her."

"I would imagine that she has been under a great deal of stress . . . . . . . ."

"I hope that’s all it is," Joe responded doubtfully.

"Give her a little time," suggested the doctor. "I’m sure it will all turn out just fine." He turned back to his chart, and Joe went in search of a phone so that he could call Rampart.

"Yes, Mike, he’s really here. I don’t know any of the details, but everyone needs to know that he’s still alive!" He listened for a moment, then added, "I’m going to stay up here, but I will let you know as soon as I know what happened." They exchanged another few words before Joe hung up the phone.

The next couple of days passed in a foggy haze, but Dixie managed to keep herself together pretty well. Although she still felt like crying most of the time, she had become a bit more adept at hiding it. Controlling it, however, was still difficult. Kell continued to improve, and, bit by bit, his memory seemed to be returning. Soon Dr. MacIntyre would let him go home, and then this ghastly nightmare would really be over.

"Dix," Kell said softly.

She looked up from her musings, surprised that he was awake already. Or had she been sitting there that long? She smiled and asked, "How do you feel?"

"OK," he responded. "My head’s not pounding any more; I’ll be fine. In fact, I can even sit up," he announced as he cautiously did so. He smiled at her and then, after a moment’s hesitation, offered a quiet, "Dix, I need to talk to you."

"That sounds serious," she playfully responded. But alarms were ringing in her head and her eyes had already begun to fill with tears. . . . . . . . . tell me that you care . . . . . . . .

They were interrupted by the opening of the door, and Dixie glanced over her shoulder to see who had come in. Kell took advantage of the interruption to gently pull her out of the chair and over to the side of the bed.

"Good, you’re awake," Dr. MacIntyre cheerfully addressed his patient. "This is Detective Dan Aldrich, and he would like to talk to you for a few minutes if you’re feeling up to it."

Kell nodded his assent and shifted his position, forcing Dixie to sit on the edge of the bed in order to keep hold of his hand. The detective, notebook and pencil in hand, came into the room and stood by the foot of the bed. Dixie looked at him expectantly, wondering what he might be able to tell them about what had happened to Kell. Both Joe and Dr. MacIntyre continued to stand just inside the door.

After the usual perfunctory greetings and introductions all around, the detective got down to business, asking Kell, "What can you tell me about what happened?"

"I’m not sure," Kell answered dubiously. "It’s all pretty fuzzy."

"Well, just start with when you arrived here and see what you can remember," he suggested.

"I came up to Oxnard Memorial to consult on a cardiac case," he began. "There were some unexpected complications and we performed emergency surgery . . . . . . . ." he remembered.

"Go on," urged the detective.

"Well, things looked good the next morning, and the patient was stable, so I started back for Los Angeles around noon." He glanced toward Dixie, who was clutching his hand and sitting silently, and smiled. She seemed preoccupied but returned the smile.

"I missed my turn and ended up on a street I was not familiar with, so I pulled over to look at the map book . . . . . . . ." he told them. "Then . . . . . . . ." His brow furrowed in concentration, Kell struggled to recall the chain of events that had landed him here in this hospital. "Someone . . . . . . . . pulled open the car door. He . . . . . . . . had a gun --- and he told me to get out of the car. He took my wallet and . . . . . . . . he started to get into the car . . . . . . . . I thought he was just going to take the car, but then he turned around and swung the gun toward my face." Struggling to remember the details, he continued, " I tried to duck, but he hit . . . . . . . ." he gingerly touched the spot on his head where the carjacker had smashed him with his weapon, ". . . . . . . . and then I was here," he concluded.

The detective, who was busy making notes, looked up from his notepad and asked, "Can you tell me the make of the car and the license plate number? We’ll run a check . . . . . . . ."

Joe interrupted, "We know where the car is. The driver was involved in an accident on the Ventura Freeway. Two highway patrolmen came to the hospital and told us that Kell had been killed in an automobile accident . . . . . . . ."

Shocked, Kell suddenly understood the reason behind Dixie’s strange reactions, and he turned his head to look at her. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she remained silent and still. "Dix," he said softly, "I’m so sorry --- that had to be just awful for you."

She smiled softly, but said, "It really doesn’t matter . . . . . . . ." Abruptly, she let the statement hang in the air and said nothing more. Awkward silence filled the room.

"Is that about all for the questions?" asked Dr. MacIntyre in an effort to cover Dixie’s strange, sudden silence.

"I think I have all I need for right now," Detective Aldrich replied. He walked toward the door, then turned back to say, "Let us know if you think of anything else that might be important. Thank you for your cooperation."

Kell gave an affirmative nod and the detective walked out of the room with Dr. MacIntyre. Joe followed them.

"Dix . . . . . . . ." Kell began.

"No, don’t say it," she interrupted. "It’s all done and over with now, so let it go." The tears spilled over and she looked away. He held tightly to her hand, forcing her to remain sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Please don’t cry," he pleaded, his voice full of concern as she tried unsuccessfully to stem the tide of tears cascading down her cheeks.

"I can’t help it," she declared as her tears continued to fall. She sounded so forlorn Kell thought his heart would break. He pulled her over to him as her crying persisted, and he tried unsuccessfully to comfort her.

After a few minutes, she seemed to regain some semblance of control and she whispered, "I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to help it . . . . . . . ." Drawing on some inner reserve, she sat up and continued, "Kell, please don’t worry about me. I’m fine. All you have to do is get well so you can come home!" She smiled, but it was only a turn-up-the-corners-of-your-mouth fake sort of smile, he noticed . . . . . . . . there was no smile in her eyes.

Kell looked at her and softly said, "Honest time, Love."

She took a deep breath, but avoided looking at him. "I’m tired, I was worried about you, I was scared . . . . . . . ."

"And?" he prodded.

This was not at all how she had planned for it to be, but she was backed into a corner and could see no way out of it now. He had every right to know, but, somehow, nothing was turning out to be the way it ought to be. It was as if all the fates were suddenly conspiring against her, she sadly noticed. "It wasn’t supposed to be this way," she said.

"What wasn’t supposed to be what way?"

She started, as if she hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud. A flicker of resignation passed through her eyes and she sighed softly as more tears spilled from her blue eyes.

Kell was alarmed now. "Dix," he said, drawing her into a hug. "Whatever it is, it will be all right as long as we’re together."

"Everything is so jumbled up inside, I can’t seem to put it all right," she lamented as she finally managed to stop the tears.

"I can only guess how you must have felt," he said to her. "I am sure it . . . . . . . ."

Exasperated and finding her temper even shorter than she had realized, she interrupted, "It has absolutely nothing to do with that!" Tears threatened to spill over once more.

Kell was dumbfounded. What in the world was going on? "Dix?" he queried softly.

Resigned now to finishing the conversation in this place, she said sadly, "It’s just that I wanted it to be all special and perfect . . . . . . . . and this is not quite what I had in mind." Her voice was so soft he almost had to strain to hear her words. "I guess it doesn’t really make any difference, though . . . . . . . ."

Perplexed, Kell tried to decide what would be the right thing to say. He certainly didn’t want to upset her any further, but she wasn’t making very much sense, either. Deciding that good old honesty would be best, he gave her a gentle hug and said, "I love you."

True to her newfound uncharacteristic unpredictableness, she burst into tears. "I love you so much," she sniffed between teardrops, turned her head to look into his eyes, and softly and a bit hesitantly, she added, "We’re going to have a baby."

His mind reeled. That certainly was not even close to what he had expected to hear her say, but it definitely explained a lot about her recent reactions. He looked at her, waiting expectantly for his response, and realized he had no words for her at all. Instead, he kissed her. Somehow, it seemed to be exactly the right thing to do, after all . . . . . .

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