Hugh told everyone to stand back, delivered the shock and ordered lignocaine as Bonita continued with the massage.
If there was a good cardiac arrest to have, VF was the best one, especially when the arrest was witnessed. The heart was still active, just fibrillating, and the drugs that were delivered combined with defibrillation. It meant that sometimes by the time the cardiac team and the anaesthetist had arrived, the heart was already beating effectively again—only not in Bruce’s case.
On and on they worked. Amber had long since gone, Bonita was kneeling up on the bed now, her shoulder starting to hurt. She tried to comprehend how in just a few moments everything had changed.
‘Let Deb do the massage,’ Hugh ordered, and Bonita waited till Deb was beside her, their hand swiftly changing to allow for continuity. Now it was Bonita pulling up drugs, writing down the details, but with every minute that passed the outlook became more dire.
Bruce was in asystole now—without cardiac massage the line on the monitor was flat. Still they worked on. The anaesthetist had intubated him, every drug had been given, but his colour and oxygen levels were appalling. Bonita watched as Hugh looked at the cardiologist and he shook his head.
‘I’m going to go and speak to his wife.’ Hugh’s voice was measured and calm but there was this gruff edge to it Bonita had never heard before at work. ‘Keep going till I come back.’
There was a side to nursing that Bonita hadn’t really considered till this point.
That, though death was almost a daily occurrence at work, she might have to deal with it when dealing with her own grief.
But other staff had been there before. Deb suggested Bonita take over in the cubicles, which she did, but it was like working on autopilot. She saw Mrs Eames supported by Hugh, walking, pale, scared yet somehow dignified, and it reminded her so much of her mother it was almost more than she could stand.
So, too, the closed curtains as they wheeled Bruce out of Resus and into a side ward. So, too, passing Hugh the pad so he could write the interim death certificate.
Just the horrible finality of it all.
‘Why don’t you go for coffee?’ Bill suggested later, when other relatives were arriving.
‘I’ll be OK.’ Bonita shook her head.
‘Come on.’ Bill gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I’ll take you up to the canteen.’
‘She said she was OK!” Hugh snapped. ‘Instead of another extended break, Bill, could you please get the blood results back from cubicle two, and I want to know why the paeds team still haven’t been down to assess that child.’
‘Mrs Eames wants to have another word, Hugh!’ Deb popped her head into the nurses’ area where Hugh was writing up Bruce’s notes. ‘She needs someone to go over again what happened.’
‘Can’t the cardiologist speak to her?’ Hugh snapped uncharacteristically. The staff were used to his slight arrogance, but never where a patient or relative was concerned.
‘He’s back up on the ward.’
‘Great.’ Hugh whistled through gritted teeth. ‘Deb, can you come with me?’
Whereas Luigi’s death had been expected, Bruce’s had been sudden. A lot of grieving had taken place before Luigi had died, but Bruce’s family had just been plunged into it. And as much as her colleagues took the strain from Bonita, it still hurt.
His pregnant daughter arrived.
The son he had never got on with raced into Emergency, confrontational and upset, demanding from Bonita to know where his father was, what had happened, why he hadn’t been called.
And it was too much.
Just too much, too close and too soon.
She didn’t want Bill and the canteen.
Didn’t want the staffroom and sympathy.
Or to try and cry quietly in the toilets.
So, taking herself off, Bonita made her way to the one place in Emergency that was quiet. She opened the door to the equipment cupboard, not even turning on the light, just heading for the vast chair that the night staff sometimes curled up in.
She jumped when she saw it was occupied.
She felt like an intruder who had crept in unnoticed. Worse than that, she felt like she’d crept in and an intruder had been. Everything she knew, everything safe was dishevelled and in disarray. She was appalled and stunned to see Hugh, her strong, dashing, confident Hugh, leaning forward, his head in his hands. And worst of all, he was crying.
‘Sorry!’ Coughing, sniffing, he wiped his face with the backs of his hands and stood up as if the chair itself had bitten him.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m fine!’ Which was the most ridiculous thing he could have said. ‘Just this bloody flu.’
‘Hugh?’ She caught his arm as he marched off. ‘This isn’t flu.’ She’d never seen him cry, not once had he even seemed close. She wondered if he’d broken up with Amber, if her father’s death, coupled with that of Bruce Eames, had made him suddenly think of his own father. Her mind whirred to find what could devastate him so. ‘You haven’t had flu, have you?’
‘Leave it, Bonny.’
‘Hugh tell me.’ She was scared, scared to see him like this. Remembering all the times he’d comforted her, she wanted to do the same for him.
‘I just miss him—OK?’
And he’d comforted her, comforted them all, been there and done the right thing on so many occasions. And on one occasion he might have done the wrong thing—but at her bidding. Not once had it entered her head that he might need comfort, too. That Hugh had lost something just as precious.
‘I miss your dad.’
‘I know.’
‘I just…’ She’d never seen him flounder, this strong, eloquent man lost for words, and she held his hands as he went to walk out. ‘I just needed some time to get my head around things.’
‘You could have told someone.’
‘I have…’ He raked his hand through his unkempt hair. ‘Amber’s been great—she’s tried to understand.’
‘I meant at work,’ Bonita croaked.
‘What was I supposed to say? That I need compassionate leave because my friend’s dad just died?’
‘He’s more than a friend’s dad to you.’ And she saw it then, the little flashes she’d glimpsed all coming together. She saw how he had been there, had helped, had been a doctor to her dad, had held it together, been the strong one—as if somehow it didn’t hurt him as much as it hurt them. And in that second Bonita knew that it did.
Hurt even more perhaps because he was alone with his grief, because, as Hugh had pointed out, who could possibly understand that for him losing Luigi was harder than losing his own father?
‘I’m trying to help Paul—he’s taking it hard. I’m feeling bad about what went on with you…’
Yes, well!
Funny that half an hour ago she’d have probably slapped him if he’d said that, but his grief was so palpable it made it hard to be angry. She realized the hell he’d been through these past weeks and months.
‘It takes two!’ Bonita pointed out, swallowing down a fizz of anger.
‘I let him down.’
You let us all down, she nearly said, but she was making great leaps in self-control these days, so instead she tightened her grip on the hands she was holding and managed a very good impersonation of a gentle smile. ‘Grief makes you do strange things. I remember on my midwifery rotation being told a lot of babies are born nine months after a good funeral.’
‘You’re not pregnant?’ He asked in a ‘that’s all I need’ tone.
‘No, Hugh.’ Bonita didn’t even try to fake a smile, her hands dropping to her side. ‘That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.’
Yet still it was impossible to hate him—that would mean hating the man who had made her dad comfortable at the very end, hating the man who had supported her family, a man who was utterly bereft now and who, even if she regretted it, had brought her comfort in that long lonely time, too.
‘You’re leaving.’<
br />
‘It’s kind of hard to stay.’
‘I’ve messed everything up.’
‘It’s not just you,’ Bonita admitted. ‘What with Bill and Emily. Then there’s Amber throwing me daggers.’
On cue, Bill barged in.
‘What the hell’s going on? The place is steaming.’
‘I was upset!’ Bonita spoke in place of Hugh. ‘With Mr Eames and everything…’
‘Two minutes,’ Bill warned, grabbing a few IV flasks. ‘There’s been a pile-up on the beach road—ETA 10 minutes.’
‘Can we talk later?’ Hugh’s eyes were urgent as he spoke. ‘About your dad, about things. Come to the apartment later.’
‘No!’ Instantly she shook her head. ‘I don’t want to see Amber.’
‘Amber’s not coming over. Please—I just need to talk.’
‘She knows, doesn’t she?’ Her voice was shaking as she asked the terrifying question, shrivelling inside when he nodded.
‘I had to tell her.’
‘Did you?’
His pager was shrilling in his pocket.
‘That new bar where I live…’ He was heading out the door. ‘Seven o’clock.’
‘You shouldn’t have told her!’ Bonita grabbed his sleeve as he brushed past.
‘I had to!’ Hugh shouted at her for the first time. ‘I had to tell someone!’
‘And now she hates me,’ Bonita sobbed as his pager screamed for his attention.
‘Do you blame her?’ His words were like a slap as he turned to leave, but they were nothing compared to what came next, nothing, because his next line had her recoiling, had her as dizzy and confused as if she’d been punched to the floor. ‘With everything you’ve done!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘YOU look nice.’ Carmel commented as, jangling with nerves and removing one of her silver bracelets so it didn’t rattle quite so much, Bonita walked into the living room where her mother was lying on the couch, reading. ‘Too thin, of course!’
‘You’re more Italian than the Italians!’ Bonita smiled. ‘How’s the book?’
‘Nice,’ Carmel said. ‘Thanks for getting this for me. It’s nice just to curl up and…’ She paused for a moment. ‘Forget.’ Then she grimaced. ‘Not that I forget.’
‘Escape?’ Bonita offered, and her mum nodded.
‘This is way better than those self-help books you bought me—according to them I’m insane.’
‘You?’ Bonita gawked. ‘You’re the most sensible, sane person I know.’
‘Well, according to Einstein, insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘I thought if I cooked something he liked, if this meal was perfect he might get better. Mad cow, aren’t I?’
‘The nicest one I know,’ Bonita said.
‘I’ll stick with romance.’ Carmel winked. ‘Are you coming back tonight?’
‘Of course,’ Bonita said, waiting for the inevitable, for the whos, wheres and whys, only they never came.
‘It’s good that you’re going out.’ Carmel’s words merely added to Bonita’s confusion.
‘I won’t be late,’ Bonita said, because if she told her mother that then she couldn’t be. She wished for the first time that Carmel would be just a little bit nosy, demand that she was home by ten, would insist, in fact.
‘Well, if you can’t get back for some reason, just fire me a text.’
‘I told you, I won’t be late.’ Bonita insisted. ‘Will you be OK?’
‘And I’ve told you, I don’t need a babysitter.’
‘I know that. Still, it’s your first night on your own….’
‘And you need to get out,’ Carmel said. ‘Thank you, though…for being here.’
It felt entirely natural to cuddle her mother before she went out and just bliss when Carmel cuddled her back. Her heart was hammering in her chest, terrified, petrified at what lay ahead, wishing, wanting to stay here, to curl up in her mother’s arms and not head out into the big scary world and put her heart on the line again.
‘I’d rather stay in,’ Bonita admitted, and even if Carmel had no idea why she was scared, she still held her.
‘You know that you can’t. We can’t mope around here grieving for ever—there’s a whole world out there waiting for you. Off you go.’ She peeled her daughter off, gave her a lovely smile and a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll be sitting here when you get home, waiting to hear all about it. Though if you’re late…’
‘I won’t be late!’ Bonita said for the hundredth time.
Because she wouldn’t be.
If insanity meant doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, she was holding onto her mind. A drink, dinner, talk about her dad, talk about them a little bit—but there was nothing Hugh could say tonight that would have her toss her heart back into the ring.
Tonight was about moving on with their lives.
Tonight was goodbye.
So why, Bonita wondered as she teetered up the steps of the swanky new bar near Hugh’s, was she wearing her best bra and knickers?
They’d never actually been out.
Oh, there had been barbeques and horse rides and a couple of work dos and more dinners than she could count, but they’d never actually been out, just them, before.
She’d never walked into a bar and ordered a drink and sat waiting for him.
They’d said seven, but she’d left at six-thirty, her nerves so shot that if she’d stayed home a minute longer, she’d have rung and cancelled.
So now, here she was, sitting at a table and staring out at Port Phillip Bay, catching her reflection in the window and wondering if she was wearing too much make-up, wondering just what it was she was doing there, wearing a skirt and waiting for Hugh.
It could hardly be called a date.
He needed to talk about her father and she needed to find out why he’d told Amber, but there was something big that she needed to say.
Thank you.
For looking after her family and also for looking after her.
For making her say all the things she had needed to say to her dad so that she wasn’t sitting filled with regret now.
And no matter how wrong, or how brief it had been, it had been more than a crush and more than sex, and it had been needed.
And maybe not just by her.
The grief that night had been shared by them both, Bonita could see that now.
And grief made you do strange things—like seek comfort from a source that was off limits, made forbidden arms a friendlier option than sleeping alone.
He was so good looking.
Bonita watched as he walked into the foyer, watched as heads turned as he came to the table, and the waitress, who had taken for ever to attend to Bonita, came straight over.
‘A beer, thanks!’ He smiled at Bonita’s near empty glass. ‘Do you want another?’
‘Just water, please.’ Bonita nodded to the waitress. One gin and tonic she hoped would be enough to give her courage—two and she might just start crying.
‘How’s your mum?’
‘OK…’ Bonita gave a smile so small it was barely there. ‘I’m to send her a text if I decide to stay out!’
‘Told you.’
Placing the menu on the table, finally he looked at her, and she could see the doubt in his eyes, knew he was wondering if it was his place to say that. She moved to put his mind at ease.
‘I always thought he was the soft one and it was Mum giving me the hard time.’
‘She knew what would upset him.’ Hugh smiled. ‘I remember when I first met you—you’d been out riding and were this grubby, muddy thing and I have to say I didn’t really give you a glance. Then a couple of years on, one night you were going out to the movies with friends and your dad didn’t want you to go. Your mum told him it was right that you did. Then you came down the stairs…’ He laughed as he recalled what Bonita couldn’t even remember. ‘Your dad was down at the stable
s and you appeared with all this make-up and a top that was just a bit too tight and your mum was furious at you. She chased you up the stairs and told you to wash it off. If your dad had seen you, you wouldn’t have been allowed to go out.’
‘I gave her such a hard time.’
‘She gave you a hard time, too…’ Hugh smiled ‘…but she was actually making things easier for you.’
‘I can see that now,’ Bonita admitted, only she wasn’t here about her mother. ‘Thank you.’ As naturally as breathing she took his hand. It was right that she should touch him, right he should feel the genuine gratitude her words conveyed. ‘Thank you for making me see things clearly before it was too late.’
‘He loved you so much,’ Hugh said.
‘He loved you, too,’ she said, hating it that Hugh closed his eyes, hating the regret that flitted across his face. The regret that was absent from her life, thanks to this man, because he had made her say the things she so nearly hadn’t.
‘Why do you think you let him down? Because you slept with me?’
Hugh nodded.
‘You have no idea how much I loved your dad. Paul told me he was ill and then your mum rang me,’ Hugh explained. ‘Middle of last year she rang me and said she thought I’d want to know that things really didn’t look good. At first I thought I’d come for a holiday…’ The waitress was back, ready to take their orders, and they glanced at the menu, chose risotto because it was the first thing there, declined bread, and then Bonita agreed, even though she wasn’t particularly keen, on a bottle of wine.
He’d just slotted in, Bonita realized. So many times Hugh had slotted in with their family, only she’d never actually stopped to wonder how they slotted in with him.
‘You were going to come back for a holiday?’ Bonita checked, when he’d tasted the wine and for now they were alone.
‘I was always going to come back.’ Hugh nodded. ‘But hearing how ill your dad was, well, it kind of forced the issue.’
‘Why did you leave?’ For the first time she asked him.
‘It seemed the right time to go.’
‘Because you’d broken up with Amber?’ she asked bravely, frowning when he shook his head. ‘Because of your dad, then?’ Bonita said, taking a sip of wine and then holding it in her mouth when he answered.
English Doctor, Italian Bride Page 13
