Page 5 of Fix Me Up

A door opens and a voice filters into the room. “Graham Mosley?”

Thank God for Trisha.

Ernestine clucks at me, then says, “Would you like me to hold him while you figure out how to stand up?”

I don’t know. It’s like hauling around a giant feed bag when he falls asleep like this.

In my experience, though, it’s better to let the older women in this town hold the kid instead of trying to look like you don’t need any help.

I hand the sleeping Graham over to her. She snatches the toddler with surprisingly strong arms. I then clamber to my feet jerkily, one foot asleep. By some miracle, Graham doesn’t wake up while being handed off twice before we head into Dr. Allen’s office.

The relief at our name being called is soon replaced with panic as I remember what I’m about to do. The walk from the waiting room into Dr. Allen’s office is like an eternity.

My mouth is dry. My forehead is slick with sweat.

I never cared one way or another about what doctor was serving this town before Graham came along. If I broke a bone after falling off a horse, I would rub some dirt on it and get on with my life.

But when fatherhood happened—as unexpectedly as a car wreck—I started to care a lot about the person administering medicine and doling out advice.

Before Dr. Allen came to Fate, I had no choice but to see the previous town physician, Dr. Smyth, who should have retired decades ago.

Not only am I overjoyed that we have a normal doctor in our midst—one who doesn’t prescribe Kentucky bourbon for teething gums—but this woman takes my breath away.

Graham adores her. Even when he’s angry, teething, or has an ear infection and has been screaming all night, he lights up when he sees Dr. Allen. I have always liked how she speaks to Graham—not in baby talk, but in everyday speech.

Her beauty is secondary, but I won’t lie and say she’s not pretty. Dr. Daisy Allen is not simply pretty; she’s otherworldly gorgeous. Her hair falls in gentle, golden waves around her shoulders, and her gray-green eyes see into my soul.

“The doctor will be right in to see you,” Trisha says after she shows me into Dr. Allen’s office. I thank her and sit down with sleepy Graham on my chest. Trisha closes the door, and I have a look around.

Unlike the pediatric exam room, there’s no cutesy wallpaper here. The walls are a soothing light green, and a couple of house plants are in the corner, reaching toward the light filtering in from her window. African violets—that’s something we have in common.

On her desk is a framed photo of what looks like Dr. Allen and some friends dressed in unrecognizable costumes. A small bookshelf in the corner has volumes you would expect: anatomy books, tomes on geriatric medicine, parenting manuals, and medical journals. But there are also interesting knickknacks and souvenirs. One looks like a dragon made out of Legos. There’s another one of that baby Yoda character. I don’t know what he’s called because I stopped keeping up with Star Wars after Phantom Menace.

On the wall are her credentials. Boston University. Johns Hopkins Medical School. A certificate from a residency at Tennessee University Medical School. I know all about that — she rattled it off so fast at that blind date a while back that she made my head spin.

A plaque on the adjacent wall reads, “Have you tried napping about it?” It’s unexpected for a doctor’s office, but Doc doesn’t seem like a “Live, Laugh, Love,” type of girl.

The door opens, and closes behind me. Graham startles in my arms, and I think he’s going to whine for a moment, but mercifully, his little head plops back down against my chest.

The doctor’s sweet scent reaches me before I see her.

She beams down at me.

“Aw, he’s all tuckered out,” Dr. Allen whispers.

“Yeah,” is the super eloquent thing I say. “But you can speak normally; he’s trained to sleep through it.”

“What can I help you with today, Mr. Mosley?” Dr. Allen says, taking the chair against the wall, adjacent to where I’m sitting.

Why didn’t she simply go and sit at her desk? She’s so close; her white coat brushes against my knee when she leans forward and studies me.

“It’s…” I start to say. “Nothing serious.”

“Serious enough that you waited for hours to see me privately.” She smiles at me in that mercifully nonjudgmental kind of way.

“It’s hard to get the words out. I just need a second,” I say.

This is it. I’m definitely doing this. Finally. I messed up several months ago when I had my first chance to get to know her, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since.

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