He shrugged as he wrapped the power cord around the hooks on the side of the vacuum cleaner. “I worked some this morning.”
He supposed the nonanswer was an answer in itself. She could probably tell from his tone that he hadn’t accomplished anything.
He had no idea why he was having so much trouble diving into this project. It wasn’t like him to procrastinate when there was a job to be done. It was certainly out of character for him to be so full of doubt about his ability to competently complete the task. Lack of confidence wasn’t really a problem for him; so what was this? He’d spent a lot of hours stewing about that today, and he still hadn’t come up with an answer—nor accomplished any more on his revisions.
Seeming to sense his concerns, Anne asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you in some way? At least let me read the revision letter.”
Liam waved a hand dismissively in the air. “I’ve got it covered. If I’m still having trouble with it in a couple of days, I’ll call my editor and ask for some advice.”
“But, Liam, I—”
Someone rang her doorbell three times in quick succession.
Anne and Liam froze.
“I’ll stay in here,” he said, waving at her to go answer the door. “I won’t make a sound.”
Nodding grimly, she turned and closed the door behind her. He hoped he wouldn’t be trapped in here for long. He could really use a cold drink.
Silently, he sank to the side of the neatly made bed, making himself as comfortable as possible. This really was getting ridiculous, he thought a bit glumly.
He’d never expected to spend his marriage hiding behind doors.
Anne heard a child crying before she even reached her door. Puzzled, she looked through the peephole, then pulled the door open. She didn’t know the young woman standing on her doorstep holding a screaming toddler, but she’d seen them before. The duo had moved into an apartment downstairs only a few weeks earlier. “May I help you with something?”
Speaking over the child’s wailing, the woman—who couldn’t be much more than twenty—asked a bit frantically, “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? I’ve seen you wearing your white coat with the stethoscope in your pocket.”
“I’m a second-year medical student. What’s wrong?”
Her dark eyes filled with tears, the slightly chubby brunette caught her child’s flailing hand and held it toward Anne. “I’m Rose Duggar, and this is my son, Parker. He rubbed his hand over an old chest in my bedroom and he got a splinter under his fingernail. He says it really hurts. Can you look at it?”
“I’m sorry, but I really shouldn’t. As I said, I’m not a doctor, just a medical student.” For many reasons, primarily liability concerns, medical students were discouraged from practicing medicine without supervision. Anne was particularly reluctant to take that risk with a child she didn’t even know. “Do you have a family doctor or clinic you can take him to?”
A fat tear escaped Rose’s left eye, trickling pitifully down her pale cheek. “I just started a new job and my insurance coverage isn’t effective until next week. I’m a single mom. I can’t afford a medical bill.”
The young woman looked as though she were going to sit on the step and wail with her child.
Anne sighed. She’d removed a few splinters in her time. Her friends in college had always come to her with their minor injuries because she’d been a premed major, her dad was a surgeon and she had a way of staying calm when others were freaking out. The latter reason had been more valid than the former two; she’d never quite convinced her friends that being a doctor’s daughter did not make one qualified to practice medicine. Neither did being a second-year medical student, she thought, but she figured she could offer her assistance as a good neighbor, rather than a doctor.
“I’m Anne Easton,” she said. “Please, come in, and we’ll see if we can deal with this together. If it’s only a splinter, it shouldn’t be too serious.”
“Thank you,” Rose breathed, stepping quickly over the threshold with her son.
Parker screamed even louder when Anne tried to catch his little hand so she could see if there was anything she could do to help him.
She spoke in a soothing voice to him, “I’m just going to look at it, sweetie, okay? Will you let me see your hand?”
Only somewhat lulled by her tone, he drew a shuddering breath, fully prepared to shriek again at a moment’s notice. His mother patted his back, her own expression heartened. “Let the doctor see your hand, okay, baby? Just let her look.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Anne muttered in despair. “I’m just a medical student.”
The distinction seemed meaningless to Rose. She continued to gaze hopefully at Anne.
Vowing to herself that she would pay for the medical bill herself if the child needed emergency care, Anne carefully spread t
he little fingers and searched for the injury. She found it quickly enough. She was relieved to see that his mother had been right. It was just a splinter. It was a good-size sliver, but only partially buried in the tender skin. It would be easy enough to catch hold of the end with tweezers and pull the splinter out.
“Oh, it’s not so bad. Why don’t I get a pair of tweezers and then I can hold him while you pull it out,” she suggested to Rose.