Miracle by Deborah Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

the upper chambers of the heart, should have been repaired when the child was a baby. The boy had never been healthy.
    “My name’s Tom,” the youngster murmured. The oxygen tube in his nostrils made his voice stuffy. “I just got transferred here from Florida. My grandma got skeered that I was goin’ to die.”
    His attention tuned to the weak sounds of the recuperating heart, Sebastien merely nodded. He was vaguely aware the boy had brown hair and large blue eyes, and a photograph of him grinning beside a run-down farmhouse was taped to one glass wall of the enclosure. Sebastien didn’t want to notice more.
    Tom did not intend to be ignored, apparently. “What’s your name?”
    “Dr. de Savin.”
    “Are you gonna be around a lot?”
    “For now. I’m one of the surgeons who works here.”
    “You talk funny.”
    “I’m from France.”
    “I nearly kicked the bucket, you know. Might still.” The remark was so unexpected and so unlike something a child would say that Sebastien was startled. He listed his gaze and found mischief in Tom’s eyes. “
That
got your attention,” Tom said solemnly.
    “I’ll have to watch out for you. You think too fast.”
    “I got a bad heart. Have to do everything fast. Might croak.”
    “You’ve got a perfectly nice heart that’s just been fixed. It works very well.”
    “Nope. I heard one of the doctors here say that they fixed it shitty at the hospital down in Florida.”
    Sebastien made a mental note to find out who had been so stupid and careless. “Well it seems to be healing nicely, regardless. Believe me. I’m a very great doctor. Haven’t you heard?”
    Tom’s eyes brightened. “Really?”
    “Really.”
    “Good. I’m so tired of bein’ sick.” The boy’s voice was very soft, very weak. Sebastien found himself smoothing the child’s covers and adjusting the tubes that entered his arms. “Every day you’ll get stronger. One day soon you’ll go home better than ever.”
    “Promise?”
    “Promise.”
    “What’s your name again?”
    “Dr.… Sebastien. How about that? You may call me Sebastien.”
    “That’s a funny name.”
    “It’s a very old name. My mother gave it to me. It’s a special name. She was from a part of France called Brittany, and Sebastien is a popular name there.”
    “What’s so different about that part of France?”
    Sebastien sighed. How could one easily explain to an eight-year-old about Celts and druids and mysterious megaliths, rugged seacoasts and mystic forests, and Arthurian legends? But Tom looked so eager. Sebastien groaned silently. He was becoming sentimental lately. First the girl at the winery, now this boy. He was becoming reckless.
    “I’ll make a deal with you, Tom. When I finish my work for the day I’ll come by here and see if you’re still awake. If you are, I’ll tell you about my mother’s home.”
    Tom smiled. “Okay!” Sebastien started for the door. “You wouldn’t be pullin’ my leg about that ‘great doctor’ stuff, would ya?” the boy called softly. “You’re a slick dude.”
    Sebastien stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “No shit,” he said solemnly. With a wink that cost him more of his reserve than he’d intended, he left the room.

    The man’s heart lay still and expectant in Sebastien’s hand, its function temporarily halted so that he could repair a jagged bullet wound. Sebastien’s concentration was undaunted by the scrutiny of a staff surgeon, two first-year residents, and the surgical team of technicians, nurses, and an anesthesiologist. He had performed this procedure many times; he was now the teacher, not the student.
    “It is always difficult to suture this type of wound,” he noted, as the residents leaned closer. “You. Ross. Watch what I do and prepare to attempt it.” The young resident jumped, his forehead sweating under his blue scrub cap. He awkwardly poked the heart with his finger.
    “Doctor, are you trying to murder my patient?”