Bride at Bay Hospital

by Meredith Webber

  Sam nodded at her.

  ‘Due to damage to the middle meningeal artery. Don’t start fluid. We need him in hospital a.s.a.p. so we can monitor him.’

  ‘What’s your usual procedure in these cases?’ Sam asked Simon, who explained he took acute patients straight to the big regional base hospital an hour’s flight away.

  ‘From the look of that chap’s hand, and from what we heard about the accident, I might be taking all three of them directly there,’ he added, as he followed Sam back to the vehicle, leaving Meg to take care of patient number two.

  Meg reached for the packs of swabs she’d laid out earlier and a bottle of saline solution. Blood was streaming from the man’s hand, and although his fingers hadn’t been completely chopped off, she could see they were badly lacerated, as was his palm.

  She refused to look towards the still teetering vehicle, knowing Sam was about to get into it to treat the third man. How had the movement, caused when they’d retrieved the other two, altered the arrangements?

  Could the chains give way?

  Her stomach tightened but she concentrated on the task at hand.

  Literally at hand.

  She poured the fluid over the damaged palm and fingers, hoping to dislodge any pieces of dirt or grit.

  Simon was right—the hand was so badly damaged there’d be nerve as well as tendon involvement, and fixing nerves and tendons successfully required a skill the Bay hospital medicos, no matter how good they were at surgery, just didn’t have.

  Knowing it was more important to stop further blood loss than to clean the wound, she padded the damaged hand and wrapped a soft splint and bandages around it to keep the padding in place, then found what she’d need to start a drip. The man was grey and shocky, barely conscious and no longer talking much now the rescuers had arrived. He would need fluid fast.

  Wide-bore catheter into his other hand, fluid flowing, Meg started on the other checks—the things that usually came first, but had been ignored because his conversation with them had shown he was conscious and breathing OK. Although she asked him questions and he tried to answer, his voice was hoarse. Choking on the words, he explained they’d all swallowed sand as the vehicle had rolled.

  Carefully she checked him over, finding blood soaking through the thick denim of his jeans which, when cut away, revealed more lacerations on his leg. She cleaned them up and dressed them, added pain relief to the fluid he was getting, then began to collect answers from him for the form she had to complete.

  Sam called to Simon to help him lift the third man out, and as the two men approached with their burden, the big man moved convulsively.

  ‘Brain injury? Haematoma? Surely not already! How good are you at burr-holes, Megan?’ Sam asked, setting his patient down then kneeling by Meg to roll the man onto his side into the recovery position.

  His arms flailed, but Meg wondered if it was a seizure, or whether he was simply coming out of his unconscious state.

  It seemed to be the latter, for he pushed them away and sat up, then stared at them as if Martians had suddenly landed in his life.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he demanded, trying to stand up then flopping back down again.

  ‘You had an accident,’ Meg explained, moving closer to him so she could check him again, while Sam handled the other badly injured man.

  ‘I never did!’ the big man said, and Meg pointed to his vehicle.

  ‘Who drove the bulldozer? Who did that? Who touched my bulldozer?’

  Was this an altered mental state?

  A symptom of a hematoma—unconsciousness then a period of lucidity?

  Was roaring—for he was roaring now and trying to crawl towards his beloved vehicle—considered lucidity?

  ‘Hey, man!’ Simon was there in front of him, squatting and talking quietly. ‘We needed the ’dozer to get the truck up the right way to get you and your buddies out.’

  ‘Truck?’

  The big man shook his head as if to clear it, but the movement must have hurt because he collapsed back onto the ground.

  Meg was beside him in an instant.

  ‘Lie still. We’ll get you to hospital—get all three of you there. Your mates are hurt. You want to help them, don’t you?’

  He looked at her and she was relieved to see both pupils were still of equal size, neither of them fixed or dilated.

  ‘You had to use the ’dozer?’ he said in a puzzled voice, and Simon explained again, while Meg wondered how they’d ever get him to the chopper on a stretcher—particularly as they only had two.

  ‘You OK with him while Simon and I carry this bloke to the chopper?’

  Sam’s question answered her own worry. One by one they’d get them there. But could they manage the big man’s weight?

  She knew the chopper could only safely carry four passengers, three if they were large adults. But that was Simon’s problem, she reminded herself.

  ‘Is your head aching?’

  The look the man gave her told her how stupid the question was—of course his head would be aching.

  ‘What can you remember?’

  Again he looked at her, then the hazy look in his eyes cleared.

  ‘Thommo hit the chain—the chainsaw flipped onto his arm and Joe grabbed at it. Where are they? Are they dead?’

  He’d sat up again and, as Meg had no way of stopping him, all she could do was prop her hand against his back so he didn’t topple backwards again.

  ‘One of them—Thommo, I suppose—is being carried to the helicopter. Joe’s right here. His hand should be OK but we’ve got to get both of them to hospital as soon as we can.’

  ‘I’ll go with them. They’re me mates. I’ve got to go with them.’

  He tried to stand but Meg caught his shoulder and he didn’t have the strength to shrug her off.

  ‘You can go with them,’ she promised him, hoping both Simon and Sam would agree, sure Sam would as it was obvious the man could have a brain injury and would need X-rays, scans and monitoring.

  The two men returned as she was thinking of them, and Sam squatted beside Joe, asking how he felt and did he think, if Meg supported him, he could walk so they could carry the big fellow on the stretcher?

  Joe had sat up to assure his mate he was OK, but the big man’s roar changed everybody’s mind. He would walk.

  Meg looked from Simon—small, neat and nearly fifty—to Sam, who looked fit and strong enough but beside the big man he was a midget.

  ‘If you walk with him I can carry the stretcher with Simon,’ she suggested, and although Sam didn’t seem to like the idea he agreed, though it took both him and Simon to get the big man to his feet.

  ‘Should have got him to sign a waiver absolving us from blame if he drops down dead,’ Simon said to Meg as they lifted the stretcher with Joe on it off the ground. ‘Sam, too! If he falls on Sam he’ll kill him.’

  ‘But surely, if he thinks he’s well enough to walk, he must be OK,’ Meg protested, puffing along in Simon’s wake, the soft sand making the job of carrying the stretcher harder than it would otherwise have been.

  ‘I’ve seen some funny things in the time I’ve been doing this job,’ Simon told her. ‘People as conscious and sensible as you and me, walking around and then dropping down dead.’

  ‘Hey, that’s my mate you’re talking about,’ Joe protested.

  ‘He’s OK. I think his head’s too hard to crack. He was just a bit disoriented there for a while,’ Simon assured their patient.

  But was he?

  Meg didn’t know. All she knew was that she was glad Sam had come along. She’d never have been able to manage on her own.

  Although…

  It was Simon who voiced her doubts.

  ‘You realise I can’t take all five of you on this flight,’ he said. ‘Joe seems the least badly injured, so I could leave Joe and you or Joe and Sam but I don’t think the big fellow would like the idea of leaving one of his mates behind, and I need him quiet for the flight. I’ll get
Sam to give him something to calm him down, then I’ll fly the three of them straight to the Bay—that’s a short hop and there’ll be people there to look after him or help restrain him if he gets stroppy. He can have scans there and if necessary they can put him in an ambulance to take him into town. In the meantime, I can pick up another nurse or medico to travel with the other two to town. Once there, I’ll refuel and come back to pick you two up.’

  Meg did the sums in her head. Whichever way she looked at it, she and Sam were going to be stranded here for a couple of hours.

  Meg peeled off her hot, blood-stained overalls as the helicopter departed. They were back in the first line of trees to escape the whirling sandstorm of the lift-off.

  ‘We’ve time for a swim,’ Sam suggested, and Meg stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘We’ve no togs, no towels—a swim? Are you crazy?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve swum in this lake in our underwear, Meg,’ Sam teased, though the instant he’d said it he thought of the underwear still residing in his wardrobe at home. Was all her underwear so provocative?

  ‘Yes, well,’ she said, colouring deliciously. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Piker!’

  Meg glared at him.

  ‘I’ll get burnt.’

  ‘It’s four o’clock. The sun’s lost its sting, and just look at that cool blue water.’

  Wearing the overalls was like being in a sauna and with her uniform made of some synthetic fabric, Meg was sticky with sweat.

  The cool blue water of the lake had never looked more inviting. But what underwear had she put on that morning? Which of her cousin Libby’s samples had she grabbed out of the drawer? With half of them still in Sam’s bedroom, she didn’t have much choice, but to take a peak would be a dead give-away.

  ‘I’ll go in in my uniform,’ she announced. ‘Less likely to get burnt that way!’

  Sam’s look of derision told her exactly what he thought of that excuse, but as he was busy stripping off his clothes and she was getting hotter just watching, she slid off her sensible shoes, removed an assortment of junk from her pocket and ran across the sand to dive into the lake.

  It was deliciously cool and, in spite of the hampering effects of swimming in a dress, she splashed around, thoroughly enjoying herself.

  Sam stood at the edge of the lake and watched as she porpoised through the water, diving under and coming up again, her wet hair swept back against her skull so the fine lines of her face were revealed.

  So, he realised as Meg stood up, was everything else. The wet uniform clung to her body like a second skin and the fabric, formerly opaque, had become transparent, so he could see the black triangles of the bra she wore on her full, high breasts, and the smaller triangle of very skimpy panties between her thighs.

  He should tell her.

  Embarrass her?

  He doubted he could talk anyway. His mouth was dry, his body tense, and his own skimpy jocks would be doing little to hide the rest of his reaction to seeing the veiled delights of Meg’s body.

  He dived into the lake—cold water should have the same effect whether it was falling on him or he was falling into it!

  He swam hard and fast, hoping exercise would dampen his desire, and thought it had worked until he finally swam back and beached himself on the shore.

  He looked around for Meg. She wasn’t in the water, and as he looked along the beach he saw her emerge from the trees.

  In his shirt—her sodden uniform dangling from her fingers…

  He watched as she spread it over a bush then retreated to the shade, but the image in his mind was of the scraps of black underwear beneath the wet fabric, and the thought of Meg’s mature and luscious body beneath his stained and dirty shirt undid any good the swim might have done.

  He turned around and sat on the sand at the edge of the lake, his lower legs and feet still in the water.

  ‘Borrowed your shirt,’ she said, sitting down beside him, her long legs stretching into the water beside his, for all the world as if they were ten once more—companions and best friends—relaxed and at ease with each other.

  On her side anyway!

  ‘That’s OK,’ he managed, although his mouth was dry again.

  Strange when the rest of him was positively salivating over his companion.

  ‘Love your underwear!’

  He hadn’t meant to say it but fortunately Meg laughed.

  ‘I might just as well have stripped down to it for all the good that terrible uniform did,’ she admitted. ‘It’s Libby’s underwear, actually.’

  Now, as well as feeling very randy, Sam was confused.

  ‘You’re wearing Libby’s underwear? Your cousin Libby?’

  ‘Yes. Though it’s not actually her underwear inasmuch as underwear she wears. Heavens, you remember Libby—she’d make four of me. But she designs underwear and gives me all her samples and mistakes and trial things that she’s not sure about. Free underwear. It’s not much of a saving but every little helps.’

  Sam felt intensely relieved that she didn’t buy the underwear for a man, but stronger than the relief was a desire to see it again—to see it on Meg’s body—to slowly strip it off…

  Then the words she’d said came through the fog of lust surrounding him and he backed up a bit.

  ‘Not much of a saving but it helps? And although you were living in it, you didn’t buy your parents’ house? Are you in financial trouble? Could I help?’

  She turned to face him, studied him a moment, then smiled—but there was no joy in the expression. In fact, it was a smile that could break a heart—if the person on the receiving end had one.

  Whatever—it hurt. Hurt so much he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close.

  ‘Meg?’

  He said it as an affirmation of their friendship, but it was still a question.

  He waited, watched her profile while she stared out across the lake—then saw a tear slide down her cheek.

  ‘Meg?’

  The word was more urgent now, and it seemed to jolt her from her reverie, so much so she brushed away the tear and tried a better smile.

  ‘This morning was difficult for me. Babies get to me,’ she said, and stared at the lake again.

  ‘You lost a baby?’

  She didn’t question how he knew, just nodded, but when he drew her even closer she didn’t move away, instead resting her head against his shoulder and letting the words drift from her lips—calm, quiet words, devoid of any emotion.

  ‘She was born with hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Charles—my husband—and I were both first-year med students—we’d done our premed degrees and had three years to go to qualify. We got married because I was pregnant, which in retrospect was totally stupid, then when the baby came and was in such trouble—well, we parted. The doctors in Brisbane didn’t want to operate—said she wasn’t strong enough for all the ops HLHS entails, but you know me, Sam, stubborn to the last.’

  He could feel the pain of her memories wrap around him like a net, and though his arm tightened around her shoulders, he didn’t speak. Afraid to break the spell that held them both in thrall—afraid she wouldn’t tell him more…

  ‘I had her flown to Melbourne, to specialists at the Children’s there.’ Whispered words, thick with emotion, thickening Sam’s throat just listening! ‘She had the operation—a first stage Norwood—but she died six weeks later.’

  ‘Oh, Meg, my love!’ Sam turned her in his arms and held her close, pressing kisses on her head as she clung to him while remembered grief, too deep for tears, washed through her body.

  They sat together for a long time, holding each other. His own body was suggesting more than comfort, but until Meg raised her head, and those usually clear green eyes looked hazily into his, he’d kept it under control. Her whispered ‘Sam?’ was both thanks and a request, and he caught the end of his name still on her lips as he kissed her.

  The kiss simmered with all the frustrati
on of thirteen long years apart, yet he held himself in check, slowly exploring her mouth, pressing kisses on her skin—temple, eyelids, neck. His hands explored her body, while hers pressed against his chest, then kneaded at his shoulders and dug hard into his hair.

  Slowly working lower, his kisses pushed aside his shirt to reach the soft swell of her breast, and the scraps of black lace that imprisoned her taut, peaked nipples. He heard her gasp as he took one in his mouth, teasing around it with his tongue, before suckling gently through the lace—nipping with his teeth.

  ‘Sam!’

  Would one word—his name uttered in desperation—tell him she was begging him to continue? Tell him how her body burned and ached and needed him so badly she was shaking with desire?

  Tell him only he could wash away her pain?

  Only he could bring oblivion…

  Something must have worked for he was kissing her again, whispering against her lips. One hand continued to toy with her nipple while the other found its way between her legs, sliding aside the useless black lace to tease and probe and seek that magic place where all sensation met, sliding back and forth until she cried out for release.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he murmured, sliding his hand upward over her warm, receptive skin. ‘We’ve waited thirteen years for this, Megan. There’s no rush now.’

  Wasn’t there? Her breasts were throbbing and the ache between her legs made her want to moan in protest, but this was Sam, and two could play at that game.

  His jocks were stretched tight across his thighs—soft, silky fabric with enough give in it to encompass a truly tantalising erection. She found it easily, and stroked softly, teasing at the tip until he was moaning, too.

  Then she slid her hands around his hips and eased the straining fabric downward.

  ‘Still no rush, Sam?’ she teased, as she slid her mouth down his chest towards but one destination. All constraint between them was now gone and Meg revelled in her power, although the power he held over her body was more than equal to it.

  ‘Still no rush,’ he agreed through gritted teeth, nibbling now at the skin on her neck, the two of them so intertwined it was only the stark contrast in their skin colour that told one from the other.