Sheikh Surgeon

by Meredith Webber

  But Patrick stepped away, straightening his shoulders, and though Kal could see the tremors in his son’s limbs and the dryness of the lips Patrick licked and licked again, he didn’t touch him—just waited—and watched the realisation dawning across the teenager’s face.

  ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’

  Patrick stared at him, as if transfixed, but try as he might, searching desperately through his muddled mind, Kal could find no words to say, his throat closed tight with emotion, his mind focussed on this tall, gangly youth with eyes the colour of good brandy.

  The boy recovered first.

  ‘Does Mum know you’re here? Is this OK? Did she ask you to come? Send you? Is it OK to be talking to you? I don’t know the rules about this kind of stuff.’

  He rubbed his hands on the sides of his shorts, as if embarrassment had made them sweat, then he grinned at Kal, though his eyes were filmed with tears and there was a suspicious tremble on his pale lips.

  ‘Sorry, but Mum’s never got up to what to do when I meet my dad, not in any of the talks she’s given me. But I know some Arabic.’

  He put his hands together in front of him and greeted his father with the traditional words his tutor had taught him.

  ‘Salaam alaikum.’

  Peace be with you.

  Kal tried to speak but couldn’t. His chest was bound tight with emotion, his voice lost somewhere in the tidal wave of love that had swept over him when this Australian boy had greeted him in his own tongue.

  He shook his head and stepped closer to his son, putting his arms around the boy, hugging him tightly and holding him, feeling the trembling tension in the too-thin frame, feeling it slowly abate and the boy’s body slump against his.

  His own emotion broke like a wave on a rocky shore, flooding in then sweeping back, leaving him drained and depleted.

  Then Patrick broke away and looked at him.

  ‘You are him, aren’t you?’ Then he frowned. ‘Look, I know it’s rude, but should you show me something saying who you are? You see, I should ask you in—will ask you in—but stranger danger and all that stuff…’

  Overwhelmingly proud of this boy-man, Kal pulled his passport out of his pocket and handed it to Patrick.

  ‘You’re right to be cautious,’ he finally managed to say, while in another part of his mind gratitude to Nell for raising Patrick so well momentarily blotted out the anger he felt towards her for depriving him of so much.

  Patrick looked at the photo in the passport, then at the man who stood before him. Kal felt his scrutiny and grew anxious that further inspection might stop the boy from liking him. But all Patrick did was rub his finger gently over the photo a few times, then he looked up at Kal and said, ‘This is so weird, meeting like this. I didn’t think we ever would meet, you see. Not after Mum explained about your other wife and everything. I’ve never blamed you. I understood. Maybe, when I was a kid and went to things like soccer and a lot of the other boys had dads there and I only had Mum and Gramps, I’d think about it, but Mum told me about your promise and I understood that things were different where you lived and promises and honour and all that stuff were really important to you.’

  Kal turned away so the boy wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes. Was it going to be like this all the time? Would everything the boy said overwhelm him with emotion?

  And what of Nell? Could he continue to be angry with a woman who had produced a teenager with so much guts and understanding?

  By God, he could!

  ‘So if you want to come in?’

  He’d missed the first part of the invitation but, still holding the passport, Patrick was now walking up the front steps.

  Seeing the passport reminded Kal of why he was here. Enough of this sentimentalism—it was time to be practical.

  ‘Do you have a passport?’ he asked, and Patrick, who’d reached the veranda, turned to smile at him.

  ‘Of course. I got one a couple of years ago when I went to New Zealand with the soccer team. Before I got sick.’

  He stopped suddenly and frowned.

  ‘I suppose you have talked to Mum, and that’s why you’re here.’ His frown deepened and for the first time Kal saw a resemblance to Nell—perhaps because just about all she’d done recently had been to frown at him! ‘I talked to her after she phoned the hospital last night and she didn’t say anything about you coming, but she’d probably have been upset about Gramps.’

  Kal shook his head. Love, wonder, anger, love—far too many emotions for one man to handle, but the boy was waiting for an answer.

  ‘I explained to your grandmother when I spoke to her. It seemed a good idea, with your grandfather recovering from the operation and your grandmother being busy for a while looking after him, for you to come and visit me. After all, your mother’s over there. So what do you think?’

  Patrick stared at him, delight warring with doubt in his open face.

  ‘I don’t know about leaving Gran,’ he said, putting the doubt into words first.

  ‘Your grandmother thought it was an excellent idea, but you shouldn’t take my word for it. I can take you up to the hospital to see them both and you can ask them what they think.’

  The doubt gave way to tentative excitement.

  ‘Would I be able to see your falcons?’ Patrick asked, then, before Kal could answer this totally unexpected question, he darted away, returning seconds later with a book he pressed into Kal’s hands.

  ‘It’s my favourite book—well, almost favourite. I’ve got so many it’s hard to choose but I read this one again and again.’

  Kal looked at it, his fingers tracing the title—The History of the Sport of Falconry—unconsciously echoing his son’s movement on the passport.

  ‘Did your mother give you this?’ It took a while but he finally managed to force the words out through his tightened vocal cords.

  ‘Of course. She said it was your favourite sport—better even than soccer—so I thought I should learn about it, just in case…’

  ‘You ever met me?’

  Tears filmed the boy’s eyes again, and Kal saw his son’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, but he couldn’t speak either, so once again he hugged his son, the book squashed between their bodies.

  This time he broke away.

  ‘Go and pack—the weather’s warm. Will you need schoolbooks? Do you have any important exams coming up?’

  Patrick seemed to welcome the shift in conversation, and grinned.

  ‘Schoolbooks? No way! I’ve missed so much school, this year is a catch-up year and I’m repeating a lot of work I’ve already done. Mum says if I find any of it a struggle, she’ll get a tutor, but I’ve just done a chemistry test and I think I did OK.’

  He disappeared into the back part of the house, returning seconds later.

  ‘I’m sorry—would you like a cup of tea or something to eat?’

  Kal had to smile. Mrs Roberts had always welcomed him to this house like that.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he told Patrick, and as the boy turned away again Kal looked around, feeling unaccountably at home in this house he hadn’t visited for fourteen years.

  Patrick returned within minutes, a huge canvas bag slung across his shoulders.

  ‘I hope this isn’t too much?’ he said, the anxiety in his voice betraying his youth and a desire to please.

  ‘Not at all,’ Kal assured him. ‘You’ve got your toothbrush?’

  ‘Actually no.’

  The bag dropped to the floor, making a dull thud that suggested much of the contents were books, and Patrick disappeared once more, reappearing with a sheepish expression and a tartan toiletries bag.

  ‘Haven’t got my tablets either.’

  He headed for the kitchen and pulled a plastic container down from a high shelf. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned to Kal.

  ‘I know you’re a doctor—do you know about the leukaemia? Know I have to have blood tests all the time?’

  The questio
n was so matter-of-factly asked that Kal choked with emotion again.

  ‘We’ll do the tests,’ he managed to assure his son, then the two of them left the house, Patrick running back inside to leave a note for Mary, then locking the front door and bounding down the steps with barely a backward glance.

  Chapter 5

  ‘He’s doing what?’ Nell yelled into the phone, unable to believe what her mother was telling her.

  ‘I thought you knew. He said he’d talked to you about it—about it being a good opportunity to meet Patrick and get to know him while you were over there—and to be honest, Nell, I thought it would be for the best. It’s far better for Patrick not to be around while your dad convalesces.’

  That made sense, but the effrontery of the man, to go flying off to Australia without so much as a by your leave and pick up her son and fly back here with him.

  The hide of him!

  ‘Nell?’

  Her mother’s anxiety travelled over the thousands of kilometres between them and, hearing it, Nell hastened to reassure her that, of course, she’d done the right thing in letting Patrick go with Kal and, of course, it would be better for Patrick, and probably much easier on everyone to have him out of the house.

  But where did that leave her? She all but whimpered as she put down the phone, then anger swamped the panic. That manipulative man! Taking off like that, kidnapping her son and presenting the whole deal as a fait accompli.

  And he’d lied to her—telling her he had to return to the surgical ward and his surgery duties, and flying off to Australia instead.

  Consumed by rage, Nell paced the apartment and though she told herself it would be good to see Patrick, an uneasy fear overlay even that small glimmer of pleasure.

  Fear?

  She stopped pacing, wanting to explore this new emotion further, but the phone interrupted her.

  ‘Mum! It’s Patrick. I’m ringing from Kal’s jet. Just like you phoned me from the plane on your flight. Kal said to tell you we’re due to land at about ten in the morning your time, and he’ll bring me straight to the apartment at the hospital. Isn’t this exciting?’

  As exciting as walking on broken glass with bare feet or swallowing fire! Nell thought, but the joy in Patrick’s voice stopped her saying anything negative. He’d been through so much and had had precious little to be excited about lately. What she had to say would be said to Kal. It would keep!

  ‘It will be lovely to see you,’ she said lamely, then added a goodbye and hung up. No need now to think about where the fear had come from—it had found a focus. ‘Kal’s jet’, ‘Kal said’—oh, yes, the fear was that this man would steal her son. Not only physically, as he’d done already, but emotionally—and then where would she be?

  Fuming with frustration that she couldn’t immediately tackle Kal about his duplicity, she took another turn around the room, then realised just how clever he had been. She couldn’t tackle him in front of Patrick, or do or say anything to make Patrick think what Kal had done was wrong. No, right from the start, she’d been determined that Patrick should grow up thinking his father was an honourable man—bound by his promises and beliefs.

  How could she betray that conviction now?

  Back and forth she marched, her mind in turmoil, though now one small ray of light shone tentatively in the darkness. Patrick’s presence would prevent Kal seducing her with his touch and kisses—there’d be no more passionate love-making in either of their beds.

  Contrarily, this thought didn’t bring the solace it should have, so she went back to being angry with the man’s behaviour as far as Patrick was concerned.

  She was at the furthest point from the phone when it rang again. Thinking this time it might be Kal himself—with an explanation or even an apology—she shot across the room and grabbed it.

  ‘It’s the burns unit, Dr Warren. Could you come?’

  Nell didn’t hesitate. Whoever had rung might not have had enough knowledge of English to explain why Nell was needed, but she knew she wouldn’t have been disturbed as she glanced at her watch one in the morning if it wasn’t an emergency.

  She met Yasmeen, who had also been summoned, in the corridor outside the ward.

  ‘It’s your man—the one we can’t identify,’ Yasmeen said to her. ‘BP dropping, oxygen sats in his blood right down—he’s dying, Nell.’

  ‘He can’t die!’ Nell stormed, pleased to have an outlet for her anger. ‘Not now.’

  Yasmeen said nothing, and Nell understood. These people accepted death with far more composure than she could. As far as they were concerned, death was simply an extension of life and the timing of it was the will of God.

  The man was comatose but, then, he’d never been more than semi-conscious at any time since he’d been in hospital. Or as far as they knew, he hadn’t. Unable to speak because of the tracheostomy, they had encouraged him to respond with movements of his hands or eyelids, or by writing on a pad they had tied to his bed, but no matter what language they used to speak to him, there’d been no sign that he heard or understood.

  ‘He has to have some underlying illness!’ Nell said. ‘We’ve been testing his blood but only to see what’s happening inside him, not for any signs of disease. He’s got oxygen flowing into his lungs through the tracheostomy tube, his red blood cell count has been OK—not marvellous but not terrible—so why aren’t those cells picking up oxygen? Is it a disease that destroys their carrying capacity? Is that what we’re missing?’

  She was thinking out loud and didn’t expect Yasmeen to answer, but the other woman was staring at her as if she’d asked a million-dollar question. Silence for a moment, then Yasmeen smiled—the kind of smile that went with a million-dollar answer.

  ‘Maybe all along he had heart problems. Maybe he has some kind of transposition of the arteries—only not a total transposition but the pulmonary veins aren’t feeding their oxygen-rich blood back into the heart for some reason…’

  ‘Not arteries but valve problems—a leaky valve.’ Nell felt as if a bright light had been turned on. ‘The oxygenated blood is slipping back and being recirculated through the lungs.’ She thought about the function of the heart for a moment, then shook her head.

  ‘No, that wouldn’t work. But it could be some kind of hole between the ventricular septums. Maybe he had weakness there that has worsened with age. Didn’t you, or Kal, or someone, tell me that the ex-pats’ hospital was getting a wonderful reputation for its success with heart patients and people were flying in from all over the world to be treated? Heart disease and cardiac surgery—two things for which the hospitals here are famous!’

  Yasmeen nodded, then walked across to the desk and lifted the phone. She turned towards Nell, obviously thinking, then put down the receiver without dialling.

  ‘There won’t be anyone there at this time of night who can help us, but we should phone first thing in the morning and ask if they were expecting a patient for a heart operation. In the meantime, what do we do?’

  ‘Get hold of a heart specialist. Do you have one here or do your heart patients go to the other hospital?’

  ‘We’ve got consultants who work here, but…’

  Yasmeen hesitated.

  ‘You don’t like calling them out at night? Too bad,’ Nell said. ‘You can blame the crazy Australian doctor. Let’s get someone here to take a look at our man. In the meantime, I’m going to increase the oxygen flow. Some oxygen is getting into his blood. Maybe with a higher concentration, enough will get through to keep him going until we find out what’s wrong.’

  Yasmeen went back to the phone, and Nell returned to her patient’s bedside. She didn’t know why this man had become so important to her, but she had no intention of giving up on him now, or letting him give up either.

  She adjusted the flow meter, checked his IV lines, speaking firmly to him about hanging on all the time, telling him he owed it to his family, although she didn’t know if he had one. Certainly no one had come forth to claim him, altho
ugh by now details of this so-called mystery man had probably been printed in newspapers all around the world.

  But if Yasmeen thought calling in a consultant in the early hours of the morning had been a bad idea, the consultant himself thought it an even worse idea, though he apparently—he communicated only with Yasmeen—considered their tentative diagnosis a possibility and agreed to do an exploratory cardiac catheterisation in the morning.

  Glaring at Nell, he said something more toYasmeen then departed, leaving Yasmeen to explain the situation to Nell.

  ‘Bother the man!’ Nell muttered. ‘He was here—already awake—so why couldn’t he do it now?’

  ‘He needs equipment and staff,’ Yasmeen said lamely, and it was Nell’s turn to glare.

  ‘You’re telling me someone else might be using the equipment now? And what staff? A radiographer to follow the progress of the tube up into the heart? Surely there’s a radiographer on duty.’

  She was about to say more, but noticed Yasmeen’s look of distress and realised she was taking out her own bad temper on the woman who’d been nothing but helpful since they’d first met. She put her arm around Yasmeen’s shoulders and gave her a hug.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. And now that we’ve at least got something organised to happen, why don’t you go back to bed? I’m happy to stay here with him. In fact, there are a few things I want to check on some other patients, so I might as well be here.’

  Yasmeen argued but in the end she relented, but it was only after she’d gone that Nell wondered whether she lived in the hospital apartments or had to travel some distance to her home.

  In fact, she knew nothing whatsoever about Yasmeen, except that she was an excellent doctor and her English had an American accent. Was it that the accident and doing the best she could for so many patients had made Nell incurious, or was it because Kal occupied all the spare edges of her mind so there were no brain cells left for normal musings about a colleague’s life?