Once Parsons had been wheeled out of the ward on his journey to theatre, I was left alone in his now-empty hospital room with Emily. I'd first met her during medical school, through Parsons of course. She'd been a social worker in the hospital where he and I had later been house officers. Her job included arranging home care, physical therapy, occupational therapy, as well as general hand-holding of patients and relatives during difficult times.

She was often forced to deal with the lonely and downtrodden that made their way through our wards. Parsons and I fixed the patients' bodies; she fixed their lives. It was all a bit esoteric to me, but the patients and their families seemed to find her work useful. As we'd talked about during the night Louisa and I had been in their home for the aborted dinner party, she'd continued her job upon their move to Truro until long after their son had been born.

From a personality standpoint, Emily was more vivacious and outgoing than her husband, if such a thing were possible. But not today. No sooner had the stretcher rolled out of the room, then she burst into tears.

Emotional displays always flummoxed me and for a long minute I stood there, watching her, not sure what to do.

"I promised myself . . . I wouldn't cry," she sniffed, "in front of him or Dan."

Obviously, she considered it acceptable to do so in front of me. I stepped over to her and stiffly put my arm around her shoulders, feeling her body shuddering beneath me. With my free hand, I grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and handed it to her.

"I'm so scared," she said.

"He'll be all right," I soothed. "It's a straightforward procedure."

"He's never had surgery before, you know."

"Yes." I recalled this from the medical history I'd taken.

"I know he wishes you could do it . . . that you were still . . . he trusts you so much."

Once again, I cursed my weakness. Were it not for my hellish blood thing, I'd be performing the surgery and able to control the situation instead of try to reassure Emily that another surgeon would save her husband.

"I'm . . . sorry." It was all I could say.

Emily blew her nose. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry – for being weak and especially for making you feel guilty when all you've done is help us." She stood up straight, squaring her shoulders and I dropped my hand.

"I need to go sit with Dan," she said. "I know he's worried. He worships his dad."

"Shall I come with you?" The thought of sitting in the waiting room was this side of appalling. But I had promised Chris that I'd take care of Emily and this appeared to be the first step in honoring that promise.

She found a smile. "I'd like that very much."

We located Parsons' son sitting next to Louisa in the surgical waiting room. The boy was lanky and, with an angular face, fiery red hair and a few freckles, more closely resembled his mother than his father.

Louisa and the boy each held a handful of playing cards, with a larger deck stacked on the table in front of them; Louisa had apparently been trying to distract Dan's attention with the game. James had been left in the care of Aunt Ruth and Morwenna, and Louisa would return home immediately after Parsons was safely out of surgery.

As we stepped into the room, Dan abruptly tossed the deck onto the floor, cards flying all about. "I don't want to play cards! I want to know what's going on with my dad. My parents won't tell me anything. They think I'm a baby."

"Quiet," I said sharply. There were others in the waiting room, all clearly distressed about their own loved ones currently in surgery, and the last thing they needed was an unruly child causing a commotion.

Louisa tried putting an arm around the boy's shoulders. "I'm sure they don't think you're a baby."

The boy shrugged her off and ignored my admonition. "It must be really bad. He's going to die, isn't he? That's why no one will tell me anything."

Louisa shot Emily and me a look of helplessness, causing me to frown. She was always excellent with children; if she'd been unable to console Dan, the situation must indeed be serious.

Beside me, Emily started forward. I caught her arm and said softly. "Let me." I locked eyes with Louisa. "Why don't you and Emily . . . get some coffee or something like that . . . while I have a word with Dan?"

Louisa's expression morphed into one of unexpected gratitude. Taking my cue, she stood up and moved to the door, Emily in trail. "Come on, let's get some tea."

I motioned the boy to follow me to a far corner, away from the others in the room. He plopped himself into one of the vinyl chairs with a huge sigh. I pulled over a chair so that I was directly across from him and met his eyes.

"All right, Dan. What is it that you want to know about your father's medical condition?"

"Like you'll tell me the truth," he responded defiantly.

"Of course I will." Why would he think I'd lie to him? As Peter Cronk had once said to me, "You always tell the truth." Sometimes to a fault. Now I said to Dan, "Tell me what has you so upset."

"I don't understand what's wrong. Dad said it was something about his neck and it made him dizzy and that you were the one who found it and –"

I held up a hand. "Stop."

The boy closed his mouth and stared at me. At age eleven, he was old enough to comprehend the basic medical issues, even though he might not understand all of the details. Explaining things to him had to be better than watching him throwing a temper tantrum for lack of information.

I started slowly. "Your father has a blockage in one of the arteries of his neck. Do you know what an artery is?"

The boy scrunched up his nose. "Not exactly."

"Arteries are vessels that carry blood from the heart to other organs of the body. One of those important organs is the brain. The arteries that supply the brain are called the carotid arteries and are located in the neck. Right here." I pressed the fingers of my right hand against my own carotid. "There's one on either side."

Dan tried to mimic my movement and I reached out to help him find the proper spot on his own neck.

"I can feel it," he said, eye wide.

"Yes, you can." I blew out a breath; at least the child was listening. "An artery is like a straw. When the artery is clear, blood flows through it easily, like lemonade through the straw. However, in some people, the artery becomes clogged —much like when something gets stuck in a straw."

"Yeah, I get it."

His eyes were riveted on mine and he seemed to be paying close attention to my explanation. I could only hope I was making things simply enough for him to comprehend. And, as I tried to make sense of things for Dan, I couldn't help but think about the future, when it would be my own son who would be full of questions. My father had generally been dismissive of my intellectual curiosity; I vowed to do better.

"When the carotid artery is blocked," I continued, "the flow of blood to the brain can slow down or even stop altogether for a very short time. That can cause you to lose feeling in your arms and legs, to be dizzy or have trouble speaking."

He nodded. "That's what happened to my dad the night you came for supper."

"That's right. But it can easily be fixed with surgery."

"What do they do?"

"The surgeon cuts a small hole in your father's neck over the artery with the blockage."

The boy's eyes widened. "Wow, I bet there's lots of blood. Does it just splatter all over everyone?" he asked gleefully, clearly imagining a gusher.

I frowned in disapproval. "Well that wouldn't be too good for your dad, to lose all that blood, would it?"

Gulp. "No. Mr. Leahy wouldn't let that happen, would he?" he asked anxiously.

"No, he won't. Mr. Leahy cuts open the artery—"

It was Dan's turn to frown. "It's so small. How does he see it?"

"He uses loupes – basically eyeglasses with a microscope attached."

"Cool."

It was, actually. "He then places clamps – sort of like pliers – to stop the blood flow while he works. It's like pinching off the ends of the straw."

Dan's eyes narrowed. "But then how does the blood get to his brain?"

It was an excellent question. "The surgeon inserts a tube that allows the blood to flow around the blockage." It was the simplest way to explain a shunt.

Another nod. "Oh."

"The surgeon cleans out the blockage, stitches the artery closed, and removes the clamps. Finally, he sews up the hole in the neck." The explanation wasn't technically precise but was good enough for an eleven-year-old child.

"Will he have a big scar?" Again the boy's eyes seemed to widen in delight.

"There'll be a scar about this long." I showed him the seven-centimeter distance with my fingers.

"Wow!"

"It will fade in a few months."

"Oh," he said. "So my dad's going to be okay?"

"It's a routine procedure. Surgeons like Mr. Leahy perform this surgery almost every day. They're very good at it."

"But something could go wrong," he insisted.

"It's highly unlikely."

"Then why's my mom so worried?"

"Relatives often worry even when there's no cause." When the boy gave me an odd look, I added, "Your mother loves your father very much. It's . . . difficult to entrust the life of someone you love to a stranger, even if he happens to be a very good surgeon."

"Are you worried?" The boy's eyes searched mine in the way that only children could seek out the truth.

"No."

"Really?"

"No, I'm not worried. Your father will be fine."

"My dad says you used to be a surgeon like Mr. Leahy."

"Yes, I did."

He gave me a lopsided smile. "I bet you were a good surgeon."

"Yes, I was."

"So why aren't you operating on my dad?"

"Your father and I are friends and it's not a good idea to operate on your friends." The statement was true, even if it wasn't exactly the reason I wasn't performing Parsons' surgery.

"Why not?"

There were reasons I didn't get on with children, and this was one of them – they asked too many questions. "It's just not a good idea."

He seemed to accept this explanation and settled back into his chair, apparently content for the moment. To my consternation, I now found myself worrying. Not because I lacked confidence in Leahy's skills but, because if something did go wrong, I had no idea how I'd ever explain it to the boy.

Emily stepped in and took a seat next to her son. I in turn walked over to where Louisa was standing at the door of the waiting room.

"That was lovely, Martin."

I shrugged off the compliment. "I simply explained what was—"

"You calmed him down. You took a scared young boy and reassured him that his dad would be all right. It was quite wonderful."

I decided to accept the compliment. "Thank you."