Rescue at Cradle Lake

by Marion Lennox

  Theirs was a shared journey, she realised bleakly. She didn’t know the details but she knew she was right, and she also knew… What he said was the truth. He could hold her as much as she needed but there was no fear of further commitment. She’d built her fences and so had he.

  Two levels of razor wire around their hearts. Maybe his was impervious. She’d thought hers was, too, but out there…

  Out there in the ward was a little girl called Madison, and the only way for her to survive was for Ginny’s barriers to come down.

  No. There must be some other way.

  ‘Madison will sleep for hours,’ Fergus said softly into her hair. ‘Miriam and Tony will care for her. Oscar’s stable and there are no other patients in this place except nursing-home residents. Can I take you home to meet Richard?’

  ‘I need to tell him…’

  ‘We need to tell him nothing,’ Fergus said. ‘Judith has written to him. We give him the letter and we help him sort out what he wants done.’

  ‘Dear God…’

  ‘There’s no way through this but through this,’ Fergus told her. ‘Let’s do it.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RICHARD had been sleeping when Ginny had left him.

  The back veranda of the old farmhouse looked down over the lake, facing west so afternoon sun drenched the ancient sofas and rickety chairs left over from when they’d lived here. This had been their favourite place as children, and it was their favourite place now. Richard had fought every inch of the way with this disease but in the last couple of weeks his fighting had ceased. He wanted to see no one but Ginny. ‘I’m closing my world down,’ he’d told Ginny when she’d had to turn away requests from old friends to see him. ‘I’m severing ties.’ He’d slept more and more, and out on the veranda Ginny had found some measure of peace.

  What she had to do now… What she had to tell him…

  Severing ties? Ha!

  But Fergus was right behind her, and his presence helped a little. It made the impossible seem possible-just. She climbed the veranda steps and turned to where they’d organised Richard’s daybed.

  The bed was empty.

  Why? Richard had trouble moving. She’d left him set up with everything he needed, but if he’d had to go to the bathroom… Had he fallen?

  Abandoning Fergus, she hauled the screen door open and headed inside. ‘Richard?’ she called. ‘Richard?’

  Nothing.

  He wasn’t in his bedroom, but he hardly used his bedroom, preferring to sleep where he could watch the stars. He wasn’t in the bathroom or in the kitchen.

  She came back out to the veranda at a run, concern deepening to fear.

  The bedclothes were flung back as if he’d just left. He’d had his oxygen cylinder on a trolley, so he could tug it with him if he needed to. It was gone.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Fergus asked but she ignored him.

  ‘Richard?’

  And then she saw her car.

  It was at the far side of the house to where Fergus had driven in. It was a small red sedan, a bit battered and not particularly noticeable. But it was noticeable now.

  There was a garden hose snaking into the driver’s side window, and rags wedging the rest of the gap closed. Richard’s oxygen cylinder was lying on its side, abandoned beside the driver’s side door.

  ‘Richard,’ she screamed, but Fergus was before her. He’d seen. He was down the veranda steps, crossing to the car in huge strides, hauling the car door open.

  Richard was slumped at the wheel. As Fergus pulled open the door, he toppled sideways.

  He would have fallen right out, but Fergus held him. He crouched and caught him, breaking his fall, hauling him free from the car in the one swift movement.

  Ginny’s hands were on his neck, feeling for a pulse, feeling…

  There was one. She had a pulse. Thready, but a pulse nevertheless.

  ‘He’s breathing,’ Fergus said, and her world somehow started up again from a dead stop.

  ‘Richard,’ she whispered. ‘Richard.’

  He opened his eyes and stared at her. He even managed a sickly smile.

  ‘Richard,’ she said again, brokenly, fighting nausea.

  ‘You could,’ her brother said softly, his voice the thread of a weary whisper, ‘have filled the bloody thing up with petrol.’

  Fergus carried him back to bed.

  Once Richard had been too heavy to carry. The cystic fibrosis which had killed her younger brothers early had been gentler with him, slower in its deadly progress. He’d had a time when he’d almost seemed normal-when his body had almost seemed as if it could be healthy.

  That time was long past. Her good-looking, vibrant brother was now an emaciated thread of a man, close to death.

  That afternoon he’d come within a hair’s breadth. Ginny trailed behind Fergus, carrying Richard’s oxygen, still trying to fight down the waves of sickness.

  She shouldn’t have left him. She’d wanted a walk. Then, when she’d stopped in on the way to the hospital, he’d seemed fine.

  ‘Go,’ he’d said. ‘Go be a ministering angel to someone else for a change and let me enjoy the sunset.’

  She faltered as she reached the stop step of the veranda and Fergus set Richard on his bed and glanced back at her. ‘He’s fine,’ he told her as she set the oxygen tank down. ‘Richard’s fine.’

  She wasn’t. She needed the bathroom. Fast.

  When she came out Richard was settled back on his pillows, attached again to oxygen. He looked even paler than usual, but his chest was rising and falling with reassuring rhythm.

  The sight of him made the nausea return. Ginny plonked herself down on the back step and stuck her head between her knees.

  ‘See what you’ve done to your sister?’ Fergus said mildly, and Richard grimaced.

  ‘She did it to me,’ he whispered. ‘Hell, Ginny, I just assumed…’

  ‘That I had a full tank,’ she managed.

  ‘I didn’t even look. A few minutes, then splutter, splutter…I couldn’t believe it. All that trouble.’

  ‘So is life that bad for you? That you want to finish what’s left of it now?’ Fergus’s voice was nothing but conversational. Ginny was staring down over the lake, trying to control the shudders that threatened to be her undoing. She felt sick to the soul. Too much had happened too fast and her mind was having trouble catching up with her stomach.

  But Richard was alive. That was all that mattered for now, she told herself. Everything else could take care of itself at some future time.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Richard was asking, and she tried to focus enough to listen.

  ‘I’m a doctor, mate,’ Fergus said. ‘Fergus Reynard. I brought your sister home.’

  ‘I’m supposed to say thank you?’

  ‘We didn’t save your life, if that’s what you’re suggesting,’ Fergus said mildly. ‘Seems Ginny did that by being lousy with her petrol buying.’

  ‘I was going to fill it up yesterday,’ Ginny whispered. ‘But it was raining. I thought there was enough to get into town again tomorrow, and the weather’d be better.’

  But neither man seemed to be listening to her.

  Maybe she wasn’t listening to herself.

  ‘So why did you decide topping yourself was a good idea?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Is that any of your business?’

  ‘I imagine it’s your sister’s, and I think Ginny’s past asking.’

  ‘Leave us be,’ Richard said wearily, sinking into his pillows. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m guessing it does. To Ginny as well as to you.’

  ‘I’m dying anyway.’

  ‘Are you scared, then?’ Fergus asked. ‘Of what’s to come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Ginny’s stuck here,’ he managed, and took a few gasping breaths of oxygen while Ginny took that on board.

  ‘You think I mind that?’ she demanded. ‘You think I resent spendin
g a few weeks of my life with you? Richard…’ She broke off, unable to go on.

  ‘You’ve done this so often,’ Richard muttered. He swivelled a little so he was staring at Fergus, and his eyes were almost fierce. ‘I had two kid brothers with this damned disease. My father sloped off and our mother coped via the bottle. She died of cirrhosis of the liver when Ginny was sixteen. Ginny’s done the lot.’

  ‘You’ve been there, too,’ Ginny whispered, and her voice broke.

  ‘You know that’s a lie, and I won’t be with you for this one,’ Richard whispered, and closed his eyes. ‘You’ll be alone. When I thought there was time this afternoon…’

  ‘You’d just get it over with,’ Fergus ended for him.

  ‘What else is there to live for?’

  There was a deathly silence. It went on and on. Maybe Fergus was waiting for her to say something, Ginny thought, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t.

  ‘As it happens,’ Fergus said finally, still with the friendly, interested tone about him, ‘there is something you might like to live a bit longer for. If you’re not afraid.’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘That’s sensible. I’m not sure who looked after your brothers while they died, or what sort of deaths they had, but I’m here to tell you that if you permit me I can take care of you for as long as you want. I can keep you absolutely comfortable. I can keep it so you’re in control, every step of the way. No decision will be made without your say-so. Short of helping you into gas-filled cars, you’ll find that medical help can make the next few weeks as fulfilling as you want them to be.’

  ‘As fulfilling?’ Richard said. ‘Drifting into white wings and halos?’

  ‘There’s some who reckon it’s hosts of virgins,’ Fergus said mildly, and grinned. ‘Me, I don’t know, but even with virgins waiting upstairs, peacefully slipping away seems like you’re dead already. Which, thanks to Ginny’s lousiness with the petrol, now isn’t true. You’re alive until you’re dead, mate. You’re not dead yet and you have a job to do.’

  ‘Which is?’ Richard sounded stunned. As well he might, Ginny thought. She was feeling pretty stunned herself.

  ‘Getting to know your daughter,’ Fergus said bluntly, and handed him Judith’s letter.

  Afterwards they walked out to the car together.

  Richard had taken in the contents of the letter, had asked incredulous questions-and then had suddenly slept. It was as if the culminating emotions of the day had simply become overwhelming and his body had demanded time out.

  There had been no denial, however. Simply a barrage of questions, then silence, then sleep.

  Silence seemed good. Ginny walked Fergus back to his car and silence seemed the only option.

  ‘If I leave you, promise you won’t commit suicide yourself,’ Fergus asked as he reached the driver’s door.

  ‘Not enough petrol,’ she said, and gave a short laugh. Which almost turned into a sob. Almost but not quite. She managed to haul herself back together but it took an effort.

  ‘Ginny, this is a-’

  ‘There’s no need to swear,’ she broke in. ‘I know exactly what it is.’

  His hand reached out and took hers. It was a strong grasp, warm and reassuring. It was his bedside manner, she thought, and she was suddenly angry. She might as well be angry as anything else, she thought, and tried to haul her hand away.

  He didn’t release it.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said unnecessarily, but still he didn’t release it.

  ‘You’re not fine,’ he said softly. ‘You were sick back there.’

  ‘Reaction.’

  ‘Of course it was reaction. How long have you been with Richard?’

  ‘This time?’

  ‘This time,’ he said, and his face grew a little grim, hearing the years of commitment behind those two words.

  ‘Since he came out of hospital. They wanted to move him into a hospice but it was better that he came back here.’

  ‘Better for who?’

  ‘I’ve learned the hard way,’ she said softly, ‘that it’s easier to do what’s asked rather than live with regrets afterwards.’

  ‘So it’s as hard as I think it is, coming back here?’

  Her eyes flew to his. With shock. He knew.

  ‘I…’

  ‘Did your brothers die here?’ he asked. ‘And your mother? I’m thinking you’d never want to be back here.’

  Silence.

  ‘You were here for them?’

  More silence.

  ‘And Richard? Was Richard there when the rest of your family died? Did you have any support?’

  ‘Richard’s been ill,’ she said defensively, and she knew by the look on his face that he understood the story behind that, too. Or part of it. Richard hadn’t wanted to spend his limited life caring for dying siblings or distraught parents. He’d turned off at an early age, making every excuse to be away from home.

  Ginny didn’t blame him. He had been ill and young, and the fact that she’d been given no choice didn’t mean she had to resent Richard.

  ‘Let’s think of a plan here,’ Fergus said, and she managed to haul her hand from his and glare.

  ‘There’s no plan.’

  ‘There has to be,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back after evening clinic and see what Richard has decided to do.’

  ‘Richard won’t decide to do anything.’

  ‘He must.’

  ‘You can’t put the responsibility for-’

  ‘For his daughter on him?’ All of a sudden Fergus sounded grim, sympathy fading. ‘Yes, I can. But it’s not me doing it. Like it or not, this little one is his daughter and, no matter how sick he is, he needs to face that. Sure he’s shocked…’

  ‘Fergus, this afternoon he tried to kill himself.’

  ‘Did he?’ He looked down at her, and she could no longer read his face. ‘You know, even a dying man can read a fuel gauge, Ginny.’

  She gasped. ‘What are you saying? He wouldn’t have staged it. What possible reason-?’

  ‘I suspect he’s wanting more help than he thinks you’re prepared to give.’

  She didn’t understand. ‘He knows I’m prepared to give whatever’s needed. He refused to go to a hospice and he asked me to be here for him. I said I would and I will.’

  ‘Which fits with my theory,’ Fergus said evenly. ‘Why go to all this trouble to come back here if just to kill himself? If he’d really wanted to die he could have killed himself back in the city. Why come here?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue. But it’s taken me so much work to get this place back into habitable state. To organise equipment here…’

  ‘That’s what I mean. Ginny, what would you have done just now if I hadn’t been here?’

  ‘Exactly the same as if you had. Pulled him out. Got him back to bed. Been sick.’

  ‘And not left him alone again,’ he said gently. ‘Tomorrow…you’re not going to leave him for more than a few minutes, are you?’

  ‘I… How can I?’

  ‘Which means he’s got what he needs. He’s asked you to come back here and you’ve come. This afternoon you were away for several hours and I suspect he hated it and it made him fearful. Now he’s fixed it so that you can’t leave him. It’s called emotional blackmail, Ginny, and you need to see it for what it is. We need to organise you some help.’

  She stared at him, incredulous. ‘I don’t need help.’

  ‘You do,’ he said, and smiled.

  Which made her insides twist. Why did his smile affect her like this? she wondered wildly. She shouldn’t be emotional. She mustn’t be. She’d been through too much in the past to fall to bits now.

  ‘I can cope,’ she muttered.

  ‘Sure you can. But you needn’t.’ He glanced at his watch and grimaced. ‘I have patients waiting. I need to go. But expect me back at eight tonight.’

  ‘I don’t want you back.’

  ‘Sure you do,’ he said, and grinned. ‘You and your brother both n
eed me and, like Batman, I always turn up when I’m needed. When the world needs saving.’

  ‘Wearing your jocks on the outside?’ she managed, bewildered, and he smiled.

  ‘That’s better,’ he told her. ‘Much better.’ Then, before she could guess what he was about to do, he lifted his palm to her cheek. His hand rested against her face-just for a moment. It was a gesture of warmth and strength and solidarity. It was a gesture that said she wasn’t alone.

  She didn’t need such a gesture. She didn’t.

  She backed away from him, and he let her go.

  But then, as his car drove out of the driveway, as he headed off back to his medicine, back to his hospital, back to his outside world, her hand came up to retrace the path of his fingers.

  There was still warmth there.

  She didn’t need help.

  But she stood and held her hand against her face for a very long time.

  Richard slept. He woke briefly to eat the dinner Ginny prepared but he said little.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said when Ginny raised the matter of the letter, and when he saw she intended to push he simply turned back over on his pillows and slept some more.

  How could you hit a dying man? She couldn’t. But the flare of anger behind her panic refused to disappear completely.

  It was all very well for him, cocooned in his pillows, knowing he was leaving, accepting that any problems were hers and not his.

  Emotional blackmail? Maybe.

  She washed up, went outside and stared down at the lake. The sun set late here. It was still a tangerine ball behind low-lying clouds on the horizon.

  It was an hour before Fergus was due back.

  If she left and Richard woke up…

  She walked across to his bed and stared down at him. Fergus’s words came back to her. Even a dying man can read a fuel gauge.

  He wasn’t dying this week. He’d survived petrol fumes and fear without his oxygen.

  ‘You’re alive until you’re dead,’ she said softly, not knowing whether he could hear her or not but not really caring. ‘Richard, don’t do this to me.’

  Silence.

  Of course there was silence.

  What to do?