My Kind of Christmas (Virgin River #20)(67)

The stitching fascinated her—fast, small loops that he slid under and over the excised scar.

“My aunt Mel suggested you might have to do something to the other side of her face to keep her features proportional....”

“Not on a patient this young with such healthy skin. Perhaps on an older patient with redundant skin, but Megan will be fine with this repair.”

By the time the doctor was finishing, an hour and twenty minutes had passed. Before a bandage could cover it, she dared a closer look at the wound. “Wonderful!” she said under her breath. Megan already looked a world better than she had.

“Flirt,” the doctor said. “Let’s get her to recovery. And, Angie, follow me.”

She wasn’t sure why he wanted her, but she already knew she’d follow him anywhere.

He stripped off the gown, cap and mask and she mimicked. Then he went back to that computer. He indicated a stool beside him and she sat.

“We’ll let her wake up, get a little oriented, then you can go get her mother. Now, what did you think?”

“Denise was right—like magic. Just watching those stitches—how long did it take you to be so fast, so perfect?”

“Years and years of stitching pigskin and other practice fields. All that during residency—med students just float around, studying different medical services—three months here, three months there. But while magic is flattering, did you see what was happening? The separation of the skin from the deep dermis? The lifting of the lid?”

She nodded. It was fabulous.

“I do face lifts, scar repair, reconstruction, a number of things. The most satisfying to me is when I can take a patient from the fear and loneliness of disfigurement to a more normal appearance. Have you ever seen the face of a child who’s had a run-in with a vicious dog?” He shook his head sadly. “To be able to use my skills to help an impoverished child is gratifying. I was glad of the outcome today and hope she is, as well.”

She nodded, mesmerized.

“Dr. Temple tells me you have plans to take a break from med school to do some time in the peace corps,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

It took her a moment to find her voice. “I want to make a difference. Like Dr. Temple does,” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.

“Dr. Temple is able to give time to movable hospital organizations that travel places where locals would otherwise not be able to have the life-saving surgery they require. Near and far—from rural U.S. towns without neurosurgeons or facilities to international sites. There’s a community of doctors who like to balance their practices with some pro bono work.”

“How does someone like me volunteer?” she asked.

“One goes through a rather lengthy application process. Many doctors give a year or two to humanitarian efforts ranging from Doctors Without Borders to UNICEF. Some of us have a week here and there to give and are more inclined to privatized efforts. There is a senator’s wife, an R.N., who puts together three or four projects a year and she recruits a number of specialists. We’ve gone as far as India and Africa with her nonprofit traveling hospital. I like to go to my home country—a poor village south of Mexico City.”

“Do these groups need someone like me?” she asked earnestly.

He looked at her levelly, his black eyes intense but his smile gentle. “These groups need doctors, Angelica,” he said very softly, using the Mexican derivative of her name. “If you want to make a difference…”

“You’ve been talking to my mother,” she said, but she smiled.

“Has your mother been harping on you to go back to school?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Think about that option. Dr. Temple brags about you, about your future and your determination. About your potential. It’s just a suggestion. As a med school dropout you’ll never be allowed to run those sutures. And you’ll never be able to afford to give as much as you want to give.”

She bit her lower lip against saying what she wanted to say—that she wished desperately she could be the one to help, to do the most difficult, taxing job, to fix the scarred face of a child who couldn’t otherwise have the help, that she envied his ability to do such intricate work.

“My great-grandmother used to tat. Make lace,” she said.

His grin broadened. “I know what it is to tat. It’s a very delicate pastime. Did you learn it?”

She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “But I think maybe I will.”

“You’re very young. You have so much time, thank the saints. I didn’t get to medical school until I was twenty-eight—it was an uphill battle.”

“And why did you choose plastic surgery?”

“Because it’s difficult and beautiful. I love the challenge and the outcome. It called to me.” He turned to the computer and logged on. “If I can help with your decision in any way, please call me. For now, go see if Megan is alert. When she is, you can find her mother. One night with the nurse in the hotel, a checkup in the morning to make sure she’s stable, then you can take her home with some postsurgical instructions.”

Even though he seemed distracted by his typing, she said, “Thank you, Dr. Hernandez. You’ve done so much today, for Megan and for me.”

He turned and gave her his attention again. “Keep in touch.”