Saving Nathaniel

by Jillian Brookes-Ward

  Two hours and a swift handshake later, the man was gone, and Nat was glad to see him go. Both the meeting and the client had been tedious and had drained his enthusiasm. Every proposal had been agreed to without argument. 'You're the expert, that's what I'm paying you for,' the man kept saying. He even agreed to Nat's outrageously inflated fee without negotiation. 'Seems fair enough,' he said when presented with the projected expenses.

  There was no challenge, no difference of opinion and no sense of achievement.

  Nat looked over the paperwork, at the signed contract, and felt…empty. There was no drive, no motivation – nothing. Before, it had raced through his bloodstream like quicksilver, now, it had all gone and in its place, a vacant dark hole. He opened his briefcase and tucked the papers into it. With a heavy sigh, he clicked the lock closed.

  He had almost killed himself to get the contract signed, but what did he have to look forward to in order to fulfil it? No doubt it would entail a few hundred solitary miles on the road, negotiation with the landowner to seal the best price and a dozen or so hours in his study on the telephone and internet. Even the prospect of a big fat cheque at the end of it didn't cheer him any. Was it really worth it?

  He felt something was missing, that there should be more to it. There used to be. He used to look forward to the challenge. He used to enjoy it. Something had gone wrong. Maybe it was because the client had been a boring, pompous prick, but maybe there was something more to it. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

  Pull yourself together, man! Get a grip! he admonished himself as he rubbed little circles on his temples with his fingers. The room felt stuffy. He needed some fresh air. A glance at his watch told him it was nearly one o'clock - lunchtime.

  He stopped in at the pub around the corner from his office building for a pint of light beer and a ham salad sandwich. It was noisy with chatter and intrusive muzak and neither did his growing headache any favours. He spoke to no-one except the waitress who took his order and brought his meal.

  When a group of raucous builders from the construction site down the road invaded the pub, he abandoned both his food and drink.

  Braving the still chilly day and the crowd of shoppers, he wandered up and down Union Street for an hour. Having trudged from shop to shop without having found what he wanted, he picked up a coffee from the Starbucks across the road and returned tired and frustrated to his office.

  He leaned wearily back in his chair to sip at the hot sweet brew and let his eyes scan the room. The office was small but tidy. It didn't have the space for clutter. When his vision fell on the large map of Scotland, covering most of one wall, Megan's voice sounded clearly in his head.

  'For Heaven's sake, it's just a piece of paper!'

  He couldn't fold maps, he had never been able to. They conspired to defeat him and she had made fun of his ineptitude. He smiled and closed his eyes at the thought of her merry laughter drifting across the hallway.

  At four-thirty, he woke with a start. He had fallen asleep in the chair with his head lolling almost on his left shoulder. Now he had a stiff neck and a throbbing headache. He stretched himself to ease the stiffness and his extended arm knocked over the paper coffee cup. The top came loose and tepid brown liquid spilled onto his desk top, dribbling over the edge and down onto the carpet.

  He cursed aloud as he attempted to mop up the spillage with a copy of the free newspaper retrieved from the wastebasket. He managed to get most of it but a damp sticky patch remained on the carpet.

  Spilling the coffee was the final straw. He now felt thoroughly miserable and desperately wanted to go home. He knew when he got there, Megan would be waiting for him with her smile, a hot cup of tea and a welcome, and, if he was lucky, she might even offer to massage and soothe his sore neck.

  He would tell her about the accident, complain about his day and she would listen. She always listened. She would smile at him, say the right thing and make him feel better. He wanted to feel better. He snatched his jacket off the back of the chair, and left the office.

  He had left it too late. All too soon he found himself caught up in the laboriously slow-moving traffic as the city workers tried, like lemmings, to flee to the sanctuary of the suburbs and outlying villages. An accident on the road further hampered his progress.

  He switched on the radio for company. The news proved to be the usual litany of crime, politics and the prediction of economic disaster; the weather forecast wintry showers with snow at higher altitudes. He switched the radio off and drove the remainder of the way home in gloomy silence.

  It was dark when he finally pulled into the gates of Struan Lodge. He pressed a button on a gadget on his dashboard and a hundred yards up the driveway, the signal was received. The electric garage door slid open ready to receive him. At his approach the security light came on, flooding the parking area with glaring white light and the absence of Megan's car. There would be no welcome home and no smile for him today, and his neck would go unsoothed.

  Disappointed, he edged the car into the garage. As the door glided silently home, he grabbed his things and exited through the side door to let himself into the house. He dropped his briefcase on the table and hung his jacket on a chair back.

  The kitchen was dark save for the red light on the oven. His evening meal was in there keeping warm. It would be something tasty, it usually was. Megan's cooking wasn't really as bad as she had led him to believe, but he wasn't interested in eating right now. Maybe later. Probably not. He didn't really care. He was too tired to care.

  The door to the hall stood open and a table lamp glowed gently beyond, giving out just enough light for the house to not seem completely lifeless. Apart from the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the house was silent.

  He took two bottles of chilled strong beer from the fridge, grabbed the bottle opener from its hook, and crossed the hall into his study, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 7

  Megan had been out for the morning running errands. She had enjoyed lunch at a very nice diner and returned to Struan in cheerful spirits. Uproar assaulted her as she stepped into the house and her good mood shattered.

  In his study, Nat was pacing and yelling, obviously furious. As he was on speakerphone and all the doors between them were open, she could hear both sides of the conversation quite clearly.

  The language from both parties was appalling, shocking even her with its obscenity. There was an outburst of cursing and swearing and after more than a few threats of legal action, she heard him shout a final vulgar insult…and then everything went quiet.

  The sound of breaking glass made her look up from her industrious unpacking of the morning's groceries and pay attention. Seconds later followed a strange sound, much like a voice, but with a peculiar, strangled edge. The wrenching in her gut told her something was very wrong and she abandoned her task, tearing across the hall to the study.

  Nat was on his knees, one hand clutching at the desk leg the other clawing frantically at the front of his shirt. A beaker used for holding pencils lay smashed around him on the exposed wooden floor. She ran across the room and fell to her knees before him, ignoring the shard of glass that cut into the flesh of her leg.

  He was grasping at air with rapid, shallow, ineffective breaths, his fingers scrabbling to undo his collar and tie.

  She took his hand away, loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. His hand went immediately to his throat to seek relief that did not come.

  'I…I'm having…a heart attack…help me!' he rasped, wide eyed and terrified.

  She looked him over carefully. She had seen something like this before, albeit in an instructional video and was fairly certain he wasn't having a coronary. His skin was a little pale, but not ashen and he didn't look or feel clammy. She grabbed his hand and took his pulse. It was very fast, but regular and strong. He wasn't sweating and he didn't seem to be having any pain in his chest. He was, however, hyperventilating and in grave danger of passing out
if he didn't bring it under control. She took a firm hold of his head and made him look at her.

  'Nat, shush…listen to me. It isn't your heart. You're not having a heart attack - you're breathing too fast and you're not getting enough air. You need to slow down or you're going to pass out. Do you understand?'

  It didn't appear that he did. His rapid breathing had blown off his carbon dioxide, his stimulus to breathe properly, and it was up to her to do something to correct the balance. She remembered the apples she had bought that morning and the paper bag they came in.

  She made to get up. 'I'll be one second, Nat! Don't move.'

  He grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back down to him. 'Don't…leave me,' he pleaded. 'I'm…going…to die…help me…Meg…I…don't want…to die!'

  Panicking, he took a strong, painful hold on her arm. She broke free to place her hands against his head and hold him still, forcing him to look at her. His eyes wandered from her for an instant, oxygen imbalance affecting his ability to concentrate.

  'Look at me, Nat! You're not going to die! Do you hear me? You are not going to die! I won't let you!' She shook him gently to get his attention. 'Listen to me! Are you listening?' She could see he wasn't. 'Breathe with me, dammit. Come on, slowly in…and out…and again. Come on, try.'

  Her effort was already lost cause, he was drifting toward unconsciousness. His eyes lost focus and rolled, his head flopped to his shoulder and he became an insensible, unresponsive weight. Unable to hold onto him, she let him slide to the ground where the side of his head struck the floor with a dull thud.

  Almost immediately, oblivion released him from the grip of his panic attack and his breathing began to slow, becoming deeper and more consistent.

  She strained to heave him onto his side and arrange him into a classic recovery position, snatching the cushion from the chair and sliding it under his head for what little comfort and protection it would offer. She then sat on the floor beside him to tend to her own wound.

  A small sliver of glass had pierced the fabric of her trousers and lodged itself in the skin of her knee. She rolled the leg material and plucked at the sharp shard with her fingernail, carefully working it free, all the while trying not to look at the bright red blob oozing from the nick. She managed to fight off the wave of nausea that usually accompanied even the briefest sight of her own blood.

  Nat's breathing was now regular and even and it took a little over five more minutes more before he groaned and rolled slowly over onto his back. He blinked open his eyes and stared up at her.

  'Lie still.' She took his hand to feel for his pulse again. It had slowed considerably from the hammering it had been just moments ago. Hers, however, was racing. 'Just rest,' she said. 'You'll be okay in a minute or two.'

  Ignoring her counsel, he tried to sit up. Overcome with dizziness, he lay back down.

  'Do as you're told why don't you?' she chided. 'Be still.'

  'What the fuck just happened?' he said, still groggy and rubbing at a spot on his head where a small lump was beginning to form.

  'You passed out.'

  'Wha'?'

  'You had a panic attack.'

  'Don't talk stupid, woman.'

  'You got yourself all het up over something and when you couldn't get your breath, you passed out. A panic attack.'

  'Where the hell did that come from?'

  'You were yelling at someone on the phone. I heard you when I came in. You were pretty upset. That must have been the trigger. Do you remember what it was about?'

  He frowned. 'No. I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought I was dying. Are you sure I didn't have a heart attack?'

  'Quite sure. Has this ever happened to you before?'

  'No. Never.' He rubbed at his head again and winced, obviously in some pain.

  'Let me see,' she said and ran her hand gently over his scalp, feeling the bump. He flinched again.

  'Ouch! Be careful woman, I might have a fractured skull.'

  'Don't be such a baby. It's just a bruise, nothing major.'

  He sat up carefully and rubbed the back of his neck. 'I think I'm okay now.'

  'Just a minute.' She took his pulse again. It was normal, strong and regular.

  'What's the prognosis, nurse?'

  'You'll live.' She stood and offered her hand. He took it and slowly got to his feet, supporting himself on the desk.

  'Any dizziness?' she asked.

  'No.'

  'That's good. You'll need to take it easy for a while. Shall I make you some tea?'

  He accepted the offer. 'I think that might be a good idea.'

  'Go into the kitchen while I clear up this glass, and I'll be with you in a minute,' she instructed.

  She watched as, a little unsteady on his feet, he left her to her chore. When he had gone, her knees buckled and she sank to the ground. Her self-assuredness abandoned her and her hands began to shake. Overcome by a cold shudder, her hand went to cover her mouth to stifle a cry.

  'What if I'd been wrong? What if it had been his heart after all? He could have died right here on the floor? Oh God! I could have killed him!' She pulled herself up short. 'Stop it, he's fine. It was just a panic attack and he's fine. If he had been really sick, you would know.'

  She admonished herself for being foolish and, breathing deeply, closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten, concentrating on regaining her poise. Carefully, she picked up the pieces of glass and wrapped them in a newspaper taken from the desk, all the while ignoring the small red stain on the leg of her jeans.

  It took a few moments more before she could put on a convincing mask of total serenity and join Nat in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table waiting for her. He still looked a little pale and as she passed him, she placed her hand on his shoulder as a touch of reassurance.

  She slid a mug of hot tea across the table to him, receiving a mumbled, 'Thanks,' in return. He had not spoken until then, preferring to concentrate on folding and unfolding a piece of paper, folding it backwards and forwards along a crease until it began to tear, using the idle repetition to focus his mind. He put it aside and cupped his mug with both hands. Finally, with the trace of a tremor in his voice, he spoke. 'I don't mind admitting, I was really scared there, Meg. I didn't know what was happening. It came on all so suddenly; I couldn't stop it. The more I tried to fight it, the worse it got. I was so sure I was going to die.' His voice dropped to be barely audible. 'I'm not ready to die, not yet.' He picked up the piece of paper again and carefully folded it into a small, neat square. 'Can I ask...are you a spiritual person, Meg?'

  'Do you mean…do I believe in God?'

  'Hmm,' he nodded.

  'Not as such.' She sipped her tea. She didn't know anything about his beliefs, but there was no harm in being truthful about her own. 'I believe that every natural, living thing has its own spirit,' she said. 'And some non-living things too - rocks, mountains and rivers certainly do. But if you are asking if I believe in a single, all powerful entity that dictates our lives then, no, I don't. Life is too cruel for that. I believe every man is responsible for his own actions, his own conscience and ultimately the fate of his own soul. What about you?'

  He took a moment to answer. It appeared to be something he had to think about. 'I'm not sure any more, not that I ever was. I was convinced I was dying and I…I don't know…there was a second when I thought, 'What if I do die and I get wherever I'm going…and there's nothing there. What happens to me then?' It was…unsettling.' He clasped his hands together, interlacing his fingers so tightly they were bone white.

  She could see that a brush with his own mortality had disturbed him deeply and he was trying very hard to hide it. When she placed her small, warm hand over his, she felt them relax a little. Quietly she said, 'It's over now, you got through it and you're okay, but I think you should take it as a warning not to get so stressed in future.'

  He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and slowly blew out a controlled exhalation. 'I hope to God it never happens a
gain,' he said, adding, 'Thanks for your help.'

  'I'm not going to say, 'It was a pleasure', because it wasn't. I was probably just as scared as you.'

  He huffed. 'I doubt that.'

  'No, probably not,' she agreed. 'Now drink your tea. It'll make you feel better.'

  Later that afternoon she found him asleep in his chair, his feet up on the footstool and his newspaper across him like a paper blanket. She watched him as he slept. His hands, peacefully folded across his chest, rose and fell with the regular rhythm of his breathing and his face looked relaxed and calm, the lines and frowns of stress ironed out.

  A Shakespearean quote flitted into her mind; Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.

  She reached out her hand and let it hover just an inch over his head, his hair brushing her fingers. She could touch him and feel him stir. She wanted to, but she didn't.

  Chapter 8

  Nat's panic attack had frightened him and he provisionally agreed he would try to cut down his workload and relax more. He didn't keep his word. When a major business opportunity in Ireland fell into his lap, he snapped it up.

  'You come highly recommended, Mackie and I guarantee it'll be well worth your while,' his Irish contact told him.

  It was a long way out of his usual remit and required a good deal of travel, but the lure of a large amount of hard cash at the end was too much to resist. Rather than decrease, his work and stress levels increased to nearly breaking point.

  'You said you would slow down,' Megan said when she saw the small suitcase he carried. He obviously intended to be away longer than overnight.

  'I will, I promise, as soon as I'm done.'

  'And how long will that be?'

  'I said, soon.'

  'You said that last week.'

  'Are you keeping tabs on me now?'

  She hesitated, before saying, 'You don't look well, Nat.'

  'I'm fine, stop worrying.'