AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Here are the last few lines of the Chapter 19-A from last week:

"Good morning, Jean-who-is-not-French. I'm Doctor Goldberg." He extended a hand in greeting. "We met when I was here visiting with Doctor Oberon several months ago."

Jean shook his hand. "Oui, I remember. How are you?" It was not what he wanted to ask, but it was polite.

"I'm fine, thanks," Goldberg said pleasantly. "I came to see how you're doing this morning. I actually saw you last night when they brought you in, but I know you don't remember any of that."

"Where is Mi—Doctor Oberon, please?"

Goldberg looked away from Jean's face and busied himself with reading the chart at the foot of the bed. "I assume she is at home, resting," he said, too casually. "I understand she's taking some personal leave. Let's take a look at that leg, shall we?"

Now, enjoy the remainder of the chapter:  Chapter 19-B, "SUBSTITUTION."

~o~  ~o~  ~o~  ~o~  

Jean made no sound as Goldberg unwrapped the elastic bandages and set aside the cold packs shrouding the left knee. Goldberg poked and prodded and manipulated the knee.

Jean flinched, sucked air, but said nothing.

Goldberg replaced the bandages, this time without the cold packs. "We'll get some heat on that today. Might make you more comfortable."

"Mmm."

"We took x-rays and an MRI last night," Goldberg said. "I just came from meeting with the specialists who read the pictures. We all agree that if you want to retain any range of motion in the joint, we need to schedule you for surgery this afternoon. Tomorrow morning at the latest. The first 48 hours is the golden window. Every day we wait beyond that means the repairs will be less effective."

Jean looked at the doctor as if he had suggested blowing up the Lincoln Memorial at noon on July 4th. "You want to operate on Michel's knee?"

"Yes. That's the short version, yes."

"What did Michel say about it?"

"Well, ahm, nothing," Goldberg answered honestly. "She's not here. I can try to reach her, if you like. But, if you just want a second opinion, there are other doctors—"

"Merci," Jean interrupted, "but I do not want other doctors' opinions. I want the opinion of Doctor Oberon."

"Perfectly understandable," Goldberg said, nodding. "I'll try to reach Doctor Oberon. But, I have to stress that time is of the essence if you want the best result. What if I can't reach Doctor Oberon before tomorrow morning?"

"I will wait until Doctor Oberon can come," Jean said with absolute calm.

Goldberg sighed, smiled at Jean, then made some notes on Jean's chart.

"Let me do this, then," Goldberg suggested. "If it's okay with you, I'm going to reserve an operating room for tomorrow morning. If Doctor Oberon can be here by then, everything goes forward as scheduled. If, for some reason, we don't reach Doctor Oberon, you can cancel the surgery if you're sure you want to. I, of course, reserve the right to try to talk you out of waiting any longer, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. D'accord?"

Jean thought a moment. "Oui. Trés bien."

Goldberg nodded and replaced the chart at the end of the bed. "Okay," he said. "I've left a standing order for pain meds if you need them. Use them, please. Also, we started you on some antibiotics last night, for the shoulder wound, and I'm continuing those for now. Drink lots of water. Rest. I'll see you tomorrow morning, if not sooner."

"Oui. Merci."

"Au revoir, Jean," said Goldberg.

"Au revoir."

Goldberg left Jean's room and crossed the corridor to the nurses' station. He spoke to Nurse Erskine there. "What's the story on Doctor Oberon?" he asked.

"You read the papers," answered Erskine. "You know as much as I do."

"I heard she got caught in the middle of some drug deal gone bad in Coconut Grove, at the Arts Festival last weekend."

"Yep, innocent bystander," Erskine said. "And when Jean tried to stop them, they shot him. He's lucky to be alive."

Goldberg thought a moment, brows crinkled. "But that was days ago," he murmured. "So, how did he happen to be brought in here unconscious and bleeding last night? And, why did they call me instead of Oberon to treat him? She's been his doctor since the first reconstructive surgery on that knee. And she seemed very proud of his progress when she talked to me about it. You'd think she'd want to be in on this." He gave Erskine a questioning look.

Erskine shook her head in an I-don't-know gesture. "Hospital gossip says Jean was with the police when they rounded up the drug dealers and rescued Doctor Oberon last night. Don't ask me how. There's absolutely nothing in the news this morning."

Goldberg's face changed as he conceived a new concern. "Was Mitchell injured?" he asked, forgetting professional titles in his anxiety about an old friend. "Is that why she's not here? Did they take her to a different hospital? Mercy Hospital would've been the closest to the Grove – if that's where it all went down."

Erskine and Goldberg exchanged worried looks.

"I need to find her," he said. "I'm going to call her home numbers. If I don't get her, would you call the other hospitals and see if she's been admitted, or maybe treated and released?"

"Yes, Doctor, of course."

"Thanks. I'll make the calls and let you know in a few minutes if I can't reach her." Goldberg reached into his pocket for his cellphone.

Following the evening raid on Kyle Averell's estate, Frank Stone had spent nearly all night at his office, filing reports and completing paper work about the raid, Averell's apparent suicide, and Homeland Security's confiscation of a substantial number of military-grade weapons. Stone arrived home and stumbled into bed beside his sleeping wife just as dawn painted its muted colors across the eastern horizon.

He slept four hours. At around 10:30 a.m. he rose, showered, dressed, and went to the kitchen table where his wife, Mandy, had prepared breakfast for him. She sat across from him while he ate in silence.

"Is he alive?" she said after a few minutes.

He nodded.

"Did anybody ... Did you ... lose ... anyone?"

"Kyle Averell," he said.

"You?" she asked, hoping her husband had not exacted personal vengeance by killing Averell himself.

"Suicide," he said.

She exhaled a breath she had not realized she held. "Poor Carinne. Is she okay?"

Frank scoffed. "Believe me, you don't need to worry about Carinne. She's her father's daughter, no question about it. She's planning on taking over the business, now that he's gone."

"Oh, dear!" Mandy said, one hand splaying across her sternum.

"Yeah, oh dear," Frank imitated her. "Only, those aren't the words I'd use."

Mandy sat back in her chair as if to catch her breath. Slowly, she lowered her splayed hand to her lap. "Well," she said.

"Yeah," he said.

Mandy gathered herself and sat up. "They didn't hurt the lady doctor, did they?"

"Not physically, no," he said. "It wasn't a pleasant experience, I'm sure, but she's strong. She'll bounce back fine."

"So, Duby's back at her house, now."

"Uhm, not exactly," Frank said, not meeting Mandy's eyes.

"You said he's fine!" she accused.

"I said he's alive," Frank clarified. "He got banged up a little. But, you know Dube; can't keep him down." Frank folded his napkin, placed it beside his empty plate, and stood. "I gotta go. Thanks for breakfast."

He was halfway to the door when Mandy demanded, "Which hospital?"

Goldberg left virtually the same message on Mitchell's cellphone voicemail as he did on her home answering machine. "Mitchell, its Ehud Goldberg. I'm treating your patient, Jean Deaux, and I'd really like to consult with you. He's scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning, and we really shouldn't wait any longer than that. If you get this, please call me. You have my cell if I'm not in the hospital. As a friend, I'm concerned for you. Let me hear from you, dear. Thanks. 'Bye."

Within the hour, a middle-aged, round lady, carrying a shopping bag, knocked on the door of Jean's hospital room.

"Come in," he called, and looked up from the paperback book he had been reading.

He didn't know the face that peeked in at the opening door, but he thought it was the sort of face he would expect to see on the wife of Santa Claus. It was not a beautifully featured face, but it radiated kindness, warmth, and sincerity.

"Bonjour," the round lady said, with such joy that he wondered what happy news she had heard just before entering.

"Bonjour, madame," he said, unable to suppress an answering smile, though his was only half as wide.

She stepped through the door and allowed it to swing shut behind her. Her steps seemed both eager and shy as she drew nearer the bed, still smiling with utter delight. "How are you feeling?" she said in French.

He told her, in French, that he was "a little better, thank you."

"May I sit with you for a little while?" she continued in his native tongue, gesturing to a chair nearby.

"Of course," he said, following her example in language. "Forgive me, I cannot help you with the chair." He gestured to his immobilized leg.

She shook her head and waved off his concern. She propped her purse and shopping bag on the floor against the I.V. stand and pulled the chair close beside the bed. There she sat and clasped her hands happily in her lap, and she beamed at him.

"You don't remember me, do you?" she said.

"I am sorry, madame. I remember almost nobody."

"When you were sixteen years old, my husband found you working on a fishing boat, and he brought you home to me. You lived with us until you began your career and found a place of your own. You were a friend to my husband, but you were like a son to me. My only son."

His smile faltered, he closed the book he was still holding and put it aside. He studied her face closely. "You speak of Yves Dubreau."

She nodded.

"I wish I could remember such an important and ... special ... relationship. On behalf of Dubreau, madame, I give you a thousand thanks for being so good to him. You clearly loved him. Thank you."

"I still love you, my son," she said. "You're not dead, you know."

"Non, but I am no longer that man, madame." His voice held the regretful tone of a messenger bringing news of a death in the family.

She dropped her head in a nod of understanding, and when she looked at him again her eyes were wet with unshed tears. Her smile scarcely dimmed at all. "Maybe not," she whispered.

"I am called Jean Deaux. May I know your name, lovely lady?"

"I'm Mandy Stone. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jean."

"Enchanted, Madame Stone." His smile returned to its earlier luster. Then, a thought struck him, and he reverted to English to ask, "Are you connected to Agent Frank Stone?"

"I'm afraid so," she replied, changing languages with him. "He is my husband, though he is not one of my favorite people right now. I blame him for your injuries. You see, from the beginning I begged him not to send you into the Averell situation."

She was silent as if reflecting on the past briefly. When she spoke again, it was French. "What's done is done. 'The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line.' We must move forward, eh?"

"Oui, madame," he said. He leaned over and put his right hand atop the hands she clasped in her lap. "Do not blame your husband, Mandy Stone. I made my own decision to enter that house yesterday because my ... doctor was a prisoner there. I feel certain that Yves Dubreau made his own decision, too. No one could have forced me to do anything against my will, and I know Dubreau was no lesser man than I – and was most probably a greater one."

She used the back of one hand's fingers to dry her eyes, and she sent new warmth at him with her smile. "Merci, Jean. I am sure you are correct. Perhaps I shall forgive my husband, after he suffers a bit longer." She winked, and he laughed.

He relaxed back onto the raised head of his bed, and when his hand fell upon the paperback book, he moved it from the bed to the bedside table.

"What are you reading?" Mandy asked.

He ducked his head and blushed like a schoolboy caught with stolen candy. "I was bored, and Nurse Erskine gave me a book she had in her purse. It is called The Pirate's Flaming Heart."

"Oh, dear me! One of those!"

"Oui, madame. It is indeed 'one of those.'" He grinned at her. "It is ... educational ... in a way."

"No doubt!" Mandy said. She reached for the shopping bag she had set on the floor earlier. "Well, I brought you something for the boredom. I hope you still like to draw?"

She withdrew from the shopping bag a large artist's pad for sketching and a set of colored pencils.

His eyes went wide, his jaw dropped, and he grasped the gifts eagerly when she placed them on his lap. "Merci, Madame Stone! Merci beaucoup!"

"I'm glad you like them," she said. "They'll help you pass the time. How long do you expect to be in the hospital?"

"I do not know," he said, sweeping the palm of his hand gently across the surface of the art pad. "It depends on Michel – Doctor Oberon. She does not come to see me, and I want to wait until she comes. She is my doctor. I want her to fix me. No one else."

"Mmm," said Mandy, sitting back in her chair. "I think you better tell me all about Michel. Everything. Francis has told me next to nothing. Tell me all about your lady doctor."

He looked down at his sketchpad, but his sight was directed into the past. He began describing the day he had drawn a dead chicken on Mitchell Oberon's white lab coat. Without editing, and deleting nothing, he told Mandy Stone everything he could remember.

By the time he concluded his narrative, by describing his unsuccessful recent attempts to reach Mitchell, he was exhausted and limp against his pillows. And, though he did not remember his distant past, he was feeling more alone in the world than he had felt since he had slept on the streets as a runaway boy.

Mandy rose from her chair and stepped to a side table, where she poured a glass of water from an insulated carafe waiting there. She lifted Jean's hand from the bed and placed the water glass into it. He wrapped his fingers around it and lifted the cool water to his lips.

Mandy produced a clean handkerchief from her purse and wiped away the perspiration that had coated Jean's face and neck. When he had sipped some water, she accepted the glass from him and set it on the side table.

Then she returned to her chair, gently took his hand in hers, and sat in silence for a moment.

Although his eyes were closed now, Mandy knew he was not asleep, because his hand grasped hers as if she were a lifeline and he a drowning man.

"You don't remember," she said soothingly, "but Duby was truly just like a son to me. To my heart, he was my only child, and I was – am – devoted to him as only a mother can be. You don't know me yet, but believe me when I tell you that my mother's heart is just as devoted to Jean as it was to Duby. Yes, you are very different from one another, I can see now that that's true. But, you are also very much alike, and everything I loved in him, I still see in you, and even more. Is it okay if I tell you that? Do you think you'll be able to accept me as a friend, and maybe someday even more than a friend?"

He opened his eyes and looked into hers. His eyes were red-rimmed, hers were wet with tears. He swallowed and forced soft words through a throat constricted by emotion. "Do not be my friend, madame, s'il vous plait."

Her chin quivered and her eyes rounded in surprise. But, in the next second, she relaxed when he continued speaking.

"Could you allow me to take Duby's place—and be part of your family?" he rasped. Unshed tears pooled in his eyes, and he blinked them away.

Mandy allowed her tears to roll freely down her chubby cheeks until her wide smile diverted the droplets away from her chin. "As far as I'm concerned, that happened when I walked into this room, dear one."

He gripped her one hand more strongly, and she patted their joined hands with the second of hers.

"Merci, Madame Stone," he said. "Merci beaucoup."

"I prefer to be called Mandy," she said, "but I would like it even more if, someday, you called me Maman."

He smiled. Then, his brow crinkled as he confronted a new thought. "I do not have to call Agent Frank Stone 'Papa,' do I?"

"Definitely not, my sweet. You don't have to speak to Francis at all, if you don't want to. I'll send him away when you and I visit, if you like."

"Merci, ... Maman," he said, and his smile returned.

"D'accord," she said, rising from the chair. "I'm going to get you another drink of water, and then I'm going to give you one piece of good, motherly advice before I go away and let you rest. Then, I will be here tomorrow, before and after your surgery."

~o~  ~o~  ~o~  ~o~  

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Mandy Stone looks small and ordinary, but she will prove to be a force that cannot be ignored.  Will Mandy be able to find and influence that another strong female: Doctor Mitchell Oberon?  Time will tell.

Thank you for reading, voting, and commenting. Your input keeps me going and makes me happy.  

Don't forget to visit https://www.wattpad.com/276950961-the-fiction-awards-2016-nominations-open before July 29 to nominate your favorite stories in every category.  (Just in case you're wondering, DUBY'S DOCTOR is in the Mystery/Thriller category.)

Until next week's update, Happy Reading!

Iris