The January Wish

by Juliet Madison

  ‘Top drawer, the one on the right.’ Sylvia gestured to her dresser. Thankfully her socks were kept neatly bundled in there along with only stockings and scarves. Her underwear was in the drawer on the left.

  ‘I guess you never have the problem of odd socks,’ Mark said as he opened the drawer. Her drawers had little narrow trays inside that housed everything neatly, in groups of like-colours.

  ‘I don’t understand how people say their socks go missing. You wash them, hang them to dry, roll the pair up and put them away. How hard is it?’ Sylvia said.

  Mark simply smiled his recurring smile and held up a pair of thick woolly bed socks. ‘These do?’

  Sylvia nodded.

  He slid them onto her feet, careful not to irritate her ankle, then pulled the blanket and quilt over her body. ‘If you’re right for work on Wednesday I’ll pick you up on the way,’ he offered.

  Sylvia yawned and nodded at the same time. All this excitement had worn her out and she was desperate for sleep. Mark just sat there, on the side of her bed, looking at her with an expression that seemed familiar. When had he worn that face before? Of course. It was the night they’d played candlelit scrabble. The night before they almost…

  Just as Sylvia recognised the expression, Mark’s face came closer and his breath warmed her face as his lips gently met hers. Tentatively at first, he cushioned her mouth with his, then pressed more firmly, gathering her bottom lip between his hungry lips. All the pain melted away. Forget acupuncture and pain killers, kissing won out big time. ‘Is that part of your treatment protocol for my ankle?’ Sylvia whispered when they pulled away from each other.

  ‘I’ll add it to the bill,’ he said, kissing her one last time and closing the door behind him as he walked out.

  Chapter 32

  When Mark arrived at work on Friday morning Sylvia was in the kitchen, washing out her coffee mug. He’d driven her to and from work the last two days, but today she assured him she could make her own way, as she was meeting Larissa for an early breakfast in town. He’d had dinner with her every night this week too, and spent each evening talking, laughing, and cuddling with her on the couch, except last night as Grace was there practising piano. Things were looking up, and the stab of guilt he’d usually feel around Sylvia wasn’t as strong anymore, more like a subtle tap on the shoulder. He didn’t feel completely ready for a relationship, but this was a start. They could just take things slow.

  ‘Good morning. I see you’re walking around quite normally now,’ Mark said as Sylvia put her mug away and walked up to greet him.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not too bad now,’ she said casually.

  ‘Not too bad?’

  ‘Okay, it’s much better than I’d imagined it would be at this stage.’

  ‘So you’re a total convert to natural medicine now?’ Mark asked expectantly.

  ‘Not quite. Let’s just say I’m…pleasantly surprised.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me, doctor,’ Mark said, giving her a peck on the lips. ‘How’s Grace? Is she excited about the concert tomorrow?’

  ‘She seems fine. But I think she just wants to get it over and done with. I’m going to join her at the dress rehearsal tonight.’

  ‘Well, I can’t wait to see her performance. And the others, I hear there’s quite a line-up.’

  Sylvia nodded. ‘Should be a good night.’

  ‘Hey, I forgot to ask, where did you have to rush off to yesterday?’

  ‘Oh. One of my elderly patients died. I had to examine the body and sign the death certificate,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘Sorry to hear that, are you okay?’ Mark rubbed Sylvia’s arm.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve done quite a few, I’m used to it. She was a sweetie though, Mrs Johnson. Her husband died right before Christmas last year, and her sister told me she’d never stopped setting the table for him every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When I went into the bedroom to examine her body, I noticed a photograph of her husband on the pillow on his side of the bed. The sister told me she always kept it there, couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping without him by her side. Poor thing.’

  Sylvia was silent for a moment, and Mark realised something. He knew exactly how Mrs Johnson had felt. He understood completely why she did those things. He never set a place at the table for Cindy, but he still had her picture on his bedside table, and on the wall in the entry foyer of his house. Cindy was everywhere. And there was still that mountain of boxes to sort through.

  A yell from the waiting room broke the silence. ‘Sylvia, come quick!’

  Mark and Sylvia rushed from the kitchen to see Joyce fussing over a patient in the waiting room. The overweight man was clutching his chest and had half collapsed onto the chair next to him. Another patient sat nearby, clenching the armrests of her chair, her face lined with concern.

  ‘Mr Benson,’ Sylvia said as she approached the patient. ‘It’s Dr Greene, are you having pain in your chest?’

  So that was the talkative bugger he’d spoken to on the phone on Monday evening. Mark felt a twinge of guilt for feeling annoyed with him, and hoped he’d be okay.

  Fear darkening his eyes, Mr Benson nodded. ‘And my shoulder. So tight!’ Tiny buds of sweat grew on his forehead. ‘Dizzy too,’ he panted.

  Sylvia calmly turned to Joyce and asked her to call an ambulance, then took a few pillows from the Kids Corner of the waiting room and placed them under Mr Benson’s head, lifting his feet onto the row of chairs so he was semi-reclined. ‘How bad is the pain on a scale of one to ten?’

  ‘Nine,’ Mr Benson strained.

  ‘Do you have your nitroglycerine pills with you?’ Sylvia asked.

  He nodded and pointed to a leather zip-up folder under the chair. Sylvia unzipped it, allowing it to lie open on the floor. Inside were what appeared to be copies of blood test results, prescription forms, handwritten notes, and a compartment holding a pill dispenser which Sylvia immediately opened, taking a pill and placing it inside Mr Benson’s mouth. ‘Let it dissolve under your tongue, okay? It’ll take the load off your heart and help it get more oxygen. Now concentrate on taking slow deep breaths—in and out,’ Sylvia breathed the words as Mr Benson tried to slow his breathing.

  Mark shifted back and forth from one foot to the other, adrenaline bubbling up inside. He went to ask if there was anything he could do, but refrained, as Sylvia looked like she had everything under control. And no doubt she’d yell orders if help was needed. He could help reduce the anxiety by applying some acupressure, a simple way of assisting the body without any acupuncture needles, but he’d never seen Mr Benson as a patient before, and he might become more anxious if Mark began pressing on his skin without understanding what he was doing.

  Sylvia placed two fingers on Mr Benson’s wrist and looked at her watch for a few seconds. Within a minute or two, his breathing slowed and his chest relaxed a little, however the deep furrows on his face still conveyed pain.

  Dr Bronovski came out of his room to see if his assistance was needed, but Sylvia shook her head, so he motioned to his terrified-looking patient sitting awkwardly in a chair to come through for her consultation, although her head remained turned in the direction of Mr Benson. Like a car crash, you couldn’t help but look at.

  Sylvia checked her watch again. ‘Okay, how bad is the pain now on a scale of one to ten?’

  ‘About seven,’ Mr Benson replied.

  Concern creased Sylvia’s forehead, and she turned her face towards Mark. ‘Mark, could you get the portable BP monitor from my room?’

  Mark nodded and dashed through the hallway. He grabbed the one from his own room instead which was closer to the waiting room, and gave it to Sylvia who wrapped the cuff around Mr Benson’s arm and pressed the inflation button. Mark leaned discreetly over to see the blood pressure reading. It was actually quite low. Uncommon for a man of his size, unless he’d overdosed on anti-hypertensive medication, but when associated with chest pain it could indicate a heart attack.

  Sylvia took ano
ther pill from the container. ‘Take another pill now, hold it under the tongue.’ She put it in Mr Benson’s mouth and reminded him to breathe slowly.

  Five minutes later, Mr Benson was still reporting his pain as a seven. Mark hoped like hell he’d make it to the hospital in time without going into cardiac arrest. They had an emergency defibrillator in the storeroom, but Sylvia had mentioned that in the time she’d worked at the clinic they’d never needed it. Yet.

  Through the clinic windows Mark saw the ambulance at the bottom of the hill, so he went outside to wave it over. A middle-aged female paramedic and what looked like a young recruit followed Mark inside as he explained the situation. Sylvia told them what medication she’d given and when, and Joyce brought over a print-out of Mr Benson’s patient file. Good thinking Joyce, Mark thought. Although it looked like Mr Benson’s whole medical history was inside his leather folder. Mark picked it up and carried it outside as they wheeled the patient into the ambulance, and handed it to the older paramedic as she got into the back with Mr Benson.

  ‘They’ll take good care of you, Mr Benson, hang in there,’ Sylvia said before they closed the ambulance doors.

  Sylvia had been amazing. So calm, efficient, and caring. No wonder she was popular. She may believe that her way was the only way, but she did her job well. Although maybe now she’d refer patients for acupuncture and herbal treatment after having experienced the benefits herself.

  As Mark watched the ambulance disappear down the hill, its siren waking up the neighbourhood, he realised that if Mr Benson survived, then Sylvia had quite probably saved his life by acting so quickly. He also realised something else. Without Sylvia in his life he wouldn’t have made any headway in moving forward through his grief over Cindy’s death. Sylvia’s presence, although triggering his guilt at first, also motivated him to move on. If they were going to make a go of things, he needed to step up and take responsibility for himself.

  It was time to save his own life.

  The rest of the day couldn’t go fast enough, and by the time Mark arrived home that evening his blood was filled with adrenalin for what needed to be done. He chucked his wallet and keys on the kitchen bench and charged straight into the spare room.

  He lifted the largest box first, and ripped off the masking tape holding it closed. He tipped the box upside down and piles of clothes fell out into a heap on the floor. Various fitness outfits, jeans, tops, and…Cindy’s wedding dress covered in a protective slip. A sudden sense of her presence made his knees buckle and head dizzy, but through gritted teeth he picked up another box, ripping it open and tipping it over like a wild animal on a rampage for food. Books, CD’s, and magazines spilled out on top of the clothes. The next box was heavy, so he pulled out the items one by one—various trinkets, candle holders and framed prints. Things that made a house a home. He opened another box, tipping its contents on the floor, and then another, until all the boxes were empty and the floor was littered with the rubble of his grief, his own kind of Ground Zero.

  Splinters of pain wedged themselves in his heart as he sorted through the pile, bit by bit. It could take him hours, all night even, but Mark didn’t plan on stopping till it was done.

  Chapter 33

  Sylvia was finishing off her ham, cheese and tomato sandwich out on her back deck when a knock sounded at the front door. Curious furrows creased her brow. Grace wasn’t due for another few hours. The weather was uncharacteristically warm for this time of year, and Sylvia reluctantly stood from her sun-drenched chair and walked through the kitchen to the front door.

  ‘Mark, hi,’ Sylvia said. ‘Come in.’ She thought he might give her a ‘hello’ kiss or even a hug, but he didn’t.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, giving his shoes a quick wipe on the doormat before walking inside. ‘Have you heard anything about Mr Benson?’

  ‘Yes, I called the hospital this morning. It was a heart attack, but he’s stable now,’ Sylvia replied.

  ‘Good to hear. It’s lucky you were there to help him.’

  ‘It’s lucky you rescheduled him to Friday for me, otherwise he may have had the heart attack at home with no one there to help him.’

  ‘Team effort, then.’ Mark smiled.

  ‘Yes, a team effort.’ Sylvia smiled back, then noticed Mark’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

  ‘I won’t stay, I know you’ll be helping Grace get organised for tonight.’ Mark scratched the back of his head. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’m going away for a little while.’

  ‘You are? When, where?’ A wave of discomfort rolled through her body. Mark still wasn’t ready. She knew it’d been a bad idea to let him kiss her again.

  ‘I’ll still be at the concert tonight, but I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Going to see Cindy’s parents to give them some of her belongings I’ve been holding onto. Then I’ll take a drive up north, go camping and spend some time in nature.’ Mark stood there with his hands wedged in his pockets. ‘I’ve spoken to Joyce, she’ll let my patients know. I’ve already called those booked in for Monday. I feel bad, but this is something I need to do,’ he said. ‘I’m no good to my patients if I can’t be one hundred percent focused on them.’

  Sylvia’s head nodded up and down, while her heart shook side to side in protest. But she had to let him go so he could figure out what he wanted. If he wanted her. ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Not sure, shouldn’t be too long. I’ll reassess after a couple of days and let Joyce know. I just need to go with the flow for a while and have time to think.’

  Sylvia nodded again, while mismatched words moved around her mind, trying to sort themselves into a coherent sentence. She’d never go away somewhere without knowing when she’d be back. Heck, she’d never go away without having a detailed itinerary broken into hourly increments. Something inside told her she should try it sometime. Head off into the sunset and see where the road led. Be spontaneous. Maybe Mark had come into her life to teach her that.

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll be going. I’ll see you tonight anyway,’ Mark said, leaning forward and giving her a light kiss on the cheek.

  Again, it seemed all Sylvia was capable of was nodding.

  ‘Take it easy on that ankle for a while.’ Mark pointed to her foot. ‘No climbing ladders or running around the block, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And tell Grace I said good luck for tonight.’ Mark walked down the steps and got on his bicycle, and Sylvia’s eyes followed him as he rode off down the hill.

  Later that afternoon, Sylvia woke from a brief nap and went to the kitchen to boil the kettle. While she waited for the rewarding pop of the switch as the water boiled, she unloaded the dishwasher. Glancing out the kitchen window, she saw Nancy Dillinger sitting as still as a statue on a wrought-iron bench in her garden. Her eyes were closed, and for a moment Sylvia thought she might be dead, what with Mr Benson’s close call and Mark’s dead wife playing on her mind. She went out on the back deck to get a closer look, and saw Nancy’s chest rising slowly up and down. Phew. Sylvia realised she must simply be taking advantage of the warm sun. It was good to see her outside, getting some vitamin D.

  At the exact same moment, Nancy opened her eyes and looked right at Sylvia, and a sudden pop burst from the kettle. Sylvia jumped backwards a little, her hand flying to her heart. It was like in a horror movie when you think the bad guy’s dead and then he opens his eyes. Sylvia gave a feeble wave and called out. ‘Hi, Nancy. I was just, er…’ She looked at her watch. Grace would be there in just under an hour. ‘…Wondering if you’d like to come over for a cup of tea?’ After years of neighbourly waves and nothing more than a simple ‘hello’, Sylvia had finally broken the ice.

  Nancy’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh, um…I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘No trouble. I’ve just boiled the kettle.’

  ‘Um,’ Nancy said, looking at her watch. ‘Reruns of The Golden Girls will be on soon, so um—‘

  ‘I have scones,’ Sylv
ia interjected. ‘With jam and cream.’

  Nancy pushed herself up from the garden bench. ‘Well, in that case. I’m sure you don’t want them to go to waste.’ She walked to the front of her garden with quite efficient speed for someone in their late seventies. Although the promise of a Devonshire tea could get many a tired body moving—Sylvia was surprised she hadn’t done a hop, skip, and a jump over the side fence to arrive sooner.

  Sylvia went through the kitchen and opened the front door just as Nancy was walking up the steps, and she led her out to the back deck to take advantage of the low sun before it faded away. Sylvia set down a plate of scones, still steaming after she’d heated them in the microwave, and went back in to get the tea, milk, and sugar.

  ‘These are delicious,’ Nancy said with a piece of scone in her mouth. ‘Did you make them?’

  ‘I’d like to say yes, but no. Picked these up from the bakery this morning.’ Sylvia lathered a scoop of cream onto a scone and lifted it to her mouth.

  ‘So, you don’t bake?’ Nancy glared at her like she’d sinned.

  ‘Sometimes. But I prefer to cook meals rather than cakes and things.’

  ‘Do you cook butter chicken?’ she asked with a fierce curiosity.

  Just how much could Nancy see through that window of hers? Sylvia had cooked that only a week ago. ‘Yes, I cook a mean butter chicken, actually.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Many. I’ve cooked it many times.’ No point trying to explain that mean means really bloody good.