Chapter Eight: Emergency Surgery
His patient, it had to be said, could best be described as being in critical condition. Its body was squashed and misshapen, with trickles of blood oozing out from its sides. Two fleshy legs angled at a crazy, not to mention painful, position and that awfully twisted neck.
Sighing, Mark took a deep breath and then lifted the turkey, for the seventh time, out of the pan. It was no good. However much he tried, whatever positions he came up with to squash the bird into it, this wretched turkey was not going to fit into even his largest roasting pan.
Poor thing, he thought, giving the luckless bird a commiserating pat on its generously fleshed thigh. Even Jess would struggle to put this broken, sorry body back together again. Of course, he mused fondly, if not for that boy's appetite, I could make do with a bird half the size.
Placing the hapless turkey back on the worktop, Mark took a deep drink of reviving coffee while ruefully studying California's most rebellious Christmas dinner. This, he decided, needed long and careful thought. And more coffee, definitely more coffee.
Refilling his mug, he then cast a speculative glance through the den towards the CD player,
where Bing's timeless classic extolled the joys of a white Christmas.
"Sorry, Bing, but there isn't much chance of that happening in Southern California." Mark sighed – a wry smile lifting one side of his mouth as another, rather more appropriate tune came to mind. Well, not appropriate for Christmas – but certainly appropriate for the task which now faced him. Even though he was home for the holidays, excluded from Community General's seasonal workload, it seemed as though Dr Mark Sloan would still be conducting some rather urgent surgery.
A few minutes later, Mark soft-shoe-shuffled his way back into the kitchen, conducting the orchestra while Louis Armstrong warned of the gory dangers of Mack the Knife. Outside, two figures paused in their afternoon walk along the beach and traded rather alarmed glances. Among a row of brightly lit, cheerily musical beach-houses, one stood markedly out from the others. Instead of joyous carols, the house of Mark Sloan rang loud with sounds of bloodshed and murder. More worrying still, its occupant stood by the kitchen window, briskly sharpening a very large knife.
Trading another alarmed glance, Bob and Lauren Petrie continued their walk back to their house – with, it had to be said, rather more speed than before.
Happily unaware of the alarm he'd caused his new neighbors, Mark was starting to enjoy himself.
"Right then, class," he said brightly, turning to address a row of vegetables on a nearby worktop. "Who can tell me the first, rather important, procedure I should perform before commencing surgery on poor Mr. Gobble here?"
Feigning disappointment at the silence that followed, Mark then beamed at a small butternut squash – wryly wondering what his young protégé would make of being transformed into a talking vegetable.
"That's right, Jesse, well done! Yes, students, of course, it's the anesthesia," he went on, using his steak tenderizer to demonstrate, and in doing so sending 'Mr. Gobble' into merciful oblivion.
With his patient now safely anaesthetized, Mark turned back to re-address his row of students.
"Now pay attention, class, as I make the first incision to amputate Mr. Gobble's . . . um . . . drumsticks . . . speed is of the essence in surgery like this . . . fluid loss is a real danger . . .and Mr. Gobble's going to have enough of a shock when I administer the post operative stuffing, without loss of fluid making him feel worse . . . so you need to make the incisions quick and decisive . . . don't worry about hurting him, he's safely dreaming of chasing hen turkeys round the farmyard . . . you'll notice that I'm doing one drumstick at a time, suturing the wounds as I go along . . . there are two reasons for this . . . one is to obviously keep all Mr. Gobble's lovely juices inside . . . the second is . . . well, if truth be told here, class, I've never actually operated on a turkey before . . . so I guess I'm learning as much from this . . . um . . . particular surgery as you are . . . "
Now genuinely engrossed in his work, Mark carefully eased away the amputated drumstick –
his grin of triumph fading somewhat as he realized his students' attention had inevitably wandered. Susan Sprout had rolled into the sink, Colin Carrot had rolled over to canoodle with Polly Parsnip, while Bobby Broccoli and Curly Cabbage appeared to have fallen asleep.
The ever-faithful Jesse was still there, though – prompting another fond pat on top of its head.
"Thanks, Jess, I know I can always count on you," Mark chuckled, enjoying this continuing joke – a joke which, he'd already decided, the real Jesse would never hear about.
On noticing the time, Mark then sighed – realizing that the time for fun and games were over. If he didn't get this turkey in the oven soon, they'd be making do with just the vegetables. And he shuddered to think how Jesse, or Steve for that matter, would react to that.
Thirty minutes later, surgery complete, and with Mr. Gobble recovering in a nice warm oven, Mark placed two perfectly cooked drumsticks aside while studying the rest of his preparations. Even with Jesse's notorious appetite, Mark could now see that he'd rather overdone the food. So a generous platter of mixed vegetables also found their way into the 'spares' box. No doubt Steve would quite happily work his way through them in his little brother's absence.
With uncanny timing, he'd just finished washing and drying his hands when the telephone rang. "Hello? . . . Oh, hi! . . . No, of course you're not troubling me . . . A favor? Well, sure, if I can . . . I have, yes . . . Oh, they are? Oh, that's great, you must really be looking forward to seeing them . . . Oh, you didn't . . . Yes, I can see your problem . . . Well, don't worry, I have plenty of spare stuff here . . . Tell you what, why don't I just stick everything in a box and bring it over . . . Sure, I can come now . . . Okay, see you in a few minutes . . . Don't worry, it's no trouble at all . . . See you in a few minutes . . ."
Hanging up the phone, Mark then smiled – grateful that he wasn't the only one with turkey trouble. "Sorry, Steve, but these spares are needed elsewhere," he chuckled, packing them into a box.
Checking once more that Mr. Gobble was resting comfortably in the oven, Mark picked the box up – adding platefuls of sausage rolls and mini pizzas before leaving on a mission of neighborly mercy.
The door was opened at his first knock, by a bath-robed figure whose head was wrapped in a large towel. After a few more moments of vigorous rubbing, the towel then fell to drape across slender shoulders – bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile greeting him from under tousled, sun-streaked hair.
"Mark !! Oh, thank you! You are a lifesaver! Well, of course, you really are a lifesaver, but well, you know what I mean! I really can't thank you enough for helping me out with this! I'm really at my wits end!"
Holding up a hand to stop the flustered words, Mark offered his neighbor a fatherly calming smile – one that faded slightly at the less than pleasant odor which now wafted through the open door.
Seeing this reaction, Alisha Morganstern winced too while ruefully shrugging her shoulders. "Oh, Mark, I know!" she went on, tugging her robe further around her while still drying her hair. "I've had three showers so far this afternoon, and I still smell like something the cat dragged in!"
"Now honey, it really isn't that bad," Mark assured her, ever the gallant gentleman. Even so, it took real effort for him not to grimace as he followed Alisha into an eerily smoky house. Despite all his efforts, it soon proved impossible for him not to cough from the acrid, irritating fumes.
"Oh dear, yes, that's another job I need to get done before the holidays," Alisha admitted ruefully. "I'll really need to get the chimney cleared out and cleaned while I can get hold of a maintenance man. I tried to start a fire earlier, just to, well, you know, take the chill off the room this morning, and well, the next thing I know is, the house is filled with this awful putrid smoke!"
"Well, yes, if your chimney's blocked, that's certainly something you need to do," Mark replied, curiosity and that ever gallant desire to help compelling him to peer carefully up the chimney.
To his surprise, the stack and flue were completely clean, with no immediate signs of blockage. But it was his head that inadvertently made another surprising, if rather painful, discovery. The fireplace was a lot more shallow than it appeared to be – hence a rather muffled cry of "Ouch!" as Mark's head collided none too gently with the fireplace's rear wall.
"Mark? Oh dear, Mark, are you alright?" Alisha asked anxiously when he finally emerged, grimacing while gingerly rubbing the side of his head.
Not wanting to upset her any further, Mark smiled back at her while carefully nodding his reassurance. "I'm fine, honey, just knocked my head while I was looking up that chimneystack," he replied, frowning once more, but in puzzlement now rather than discomfort as he glanced back at the fireplace.
"But that really is odd, I couldn't see any signs of an obstruction. The flue is completely clear, and although it looks so large, this fireplace isn't nearly as deep as it appears." That puzzle, however, would have to remain unsolved, since Alisha's attention now lay elsewhere.
"I'm sorry, Mark," she said at last, sheepishly explaining the cause for her sudden amusement. "It's just that watching you peer up that chimney reminded me of one of my favorite movies, that part in Mary Poppins, when that funny chimney sweep clears out that family's chimney . . ."
As Mark burst out laughing, Alisha frowned then smiled and added a tentative afterthought. "You know, Mark, even though that movie was made so many years ago, there's an awfully strong resemblance between you and that chimney sweep!"
Grateful to see her looking happier, albeit at his expense, Mark grinned back at her and shrugged. "Well, I can't see it myself, but Steve once told me the same thing!" he chuckled, patting his waist. "Mind you, I doubt whether I'd fit into that many chimney flues!"
"Oh now, Mark, there's nothing wrong with your waistline!" Alisha insisted, playfully hugging him. "Besides, this is all testimony to your wonderful home-style cooking!"
"Thank you, my dear flattery will get you everywhere!" Mark retorted, winking back at her.
"And speaking of my wonderful home-style cooking, we'd better get these boxes unpacked."
Leading him into the kitchen, Alisha took in his armload of boxes with wide, appreciative eyes. "Oh, Mark, this food looks lovely!" she enthused, casting him a grateful if rather awkward smile. "And so much of it too! Are you sure you can spare all this from your own dinner tonight? I mean, you're going to need plenty to eat yourself, especially with Jesse coming!"
Laughing at this joke over his young friend's infamous appetite, Mark then gently patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, Alisha, believe me, I've enough food in for tonight to feed several full size armies." Or one pint size doctor, he mused, smiling fondly as he voiced an equally lighthearted afterthought. "And if the worst comes to the worst, there's plenty of bags of corn chips to keep him happy!"
"Well, just so long as I'm not leaving you short," Alisha replied, casting him another grateful smile. "I thought I had everything organized for the holidays, then I get today's phone call from Mom, telling me she and Dad want to spend Christmas with me, and, well, as you can imagine, Mark, since I had volunteered to work at the domestic violence hotline until five on Christmas Day, I was getting in a bit of a panic!"
"Well, I'm just glad I could help," Mark smiled, proud of the young lady he had watched grow up next door to him. Alisha not only worked as a family lawyer, but she also volunteered her time with the hotline and the American Red Cross to help families in crisis. He hesitated for a moment before asking gently, "So your . . . um . . . I – I mean, your parents are back together again now, Alisha?"
To his relief, Alisha grinned back at him, showing no sign of annoyance at this gentle probing. "Yes, Mark, they are, and they have been for about four years," she replied, seemingly rather surprised herself as she shrugged her shoulders. "I must admit I was pretty stunned too when my mother told me! I couldn't believe it either! I – I mean, they were going through such problems, such strain, when my uncle Fred died . . . that, well, I guess after six months of stress and strain between them, it was inevitable that they split up."
Grateful for the presence of an understanding ear, Alisha glanced across at Mark and smiled slightly. "My dad was having a really bad time, with none of us realizing what he was going through. I guess in medical terms, he . . . well, for want of a better word, he just had a nervous breakdown. And I suppose Mom still felt enough for him to look after him when he turned up in Baltimore. By all accounts, he just showed up on her doorstep one night, and she took him in to take care of him. It took a while for him to get himself back together again, but… well, that's all in the past now . . . The main thing is that Dad and Mom are back together and making another go at things, although . . ."
Alisha then fell awkwardly silent, as if belatedly realizing that she'd betrayed a sworn secret. "Mark, I – I know you and Steve will be busy yourselves over the holidays," she said at last. "But if you do meet Mom and Dad at some point, could you not mention anything about my uncle? Only Dad's still not quite right, if you know what I mean, and . . .well, Mom doesn't want him upset. He's made so much progress since moving back with Mom that… well…"
To her relief, Mark was already nodding his understanding – just as she'd guessed and hoped he would. "Don't worry, Alisha, I won't mention a word of it, not even to Steve," he assured her gently. "And if you need any more help over the holiday, medical or otherwise, just call me, okay?"
Alisha smiled back and nodded – grateful, not for the first time, to have Mark Sloan as her neighbor. In the absence of her own father, he'd proved to be the ideal substitute – a real and true friend, and, not for the first time, she wished she'd had someone like him to turn to when she had moved back to Baltimore. "I will, Mark and thanks again for helping me out with all this lovely food."
"You're welcome," Mark smiled back at her, returning her grateful hug before checking his watch. "Well, honey, if you're okay now, I'd better get back to prepare my own family feeding frenzy."
"Yes, I can imagine," Alisha giggled, seeing him to the door with her own light hearted advice. "And tell Jesse to at least try and leave some leftovers for the rest of you!"
"I'll try. Whether he takes any notice, of course, is another matter entirely!" Mark chuckled, winking mischievously back at her before, with a final hug for Alisha, he returned home.