Page 74 of Take Me Home for Christmas

All day long, I’d been trying so hard not to crack. I’d been functioning on the maniacal side of cheerful, overdoing it to disguise all my pain. The last thing I wanted to do was to suddenly break down under anyone’s concern. Also, what did she think I was doing, sitting in an empty exam room talking to myself? “Look, Dr. March I’m a little emotional today, but I swear it’s not impacting my?—”

She smiled as she leaned against the doorjamb. “You love those little girls.”

Uh oh.The last thing I wanted was to be unprofessional. Especially since I’d just crossed a huge line with Dr. Brunner.

Plus, professional detachment was necessary for survival in this job. You couldn’t allow yourself to cross a line with patients. You’d never survive the tragedies.

Maybe I’d never have what it took.

“I do,” I told Dr. March.

“It’s a great relief that Rylee is doing okay,” she said.

Tears burned behind my lids. I blinked them back. “I worried about her over my break.”

“Me too.”

That startled me. “You did too?”

She walked in and leaned against the exam table, seeming to have all the time in the world to chat. I had no idea if she sensed how on the edge I was. “I worry all the time about my patients. You know, Rylee has an excellent chance of doing very, very well.”

I nodded. I somehow felt my sister’s presence fading.Please, please don’t leave,I wanted to shout.

I fisted and unfisted my hands from the tension of wanting Dr. March to leave, hoping that I could hear Grace just one last time. Or tell her one lastI love youbefore she was gone for good.

“My sister—” I said, hoping somehow to signal to Grace to stay.

Dr. March stood there, listening.

I took a deep breath. “My twin sister died when we were nine.”

Her brow arched. “Of leukemia?”

I nodded. And let out a sob I didn’t know I was keeping in.

She walked over and placed her hand on my shoulder. “That explains why you’ re so invested in Rylee’s whole family. And little Reagan too.”

“I’ve been there,” I said simply. That let the floodgates loose—tear-wise and talking-wise. “I just said no to the primary care job with BCP. And…I was wondering…” I had to take a big breath to get it out. “Is it too late to apply for the heme-onc fellowship? If you’ve found someone, maybe I could staff the residents’ clinic for a year. I know sometimes I’m too emotional, and maybe I need more detachment, but I know I can?—”

“Caring is a good asset,” she said firmly, interrupting me. “Never for a moment do I doubt that you have what it takes to be great at this job.” She seemed to thoughtfully gather her words. “Mia, being a cancer doctor for kids a scary job, but it’s also wonderful and rewarding. To know that you’ve helped these families through the most terrifying time of their lives is a great thing.”

And then she stepped forward and hugged me.

Of course, I burst into tears anew. It was relief, it was affirmation, it was someone telling you that it was okay to be afraid of something. But maybe you should go ahead and do it anyway.

How lucky I was to have someone like that. A mentor.

“Are you okay?” she asked, assessing me carefully.

“I’ve got some things going on,” I said, swiping at my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Never be sorry for being human,” she said, handing me the box of tissues from the desk.

“I’ll fill out the application as soon as possible.”

“Of course. And I’ll write you a recommendation letter too.” She paused. “I can do better than that. I’ll also tell all my colleagues that I believe you’re the best candidate.”

Oh, joy! What I meant was, I wasn’t exactly in a happy state, but I felt something squeeze inside my chest, a feeling that this was, well, right. As far as any big, scary, major decision can. “Thank you, Dr. March,” I managed. “I really appreciate it.”

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