Remnants of the Heart (Winds of Change Book 3)

by Kristen M. Fraser

  Hannah checked her phone and followed the directions in the email from Human Resources to the allied health rooms. Hearing the low murmur of voices, she knocked on the open door and announced her presence.

  A slim built gent with receding brown hair and wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of a narrow nose stood and strode over to her.

  “Hannah Macrae? I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Miles Bartram.” Hannah shook his extended hand and smiled, immediately feeling at ease with the older man. He reminded her of an old professor with his bow tie and plaid jacket paired with taupe coloured pants. “This is Stacey Terrell, my assistant.”

  Hannah smiled at the younger woman with her dark hair pulled back in a slick bun. Her brown eyes, wide saucers behind her glasses, held warmth and kindness.

  “We share this room with some of the other allied health members, the dietician and the speech therapists. The physiotherapists are lucky enough to have their own space down near the hospital gymnasium. Because we’re consultants, the hospital sees fit to allocate a small amount of office space to us, so I apologise it’s not a larger area. At least we have a nice view from here.”

  Hannah peered out the window overlooking the spacious lawns at the front of the hospital and glimpsed the shimmer of water through the trees. She murmured her appreciation. It was a much better view than the one from the small office where she’d previously worked. That view had been of a concrete wall painted in various shades of green to brighten it up.

  “Can I get you a tea? Coffee? Water?” Stacey asked as she gathered some books from the table and stood.

  “No, thanks,” Hannah replied. Coffee would make her jittery, and her nerves were already humming as it was.

  “Right, then,” Miles said. “I’ll take you for a walk around the hospital, and then we’ll come back here and go through rosters and the like.” He asked Stacey to follow up on some phone calls before leading the way out the door.

  “You come highly recommended, Hannah.” He peered down at her as they strode along the corridor.

  Heat flooded her cheeks at his compliment. “Thank you.”

  “You worked in the hospital in Brisbane.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I ran some sessions for patients, and I also performed individual consultations as needed.”

  Pushing through some double doors leading to another corridor, Miles held them open for Hannah to walk through. “We’re starting a new program to incorporate grief and bereavement sessions, which I mentioned during the interview.”

  Hannah nodded. Helping people navigate the often divergent waters of grief was something she was excited about. It was something she was still learning for herself, but she felt she could relate to and help people through similar situations. It was a sensitive area, and one she’d been privileged to assist in coordinating back in Brisbane for a short time before the practice introduced hypnotherapy and other alternate therapies that didn’t align with her values. They also began focusing on couples therapy, and although still important, she wasn’t comfortable in offering advice she didn’t feel qualified for. Besides, seeing couples in need of therapy made her want to yell at them to go home and love each other hard.

  “Some sessions will run through the day, while others will be in the evening.”

  “Right.” She nodded, trying to keep up with all the information.

  “We’ve delivered flyers around the place to let people know of our service. It’s free, of course. And we can sort out details later, but I’ve pencilled you in for Thursday evenings if that works for you?”

  Hannah shrugged. “Of course.” She had no other plans at this stage. Her life was one big blank book. A change from only a few years ago, when it was full of date nights and church involvement, and regular family nights with her parents and brother. Those memories reminded her of the gaping hole that had been left behind. The one she desperately wanted to fill by moving away and making a fresh start.

  Miles showed her the staff cafeteria, the pharmacy, and the lifts to the main wards, before taking her to the emergency department. Alarms buzzed and machines pinged as they made their way through the busy department bustling with nurses and doctors. Miles introduced her to other staff members, but by the time he showed her where the consulting room was, she’d already forgotten their names.

  A nurse with bleached blonde hair glanced up from the computer and smiled as she walked by, allaying Hannah’s concerns that she would drown in such a busy environment. At least there was another friendly face in the sea of strangers.

  “Oftentimes we’ll get emergency consults down here. Obviously, with you only working one day a week, most of the requests will be sent to me, but if you’d like to be on call as another contact, I’ll give them your details. But, that’s something we can discuss later.”

  By the time they finished the hospital tour, Hannah’s head was spinning with all the information. They spent the remainder of the day going over paperwork, policies and procedures, and discussing the grief counselling sessions she would run.

  By the time she arrived home, she was exhausted from information overload. The butterflies had eased, and she felt somewhat more confident in the roles expected of her. It might be a completely different story when faced with the reality of running her first session, but she would cross that bridge when it came. She was looking forward to the challenge and working alongside people to help them heal.

  Chapter 8

  Midweek, Brad revisited the business books. He was glad Mitchell and Justin were only casual employees so he didn’t have to pay them anything beyond their hourly rate of pay. They were young and would be able to pick up any labouring job if they were short of cash. Still, the thought of not being able to provide work for them didn’t sit well.

  He’d received a letter from the bank informing him of legal action if he couldn’t make payments on the business loan. He’d already spoken to someone about extending the due date, and no matter how hard he tried – cold-calling, contacting old clients, paying for ads - jobs were barely trickling in. Nothing consistent, and there wasn’t enough to close the widening gap between income and expenses.

  He was a failure. It was there in black and white and the numerous letters with red stamps marked overdue. How had things gotten so bad? How could he have been so stupid to end up in this place, verging on bankruptcy?

  Armed with a six-pack of beer and a pepperoni pizza, Brad settled onto the couch with a marathon of action movies ready to stream for the night. It was slothful, but he didn’t care. He needed to block everything from his mind, and what better way to do that than mindless movie viewing and the mind-numbing effects of alcohol. It was his way of coping. Escapism.

  He’d done it after his father’s funeral when he ran away because he couldn’t deal with the intense pain eating him up. He’d run until his lungs hurt and the tears were nothing but hardened streaks on his face. But tonight, he had nowhere to run; he only wanted to numb his pain. Numb the loss of his father that still clawed at his heart. Numb the pain of failure. Numb the disappointment of his life.

  Pounding sounded at the front door.

  “Stop,” Brad groaned, pulling the pillow over his head to block out the noise that sounded like a woodpecker had taken up residence in his head. He breathed a sigh of relief when the knocking ceased. Then, his phone started ringing. A shrill, sharp noise slicing through the fog in his brain.

  “Seriously!” He tossed the pillow aside, groaning as he sat up. Nausea churned in his gut as the room spun around him like he was on the crazy tea-cup ride at the fair. With eyes closed, he grabbed the phone and swiped at the screen to silence the ear-piercing noise.

  “Hello,” he growled. His voice sounded like his mouth was full of rocks.

  “Where are you?”

  Sophie. Of course, it would be her. No one else called him these days. Except for his mother, but that was usually on Sunday nights. “On the moon.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny. Come and open the door.” />
  “Go home, Sophie. I’m trying to sleep.” He ended the call and tossed the phone aside, pulling the pillow back over his head. He’d been lolling around for most of the day and had no idea what time it was.

  The pounding at the front door started again, and then Sophie’s muffled voice came through the wood. “I’m not leaving until you open the door. Even if the neighbours call the police.”

  Brad groaned. He knew Mrs Elliott would do it, too. The retiree next door was the neighbourhood watchdog, always having her nose in everyone’s business. If Sophie continued knocking, Mrs Elliott would call for noise disturbance or a welfare check.

  Hauling himself out of bed, he pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, gripping the dresser to stop the room from spinning. He stumbled down the hallway, bouncing off the walls like a steel ball in a pinball machine.

  “What?” he demanded as he flung the door open.

  “Nice to see you, too, big brother.” Sophie took one step inside and stopped.

  “What on earth happened here?” She ran her gaze over him before slowly inching her way into the living room.

  “What?” Brad rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

  “Did someone break in?” Sophie turned to face him, her eyes wide in alarm.

  “No.” He shoved past her into the kitchen and pulled a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator, tipping it up to his mouth and taking a swig. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he offered the carton to her, only to be met with a fierce shake of her head.

  Sophie slid onto a barstool at the bench and shoved aside the pile of junk mail and other bits and pieces with her elbow. “What happened in here, Brad?”

  Leaning against the sink, he took another sip of juice. The sweet, citrusy taste was the perfect antidote for the vile taste in his mouth. “I haven’t had a chance to clean up.” It was a half-truth. One that he knew wouldn’t get past his sister.

  “Don’t give me that. It takes more than missing a cleaning day to make this mess.” Sophie waved a hand around, and he didn’t miss the disgust mixed with concern flash across her face.

  His eyes skimmed over the kitchen and dining area where every surface was covered in papers, unwashed dishes and glasses with remnants of who-knew-what in the bottom. The living room was no better. Empty beer bottles lay strewn in front of the sofa where he’d spent most of the night. Pizza boxes formed a replica Leaning Tower of Pisa on the coffee table.

  “Brad.” Sophie’s pained voice snagged his attention. “As your sister, who loves you very much, I’m going to ask again. What’s going on?” Her brown eyes pleaded with him to let her in.

  He shrugged, and swigged some more juice, the pulp filling his mouth before he swallowed.

  “As a nurse, my assessment would be that this is verging on a mental health issue, and I’m not sure if we need to take you to the hospital for some serious help. You can’t live like this.”

  “It’s nothing.” He’d eventually get around to cleaning everything up. Besides, no one else lived here, so why did it matter?

  “Don’t give me that. You’ve always been one who takes pride in your appearance. Your house. Your work. This,” she waved a hand around at the filth, “isn’t you.”

  Brad’s throat thickened. He tossed the empty juice carton into the sink, folded his arms and heaved a sigh. “The bank’s threatening legal action if I can’t pay my loans. I have a truckload of outstanding invoices to pay. I can’t provide work for my two casual guys. And no one wants my services.”

  “Brad …” The empathy in her voice gutted him, and he swallowed down the anger rising in his chest at his situation.

  Running a hand through his dishevelled hair, he eyed his sister. A pillar of calm and strength. “I don’t know what to do, Soph. Dad would, but he’s not here.” If only he were, then he’d be able to help him navigate these troubled waters. Without him, Brad was lost. Helpless. Adrift in the ebb and flow of grief.

  “Call Damien. He might be able to offer you some advice. He is a businessman after all.”

  Brad shook his head. He wasn’t going to call his stepfather. Word would get back to his mother that he wasn’t coping, and he didn’t want her to worry about him. She had enough to deal with in running the new B&B. At least someone was having luck. No. He didn’t want his mother to know about his troubles.

  “So, let me help.” Sophie stood and walked to the cupboard. Pulling a black plastic bag off the roll, she returned to the bench and started sorting through the piles of paper. “Oh, look.” She pointed to an image in the supermarket catalogue. “You can buy a zimmer-frame with your bread and milk. Just what we all need.” She laughed, and Brad couldn’t help but chuckle at her attempt to cheer him up.

  “In a few years, maybe.” He wiped away the moisture from his eyes at his sister’s nonjudgemental attitude and began sorting through the pile, allocating some papers to keep, while tossing the rest into the trash. Sophie chattered while they cleaned. Brad’s head throbbed, but he was glad she was there. He needed the company, and Sophie had always been his wingwoman, so to speak. Besides, he needed someone to pull him into line. Someone other than his older sister or mother.

  Sophie tied a knot in the bag before grabbing another one off the roll. “Go and have a shower and shave that scruff off your face,” she demanded, pointing at the three-day growth covering his face.

  “What’s wrong with this?” Brad asked, running a hand over his jaw. He hadn’t been smooth-shaven in years. His girlfriends had never complained. Laura hadn’t. Not that he cared what she thought now. She’d only been someone to pass time with.

  “It’s hideous, that’s what.”

  “And you’re the expert now?” He arched an eyebrow.

  Sophie turned and shoved him up the hall. “Go. Get rid of that scruff. And make sure you shower well. You stink like stale beer and pizza.”

  Brad gave a mock salute before traipsing to the bathroom. Standing under the needles of hot water, the shower was just the thing he needed. Every muscle ached as though he’d been pummelled in a boxing ring. He scrubbed his face and trimmed the beginnings of his beard, refusing to shave it completely off.

  Once dry and dressed, he ran a towel over his hair as he walked down the hall. The sounds of Sophie’s alternate music played from the bluetooth speaker on the kitchen bench. He paused and looked around. The house was spotless. In less than half an hour, she had somehow managed to bag up all the rubbish and tidy up to the point where the rooms were almost sparkling.

  “How’d you do it?”

  “I’m efficient.” She squirted some Spray ‘n Wipe over the bench and ran a cloth after it. “And, thank you?”

  “Thanks. And I’m sorry.” He sighed, tossing the towel over the back of a dining chair before straddling it.

  “You know you can talk to me, right? I’m not some annoying girlfriend always whining to get her way.” Sophie pulled out a chair and mimicked his position. Brad chuckled at her reference to his ex. “We’re all worried about you. Mum, Damien, Abby. It’s been over three years, Brad. And your ability to deal with everything is getting worse. Let me help. Come with me this evening and ….”

  “Whoa, what?” Brad narrowed his gaze. “Come where?” Was this whole thing a ploy to get him out of the house? Was Sophie just pretending she cared?

  Draping her hands over the back of the chair, she held his gaze. Her face was stern and he felt a tremor of fear run through him. His sister was a force to be reckoned with. She mumbled something under her breath. All he heard were the words talk and hospital.

  He shook his head. “Nope. No. I’m not seeing a shrink.”

  “It’s not specifically a shrink.” Sophie darted a glance at her nails. Always short and clean for her job. Unlike his, which were always stained with dirt.

  “Then what?” Frustration simmered through his veins, and he curled his toes against the cool tiles to calm his ire. He admired Sophie. They shared a connection for being the wilder ones in
the family. Abigail was the goody-two-shoes. Always had been. Whereas he had never stayed on the straight and narrow path that his parents had guided him along. Typical P.K. Preacher’s kid. Rebellious from the get-go.

  “Remember that time the police turned up to that party we were at? Mum was adamant you were mixed up with the bad kids there, and she almost grounded you. I told her you were nowhere near them.”

  Brad nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for looking out for me. That was a pretty crazy night.”

  Sophie reached across the gap between the chairs and clasped his hands. Her dainty fingers were dwarfed by his worker’s hands, but he knew they held a lot of strength. She’d saved a lot of lives with those hands. Was that what she was trying to do now? Save his life?

  “I’m looking out for you now, Brad.”

  He grunted, averting his gaze from the kindness in hers. She squeezed his hands so tight his knuckles almost turned white.

  “Ouch!” His gaze darted to hers. “What did you do that for?”

  “For once in your life, would you listen to me? Stop being so pig-headed! I love you, Brad, and I’m worried about you. We all are.”

  “Have you told Mum that I’m living in a slum?” Great. Now he’d have his mother stressing. He just needed a little more time to sort things out, and then he’d be fine.

  Sophie heaved a sigh and shook her head. “No. I haven’t told her anything, other than you’ve been a bit quiet lately. For the past three years, actually.”