When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss

by Brooke Harris

  I press my fingers between my eyes to release some of the pressure building in my head. ‘I’m so sorry. I meant to text you, but I got completely distracted.’

  ‘What did the doctor say?’ Nate asks.

  ‘We just got here,’ I explain. ‘I haven’t spoken to the doctor. But Ben says Nana has been asleep all day. So that’s good. She’s not in any pain.’

  ‘That is good.’ Nate smiles. ‘But I meant you. What did the doctor say about you?’

  ‘Oh.’ I scrunch my nose, dreading my reply. ‘I didn’t actually see him.’

  ‘Who discharged you, then?’ Nate eyes narrow.

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘Oh, Holly.’ Nate stiffens. ‘Please tell me you didn’t just get up and walk out.’

  ‘We made an outpatient appointment instead,’ Marcy interrupts. ‘For Monday. Much better idea. Holly would get no rest at all up on that ward with all the newborn babies crying.’

  Nate drags his hand through his hair and eyes me sceptically. ‘And that was all okay with the nurse? She was adamant earlier that you needed to stay.’

  ‘Yup. It’s all good,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice level and breezy. ‘I’m back in on Monday for a check-up. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Mrs Talbot?’ someone calls, and I’m grateful for the anonymous voice coming from behind us to cut through the tension.

  ‘I’m Holly,’ I offer, finding an orderly with a wheelchair waiting. ‘I’m Annie’s granddaughter. My mother’s not here right now,’ I add, his confused face telling me I’m not the person he’s looking for.

  ‘I’m just going to leave this here.’ He tucks the wheelchair next to the row of waiting chairs outside Nana’s room. ‘The ambulance should be here in the next half an hour to bring your grandmother to Carry Me Home.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you.’ I swallow as if the finality of moving Nana to the hospice isn’t eating me alive inside.

  ‘They must have a bed ready for her,’ Marcy says as the orderly walks away without another word. ‘That’s great news.’

  I glance up at the cold, white ceiling overhead and try to roll back my tears. The ceiling is bright and recently painted. It’s far less dull and depressing than the ceiling upstairs on the maternity ward, but it’s still not a window to the stars.

  I switch my attention to my watch. It’s coming up on three o’clock. The ambulance probably won’t get here before four. No matter what the orderly says, these things always take longer than promised. According to Google, it’s an hour’s drive across the city to Carry Me Home. Longer in evening traffic. It will certainly be dark by the time Nana reaches the hospice.

  ‘Marcy,’ I say suddenly. ‘Do you think the ambulance would be able to detour out of town on route to Carry Me Home?’

  Marcy looks at me, confused. Nate is equally as bemused by my question.

  ‘Why would it need to detour out of town?’ Marcy asks. ‘It’s a transfer not an emergency. Even if traffic is heavy, I doubt they’ll put the siren on. There’s no need to worry about the ambulance getting caught in traffic, Holly. They do runs like this all the time. Often in rush hour. They’re used to it. And the ambulance is well equipped to keep Annie comfortable for the journey.’

  I shake my head. ‘That’s not what I mean. I ...’

  The door of Nana’s room creaks open, and Ben’s head appears in the gap. ‘She’s awake,’ he beams.

  ‘That’s great, Ben.’ I smile. ‘Nate, would you stay with her for a few minutes?’ I ask.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ Ben says, noticeably agitated.

  ‘I’ll be there in two minutes. I promise.’

  Ben scowls as Nate shuffles awkwardly towards the door.

  ‘Is that okay with you?’ Nate asks, pressing his hand courteously on my brother’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeah. Of course.’ Ben nods. ‘She’ll be happy to see you.’

  ‘C’mon,’ Nate says, tossing his head back over his shoulder to smile at me. ‘Let’s give these two a minute.’

  ‘Holly, what are you up to?’ Ben grimaces, knowing me too well.

  ‘Hopefully something great.’ I smile back. ‘Just give me two minutes. Please?’

  Ben puffs out and spins on the spot to walk back into Nana’s room. Nate closes the door gently behind them, leaving Marcy and me alone on the corridor.

  ‘Is everything okay, Holly?’ Marcy says. ‘Is Ben right; do you have something up your sleeve?’

  ‘I hope so.’ I shrug, slightly giddy. ‘Earlier when I was bored lying in bed, I got to thinking. Nana was such an active person all her life. She loved working on the farm and soaking up fresh air. It kills me to think of her spending her last days confined to a stuffy hospital room.’

  ‘Okay.’ Marcy tilts her head to one side. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Maybe we could take her to the orchard. We could bring blankets and her medication. We wouldn’t have to stay long. Just long enough to stare at the stars. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, Holly. It’s a sweet idea, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’ I say, almost breaking into tears.

  ‘It’s too cold, and the evening air is damp. It wouldn’t be good for her,’ Marcy explains.

  ‘But she’s dying one way or another, Marcy. We all know that.’ I snort, becoming bitter as I admit my fear out loud. ‘We can keep her locked up in a miserable room and wait for the inevitable there, or we can take her to the place she loved and show her the stars one more time.’

  ‘Holly, this is unheard of.’ Marcy shakes her head.

  ‘Wouldn’t you want to see the stars?’ I ask. ‘I know I would.’

  ‘It is a lovely idea,’ Marcy repeats. ‘It’s just not a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’ a deep, male voice joins the conversation and startles me.

  I turn around to find a handsome man in a well-tailored suit standing directly behind us.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Marcy says, her back stiffening with a sudden audible crack.

  ‘Why isn’t it a good idea?’ he expands.

  I recognise him straight away. He’s Nana’s doctor. He looks slightly different without his white coat and a stethoscope around his neck. If anything, he seems more human, more natural, and certainly more approachable. He has deep lines around his eyes, and he’s certainly more tired than he was earlier. I wonder if he’s had a tough day. I imagine every day in the oncology department must be difficult. And I find myself wondering why anyone would choose a profession that forces you to face human mortality every day.

  ‘Dr Matthews.’ Marcy shuffles on the spot, and I quickly realise you could cut the sexual chemistry between these two with a knife.

  ‘Holly, meet James Matthews.’ Marcy offers a polite introduction. ‘James, this is Holly Talbot, the girl I told you about.’

  ‘We meet already this morning,’ Dr Matthews says. ‘Good to see you again, Holly.’

  I want to ask Marcy why she’s been telling Nana’s doctor about me, but the question seems oddly out of context, and I would rather get back to Dr Matthews’s question. I cross my fingers that he’ll ask again.

  ‘Now, tell me more about this orchard?’ he says.

  I smile so brightly my cheeks push up into my eyes with excitement. ‘There is an old orchard on my grandmother’s farm,’ I explain. ‘It’s a special place for her. And I thought ...’ I pause, feeling Marcy’s concerned eyes on me. I know she only has my grandmother’s best interests at heart, and her distaste for my idea is worrying me. The last thing I want is to hurt Nana. Suddenly, this idea doesn’t feel so good after all.

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Matthews encourages. ‘You thought?’

  ‘I thought we could take her there. Silly really, I know,’ I ramble. ‘But it’s depressing here. No offence.’ I blush.

  Dr Matthews laughs. His throaty gargle gives me the impression he’s quite enjoying the spontaneity of my suggestion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I know it’s crazy.’

  ‘It i
s absolutely crazy,’ he agrees with a confident nod, suddenly becoming serious. ‘But it’s also the best idea I’ve heard in quite some time.’

  ‘James,’ Marcy scolds.

  Dr Matthews’s eyes open a fraction wider, and he stares Marcy down like a disobedient schoolboy.

  Marcy’s shoulders round and flop forward. Her eyes twinkle, and she half smiles as she warms to the idea.

  ‘It won’t make her any sicker than she already is, Holly,’ Dr Matthews assures. ‘And if there’s a chance, even a fraction of a possibility, that it will make Annie happy, then I think, crazy or not, it’s a wonderful idea. And I say go for it.’

  ‘Holly, excuse my husband.’ Marcy grins. ‘He’s a hopeless romantic.’

  ‘Your husband?’ I smirk, suddenly understanding their chemistry.

  ‘James thinks the heart is all that matters.’

  ‘Well, I am a cardiothoracic surgeon,’ he jokes.

  ‘Oh, stop it, James,’ Marcy scolds playfully. ‘You can’t wriggle your way out of this one with your job title. You believe love conquers all. And over the years, you’ve convinced me that you’re right.’

  Dr Matthews’s expression takes on a sudden seriousness, and he claps his hands and tucks them against his chest. ‘Holly. Sit for a moment, won’t you?’

  I glance at the door of Nana’s room. I’m growing anxious to get inside, but I offer the polite doctor my time nonetheless and take a seat. Dr Matthews sits beside me. Marcy sits on the far side of him. No one says anything for a moment, and my heart beats so furiously in my chest I worry that it will be heard.

  Dr Matthews crosses his legs and manages to appear comfortable despite the rigid, uncompromising plastic seats. But his confident body language is tinged with an unmissable sense of poignancy, and I suspect he has grown to like my grandmother just as much as Marcy has.

  ‘I performed my first open heart surgery when I was thirty,’ Dr Matthews tells me. ‘The patient was a young woman. She was about twenty-three at the time. She presented with chest pain, and her aorta was so blocked, we knew surgery would be difficult. There were some complications, and she began haemorrhaging heavily.’

  I hold my breath; certain I know where this story is going. I have friends who have used similar anecdotes to try to comfort me since Nana’s diagnosis.

  ‘Isn’t she a great age,’ some say; as if once you reach a certain age you’re outstaying your welcome on this planet.

  But I don’t understand how a person can be measured in years. Age is a number. It doesn’t define you, and it certainly doesn’t dictate how much the people around you love you.

  Other friends envy the relationship, having lost their own grandparents as children or before they were even born.

  ‘At least you had lots of time with her,’ they say.

  That point is harder to argue with, and I can’t deny that I’ve been fortunate to have such a wonderful relationship with my grandmother. Not everyone is so lucky. I try to explain that no amount of time is ever long enough, and no one is ever ready to say goodbye, but they don’t always understand. It doesn’t matter if you love someone ten minutes, ten years, or one hundred and ten years; once that person owns a piece of your heart, you’ll never be ready to let them go.

  I wait for Dr Matthews to draw the comparison between Nana’s long, happy life and the short life of someone who’d barely begun to live. I sit very still and watch as Dr Matthews scratches his forehead, and I can tell the memory of the young woman is as fresh in his mind as if he operated yesterday.

  ‘Did she pass away?’ I ask, finally.

  ‘No.’ He smiles. ‘She made it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I straighten, and suddenly, I have no idea why he’s sharing this story.

  ‘She’s sitting next to me,’ Dr Matthews says. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘James saved my life, Holly,’ Marcy says, taking Dr Matthews’s hand in hers. ‘He literally healed my broken heart.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, stuck for words. ‘That’s an amazing story.’

  Dr Matthews shakes his head. ‘I didn’t save Marcy that day; she saved me.’

  Marcy giggles. ‘This is the part where my husband becomes all mushy and romantic, Holly. He does this every time he tells this story.’

  ‘I was at an impasse in my career, you see.’ Dr Matthews continues tracing the freckles on the back of Marcy’s hand with his thumb. ‘I wasn’t sure if medicine really was the right path for me. I wasn’t sure if I could stare at blood and guts as a patient lay sleeping on the operating table every day for the rest of my life. Sure, saving a life was a great feeling. Like when you finish first in a race or you win a couple of euro on a scratch card, but it wasn’t as all-consuming and passion driven as I thought it should have been.’

  ‘James had decided that morning that my surgery would be the last he ever performed,’ Marcy adds. ‘He had his written resignation waiting in his locker ready to hand over as soon as he put the scalpel down.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’ I ask, looking at his grey hairs and the lines and folds that time has patiently etched into his middle-aged forehead.

  ‘Marcy’s father met me in the corridor just before I scrubbed up. It was an emergency surgery, and we’d never met before, but he told me he was placing his daughter’s life in my hands, and he begged me to save her. He told me when you physically hold my daughter’s heart in your hand, understand that you are also holding the heart of everyone who loves her too.’

  My shoulders shake, and silent tears stream down my cheeks.

  ‘I’ve lived by those words ever since,’ Dr Matthews says, placing a gentle hand on my knee. ‘When I open a chest, I only see one heart with my eyes, but I know I’m also responsible for the hearts of everyone who loves my patient.’

  ‘You hold Annie’s heart, Holly,’ Marcy says. ‘And no matter what happens, you never have to let go.’

  Thirty

  The sun is shining brightly, and I can feel the heat of its rays beat down on my face as Sketch and I lie on the grass staring up at the sky. Scattered clouds pass by sporadically.

  ‘That one looks like a sheep.’ I point.

  ‘They all look like sheep.’ Sketch laughs.

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ I snort. ‘This one, then.’ I drag my finger across the sky to point at the next cloud slowly creeping by. ‘What does that one look like?’ I ask, genuinely interested.

  ‘Um ... a sheep.’ Sketch folds his arms across his chest and nods defiantly.

  I flop over onto my belly and prop myself up with my elbows so I can look at Sketch’s smirking face.

  ‘Really?’ I laugh. ‘What about this one?’ I point at another random cloud.

  ‘Sheep. Definite sheep.’

  ‘This one?’ I move my finger.

  ‘Oh, now that one is interesting.’ Sketch twists his head to the side, down, and up, dramatically examining all angles of the cloud. ‘Sheep.’

  A loud, giddy snort bursts past my lips, and I clasp my hand over my mouth in mortification.

  ‘I said sheep, Annie. Not pig,’ Sketch teases, unable to keep a straight face.

  I laugh harder. ‘I’m sensing a pattern,’ I manage between gasps for breath.

  ‘Are you sensing I’d much rather be kissing you than playing find the cloud animal. Because I would.’

  Sketch turns on his side to face me. He bends his arm at the elbow and holds his head up with his hand pressed flat against his cheek. I instinctively turn towards him. We’re not physically touching, but the heat between us burns like a fire I can feel against my breasts and tummy. I want him to touch me. I’m desperate to soak up his touch.

  The collar of my dress suddenly becomes too tight, and I open the top button. Sketch’s eyes are on my fingers. I fumble with the next button, opening it too. Sketch’s lips part, and I’m desperate to know what he’s thinking. The third and final button sits just above my breasts. My fingers reach for it, trembling, but before I have time to open it, I feel Sketch’s hand arou
nd mine, holding me still.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he whispers.

  I can’t get words out, but I move my head slowly up and down.

  Sketch leans forward, and my eyes close as I drink in the sweet taste of his lips pressing onto mine.

  ‘I love you, Annie,’ he says, brushing his lips over my cheek. ‘I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.’

  ‘I love you too,’ I quiver.

  A gentle tingle runs the length of my spine as Sketch’s puckered lips dare lower to caress my neck.

  ‘I want to grow old with you, Annie. I want to die lying in your arms.’ Sketch gathers me into his strong arms. The softness of my body melts against the firmness of his, banishing any space between us. ‘Say you’ll love me until I’m an old man and God calls me from this life.’

  ‘I will,’ I pant, aching to get even closer to him.

  I’m desperate to shed our clothes so nothing is between us, not even fabric.

  ‘I want to be there for you always,’ Sketch whispers. ‘Every step I take from here, I want to take it with you by my side. I never want to leave you again.’

  ‘We’re never going to be apart again,’ I breathe. ‘I promise.’

  I slide my arm between us and fumble for my third button. I open it confidently and the soft, blue satin of my dress gapes in response. Sketch shifts and nuzzles into the gap. His warm face presses against my bare flesh, and I sigh contently as I pull my hand away. I close my eyes, and my deep, satisfied breath dances across the top of Sketch’s head.

  ‘Sketch?’

  ‘Hmm.’ His deep tone vibrates against my chest.

  ‘Make love to me.’

  Sketch pulls away. I stop breathing. My heart pounds so furiously in my chest that I think it might jump out of my body and into his. Sketch pulls himself to sit up, and he twists at the waist to look back at me. I can’t read him right now. His eyes are hungry with desire, but Sketch is a gentleman, and gentlemen aren’t supposed to act on unadulterated desire.

  ‘Annie, I don’t want to take advantage of you,’ he says.