The M.D. Next Door

Chapter One

Dressed in a long-sleeved purple T-shirt and comfortable black yoga pants, Meagan Baker reclined in a padded chaise lounge. She had a white cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders, cold soda by her hand, good book in her lap. The chair was one of several arranged in a companionable grouping on the rock patio surrounding her smallish, in-ground pool, which sparkled in the afternoon sun. A spreading oak tree canopied with early spring leaves shaded her chair. Birds played among the branches, singing cheerily. A pleasant, floral-fragrant breeze brushed her cheeks and rustled the new leaves above her, harmonizing sweetly with the birdsongs.

Glumly, she studied her feet clad in flirty purple ballet flats. Most people would think she was crazy for wishing she were in an operating room in scrubs, paper gown, cap and mask, and arch-supporting shoes.

“Can I get you anything else, sweetie?”

She forced a smile as she looked up at her mother, who hovered nearby. “I’m fine, thanks. You should go home and take care of Meemaw.”

“You’re sure?” Her mom, LaDonna Baker, looked torn between caring for her convalescing daughter and returning home to tend to her own ailing mother, who lived with her. “I could warm a pot of soup before I go.”

“I can warm my own soup. You’ve filled my fridge and freezer with meals I can pop into the microwave. I won’t go hungry.” Meagan hated the feeling that she was adding to her mother’s already sizeable load of responsibilities. As the eldest of three children and a surgeon by trade, Meagan was much more accustomed to being a caretaker than having one.

Only a couple of days out of the hospital after undergoing emergency surgery, she still felt annoyingly weak and achy. She had pain pills if she needed them, but she limited herself to over-the-counter meds as much as possible. Having declined an invitation to recuperate at her mother’s house, Meagan preferred to keep her head clear. She lived alone, but she had promised her concerned family she would keep a cell phone always close at hand. Her mother and two physician siblings all lived within a ten-minute drive, so she had no fears about being on her own.

“Go home, Mom,” she repeated gently. “You’ve been here most of the day. I know you have things to do at home.”

Torn by her responsibilities, her mother finally, reluctantly left, though she made Meagan promise to call if she needed anything. Anything at all.

Alone at last, Meagan rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to display her weakness in front of her worried mother, but now she could relax and moan, unheard by anyone but herself. She remembered patients complaining they felt as though they’d been hit by a truck; she now knew exactly what they meant. Every inch of her seemed to ache or throb, not just the healing incision in her abdomen. She’d always tried to be sympathetic to her patients’ discomfort, but she thought she’d be even more so now that she’d actually experienced post-surgical pain, herself.

As much as she appreciated her mother’s loving care, it felt good to be alone for a while and outside in the fresh air. Ever since she’d been hospitalized six days ago for emergency surgery to repair an ovarian torsion, she’d been pent up and poked at and hovered over and treated like a…well, like a patient. She had q

uickly realized that she much preferred being the doctor.

She rested a hand lightly on the incision site, from force of habit, feeling for excessive heat or swelling. Despite her discomfort, she was healing just fine. She wished fleetingly that the surgery could have been performed laparoscopically, which would have resulted in a much shorter recovery period, but her condition had been too severe. Her left ovary had been twisted to the point of necrosis, and the surgeon had been unable to salvage it.

She might have saved the ovary if she’d caught the condition earlier, Meagan thought regretfully. She had mistaken the symptomatic pain for her usual menstrual cramping, popping OTC pain relievers and staying too busy taking care of other people to pay attention to her own well-being—a common failing among physicians. Only when she’d been incapacitated by sudden, severe pain, nausea and fever had she sought emergency care. She’d been rushed into an O.R. by a surgeon she worked with and trusted implicitly. If anyone could have salvaged the ovary, it would have been Meilin Liu, but no such luck.

It still surprised her how shaken she had been by the crisis. Meagan had spent the past ten years in the medical field, but seeing it from a hospital bed had been a completely different experience. She had been fortunate not to have had any health crises during her first thirty-two years, having been hospitalized only once for a tonsillectomy when she was nine. She had decided then that she wanted to be a doctor, but she had been so young she hardly remembered the hospital experience itself.

This had been different. She’d been forced during the past week to face both her mortality and her fertility, and she had been taken aback by her reactions.

Meilin had assured her the loss of an ovary would not prevent her from conceiving a child. But Meagan was thirty-two and not even dating anyone in particular. She had maybe another decade, more or less, to have a child should she decide to do so.

As for mortality—she had always thought there would be plenty of time for the things she had neglected in her single-minded pursuit of her career. Hobbies. Travel. Marriage. Children. Now she was suddenly aware of how quickly time had passed. Her twenties had sped by in a blur of medical school studying, long, sleepless residency hours, then establishing her practice as a surgeon in a Little Rock, Arkansas teaching hospital. The people she loved were growing older. Her mother was nearing sixty, her grandmother was in her eighties. Her younger brother had just turned thirty and their little sister wasn’t far behind.

She remembered as a child hearing older people talk about how quickly time flew. Back then she hadn’t understood; now she identified all too well with that sentiment.

“Oof!” Her wistful musings ended abruptly when a solid, wiggling weight landed directly on her stomach, only inches from her still-healing incision.

“What the—?”

Warm breath bathed her face while an eager pink tongue tried to do the same. Her hands were filled with a squirming, panting yellow puppy—a good-sized one at that, with paws as big as her fists and a smiling, wet-nosed face. The dog wasn’t still long enough for her to read the red metal tag dangling from his collar. Every time one of his big feet landed on her abdomen, she groaned.

“Waldo!”

A girl with a fresh, freckled face almost hidden behind round glasses and an unruly mop of brown curls rushed to rescue Meagan from the friendly assault. She grabbed the pup and wrestled him into a firm clench in her skinny arms. “Be still, Waldo. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I hope he didn’t scare you. He’s really friendly.”

Apparently, Meagan’s mom had accidentally left the backyard gate open when she left. Pressing one hand to her throbbing scar and wiping her damp cheek with the other, Meagan managed to smile at the girl. “He is definitely friendly. You called him Waldo?”