by Amy Andrews
Trish fell silent and Tess heard a long, deep sigh.
‘I don’t blame you, Tess…for what happened to Ryan.’ Trish’s voice was husky with sincerity. ‘No one has ever blamed you. Not Mum. Not me or Doug. And certainly not Fletch.’
‘I know.’
And she did know. But what Trish and Jean and Fletch didn’t realise was that no matter what they thought, no matter how much time passed, she would always blame herself.
‘I would very much appreciate it if you could watch Christopher for me, Tess. It would be a big help.’
Tess felt a thunk in her chest and had the insane urge to take the offer back. But it was out there now and Trish’s voice was suddenly unburdened of the worry and disappointment that had been present at the beginning of the conversation.
And it meant something that Trish had faith in her.
‘What time’s the appointment?’ she asked.
‘In an hour. Do you mind me asking if you and Mum could come here? He’s asleep now and I’m pretty sure he’s going to be out to it for the afternoon—I’d rather not disturb him. Tell you what, why don’t I take Mum with us to the scan? That way it’ll be just you and Christopher and Mum will get to see her grandchild. Not that she’ll remember.’ The husky note had crept back into Trish’s voice.
‘I’m so sorry, Trish. It’s hard to watch, isn’t it?’
‘The worst,’ Trish agreed. ‘She was such a great grandmother, wasn’t she? It’s awful that my kids are never going to know that. They’ll only know the shell she’s going to become.’
Tess thought back to how wonderful the older woman had been with Ryan. How the two of them had been practically inseparable. How he’d hung on her every word and Jean had declared him the most loveable child on the planet.
No bias, of course.
‘But you’ll keep the real her alive for them, Trish. You and Fletch. You’ll tell them all about the wonderful, smart, kind, funny person she was and how very, very much she loves them. That person’s always going to live inside you.’
‘I know,’ Trish murmured. ‘Sorry. It just gets to me on some days more than others. I blame the hormones.’
Trish laughed and Tess joined in. It wasn’t very jolly laughter but it broke the maudlin conversation.
‘We’ll be half an hour,’ Tess said.
‘Perfect.’
Tess hung up the phone and looked at Jean and the small pile of white sugar flowers on the bench top. ‘Let’s go and visit Trish,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Jean said, her eyes sparkling. ‘Yes, please.’
* * *
Tess was nervous as she and Jean walked up the stairs of Trish and Doug’s massive, beautifully renovated Old Queenslander. Not even the warm welcome of the big, wide wraparound verandas helped to quell the low-level nausea that had afflicted her ever since she’d bundled Jean into the car.
But they were here now and then Trish was opening the front door and ushering them inside. She followed them down the hallway past rooms that Tess assumed to be bedrooms running off either side and into a large lounge with soaring ceilings. A dining room and kitchen spilled off the edges in a very open-plan arrangement.
‘Wow. This is beautiful,’ Tess commented as the warm honey of the polished floorboards and the rich tapestry of Middle-Eastern rugs attracted her attention.
Trish smiled. ‘Thanks. It’s been a labour of love.’
Tess remembered the cottage that she and Fletch had been renovating together and understood the pride and accomplishment on Trish’s face.
‘So, Christopher is asleep on the lounge. I’ve just given him something for the fever.’ Trish half turned and indicated the little sleeping figure on the lounge chair behind her.
Tess looked over but kept her distance. Christopher was wearing just a nappy and lying on a sheet that had been tucked into the lounge cushions. A ceiling fan directly overhead blew a cool breeze downwards, ruffling white-blond hair with two little cowlicks.
Trish padded towards her son and gently stroked his forehead. She grimaced at the fine red rash sprinkling his torso. ‘The doctor assures me the rash is a post-viral thing.’
Tess nodded absently. He looked so still. An image of Ryan in PICU popped into her head—so still and pale—and for a second Tess wasn’t sure she could do it.
Then Trish turned to her and smiled. ‘Thanks so much for doing this, Tess.’ Her hand stroked her belly. ‘It means so much to Doug and me.’
Tess smiled and assured her it was fine.
She handed Tess a piece of paper. ‘Mobile numbers. Mine and Doug’s. Just, you know…if you need to know where the pickles are or something.’ She smiled at Tess then crossed into the kitchen. ‘He can have a drink of water and a cup of milk if he wakes up and if he’s hungry I’ve made up a couple of different things to tempt him in the fridge too—he’s been off his food.’
Trish opened the fridge and indicated the stacked tower of plastic containers that looked like they could feed a small nation.
‘Thanks. I’ll try him if he wakes.’
Doug, who had entered the kitchen, rolled his eyes at Tess. ‘Is she showing you the food she prepared for the masses?’
The knot of nervous tension eased slightly at Doug’s teasing and Tess even laughed.
‘We have to go, darling,’ he reminded his wife, his arm slipping around Trish’s non-existent waist.
Trish looked over at her son and Tess could tell that leaving him when he was sick was a real wrench for her. She remembered how that felt.
‘Okay, let’s go,’ Trish murmured. ‘Mum?’
Jean had found a little jug and was watering Trish’s indoor plants. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
Jean smiled at her daughter. Then she frowned. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the hospital. For the scan.’ Trish patted her big round belly.
‘Oh, yes,’ Jean said. ‘Splendid. We can drop Tess at work for her shift while we’re at it.’
Tess smiled at Jean. ‘I’ve got a day off today so I’m going to stay and look after Christopher.’
Jean looked down at her sleeping grandson. She frowned and looked up at Tess, perplexed. ‘What a sweet boy,’ she said vaguely.
Trish sighed. ‘C’mon, Mum,’ she murmured, laying a gentle hand beneath her mother’s elbow and ushering her along. She smiled at Tess. ‘See you in a couple of hours.’
Tess nodded, then the door closed behind them and then it was just her.
And Christopher.
Tess sat on the edge of the couch opposite Christopher. She felt awkward at first, desperately looking around the room at anything and everything other than him. Art on the walls. A DVD collection. Some bookshelves.
A set of open French doors led out onto a massive deck. Tess could see a tangle of wild, lush greenery from this vantage point and suddenly wished she was out there, digging in Trish’s garden, not in here, looking after her most treasured possession.
But she daren’t leave him. He looked so still and pale.
She sat back and pulled a book out of her handbag, determined to distract herself with Fletch’s crime novel, which she still hadn’t managed to finish.
Or would try to, at least.
But inevitably her gaze was drawn to the sleeping cherub. His little bow mouth, so like Ryan’s, clutched at her heart. She dropped her gaze to focus on his chest, watching for the barely perceptible rise and fall, felt the hot spurt of panic as an occasional respiratory pause delayed the onset of the next breath.
Tess shook herself as she realised she was counting Christopher’s breaths.
She returned her attention to the book with renewed vigour and for twenty minutes, apart from the odd sneak peek, she managed it. The story finally pulled her in and the only sounds breaking the silence were the fan whirring overhead, magpies warbling in the back yard and the rustle of paper as she turned a page.
Then Christopher stirred. Then he woke and sat up. He t
ook one look at Tess and his bottom lip dropped, his forehead wrinkled.
‘Mumma, Mumma,’ he called, looking around wildly for Trish.
Tess’s heart banged noisily against her ribs as she stood to comfort the child who, for all intents and purposes, was her nephew. ‘It’s okay, Christopher,’ she crooned, approaching him slowly as he started to cry. ‘Mummy and Daddy will be home very soon.’
She sat down beside him and he cried louder.
‘I know, honey, I know. You’re not feeling well, you just want your mummy.’ She put her arm tentatively around his skinny little shoulders. They were warm beneath her cool palm. ‘She’ll be here really soon.’
Then Christopher really lost it. He screwed his face up, which went as red as the rash covering his body, and howled for all he was worth. Within seconds his eyes were streaming and his nose was running and he’d shrugged her hand away.
The poor little guy looked utterly miserable.
She suddenly understood Trish’s earlier reticence as the crying child made her feel completely inadequate. Christopher didn’t know her. So how could she console him properly? Mild panic set in at the thought that he might cry for the entire time Trish and Doug were away.
No. Think, Tess.
Think!
She’d been a paediatric nurse, for crying out loud. And a mother!
Yes. What would she have done if this had been Ryan? The problem was she’d fought so hard not to think about her son over the years it was as if all that basic maternal intuition had also been suppressed.
Come on, Tess, think!
Distraction.
Yes, distraction.
‘Would you like a drink, sweetie?’ she asked over the din.
Christopher showed no sign that he’d even heard the question so Tess hurried to the kitchen and retrieved the two plastic sippy cups from the fridge. She sat back down again and offered them to Christopher.
He pushed them both away. ‘Are you sure?’ Tess asked, offering them again.
Christopher looked at them, then at her, then back at them as his crying died down. He looked at her with red eyes and pointed to the milk. Tess smiled at him and handed it over. He took it on a shuddery indrawn breath and drank half the cup without pause.
‘Good boy,’ Tess murmured. ‘More?’
Christopher went again, slower this time, his huge green eyes never leaving her face. When he’d finished he thrust the cup back at her.
‘Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?’
Christopher shook his head then pointed to the stack of books sitting on the nearby coffee table.
Tess smothered a smile. Christopher obviously knew what he wanted. Ryan had been like that too.
Fletch had called it stubborn. She’d called it decisive.
‘You want me to read to you?’ He nodded and she picked up the first book. ‘This one?’ she asked. He shook his head. He shook it four times before one met with his approval. ‘You like cars?’ she asked as she opened the book.
‘Car, car,’ Christopher said, nodding his head.
So Tess read it to him. On the first read-through he sat upright beside her, his little legs out in front of him, his ankles just dangling over the edge of the couch cushion. The next time he leaned in closer so his side was jammed against hers. By the third read he’d climbed into her lap.
Tess froze as he snuggled down, making himself at home. She hadn’t held a child in a decade and it felt so bitter-sweet. Looking down on his blond head, she had a feeling of déjà vu, like holding Ryan all over again.
She pressed her nose to his hair, feeling the fine down that stuck up at the crown tickle her nose as she inhaled deeply. The sweet little-boy smell lodged in her throat and when he turned his face up to look at her, unshed tears shone in her eyes.
‘Car,’ he prompted, one little pudgy finger pointing at the words.
Tess bit down on her lip. ‘Car,’ she murmured, swallowing hard against all the emotion and memories.
Eventually Christopher allowed her to read some other books but after about half an hour he started to feel very warm against her and started to grizzle. Tess felt his forehead.
‘Gosh,’ she murmured, ‘you’re burning up.’
She laid him on the lounge and reached for the tympanic thermometer that was also sitting on the coffee table. Christopher lay docilely as she inserted it into his ear canal and waited for it to beep. She read the display and was shocked to see his fever had spiked rapidly—no wonder he was lethargic and looking miserable again.
Trish had said she’d just given him something for the fever before she’d left so that was out as an option to bring the temperature down. Maybe a tepid sponge would help and also be soothing for Christopher.
‘It’s okay, sweetie. Tess is going to get you something nice and cool. Won’t be a moment.’
Tess looked over her shoulder as she scurried towards the kitchen. Christopher lay quietly on the cushion, his gaze tracking her movements. In less than a minute she’d found a glass bowl in a cupboard and filled it with lukewarm water. Under the sink she’d located an unopened packet of dishcloths.
Christopher hadn’t moved as she hurried towards him but he was staring now, his gaze not fixed any more. He looked out of it and an itch prickled at the bottom of her spine. She was two paces from him when he let out a little cry and his limbs stiffened.
Tess gasped and dropped the bowl, water spreading over the floorboards, soaking into the rug, as Christopher went into a full-blown seizure.
Tess lunged for the lounge. ‘Christopher? Christopher!’ she shouted as she threw herself down next to him.
His little body twitched and jerked and her brain came to a complete standstill as terror rendered her utterly useless.
‘Christopher,’ she whimpered again, not even game to touch him.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!
Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.
She watched in horror, completely paralysed. She couldn’t think what to do. She didn’t know how to make him stop.
Some latent part of her brain was screaming at her and it finally made itself heard.
Ambulance.
Tess picked up her phone that she’d put on the coffee table earlier and with useless, trembling fingers somehow managed to dial three zeros. A voice she could barely hear over the roar of her pulse in her head asked her if she wanted police, fire or ambulance, and she knew she was yelling but she just couldn’t stop. ‘Ambulance, ambulance, ambulance.’
She tried not to think about another time, another call she’d made to triple zero. She’d been an incoherent mess then too.
Another voice came on seconds later. ‘I need an ambulance now!’ she told the voice frantically. ‘My nephew is having a seizure.’
The soothing female voice asked her name and the address. For an awful moment Tess couldn’t even remember the number of Trish’s house—she just knew which one it was in the street as it had been so long since she’d needed to know. But in a blinding flash she remembered.
‘Number sixteen,’ she panted. ‘Please, please, hurry, you must hurry. He’s still fitting.’
The voice told her a car had already been dispatched with lights and sirens but it didn’t reassure her. Tess looked down at Christopher, whose stiff, jerky movements continued unabated. How long had it been? Too long. It felt like for ever.
His lips lost their pinkness and Tess wailed into the phone, ‘His lips are turning blue.’
‘Okay, here’s what I want you to do…’
Somehow Tess managed to follow the instructions from the emergency call-taker. Quite how, she wasn’t sure. Her fingers were shaking, the roar in her head made it almost impossible to hear and she wanted to throw up. But putting Christopher on the floor and turning him on his side improved his colour even if it didn’t stop the seizure.
All stuff that Tess knew but was too panicked to do herself.
‘Why isn’t it stopping?’ she demanded of the
woman who had assured Tess repeatedly that she would stay on the phone with her until the ambulance arrived. ‘It should be stopped by now.’
As if speaking it had made it so, the jerking reduced to twitching and then stopped altogether. ‘It’s stopped,’ Tess announced victoriously into the phone. ‘It’s stopped.’
‘Okay, that’s good,’ the calm voice continued in her ear. ‘Keep him on his side. He’ll be very sleepy for a while. The ambulance is about a minute out.’
Suddenly Tess heard a siren. ‘I can hear it!’ Her insides practically went to water at the relief that coursed through her system.
‘Okay, I’m going to go now. Go and open the door for the paramedics.’
Tess nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘Thank you so much.’ The connection had been momentary but in those awful minutes the stranger’s voice had been a lifeline.
Tess pushed the ‘end’ button then hurried to the front door to greet the paramedics coming in through the front gate.
‘This way,’ she said. ‘The seizure’s just stopped.’
The paramedics greeted her as they crossed to a limp-looking Christopher lying on his side on the beautiful Turkish carpet that Tess had admired when she’d first arrived.
It seemed like an age ago now.
They knelt beside him, one in a puddle of water, and Tess apologised profusely. He smiled at her. ‘It’s okay, it’ll dry,’ he assured her.
They were hooking Christopher up to a monitor and trying to rouse him when he cried out again, his little limbs stiffening for the second time. ‘He’s going again,’ the female paramedic said.
Tess clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her wail as she looked on in abject terror. The paramedic kneeling in the water spoke into his radio. ‘This is one five three. About to administer midazolam. ETA on the ICP.’
Tess couldn’t watch. She just couldn’t watch. She needed…she needed Fletch. And, oh, God, she had to tell Trish!
How was she going to tell Trish?
Fletch would tell her. Fletch would know what to do.
She grabbed for her phone as the paramedics worked on Christopher. She turned her back, walked out to the front veranda. She couldn’t look. She just couldn’t. And he was in better hands with them than he had been with her.
