by Mary Hawkins
'The neurologist says he needs to have the pressure on the brain monitored for several days. Then he will be able to determine if a ventricule-peritoneal shunt may be effective.'
'A shunt?' said the dazed Jean.
'I thought you'd done most of your nurse's training,' Dr Evans growled impatiently. 'You should know what that is. If not, look it up. Now I've other patients to see. Dr Gill will answer any further questions.'
Before Jean could protest, he had gone.
'How on earth would I know what that is?' Jean muttered in a daze. 'We were to study a bit about neurological disorders that last . . .'
Anger and fear began to rise. She did know he was talking about surgery. Brain surgery!
Pompous, arrogant old goat! fumed Jean as she stood helplessly in the corridor. Her anger increased. Suddenly she was not only angry with Dr Evans, but unreasonably furious with Chris because once again he wasn't here.
Dr Gill had very little time to answer her anxious questions, but did explain that a shunt was just a tube that was placed where the fluid accumulated, and drained it away to another part of the body, usually the peritoneal cavity, where it could be absorbed without causing problems.
There were so many questions, Jean thought despairingly as she tried to explain what she could to George. What kind of tests would have to be done? What about the general anaesthetic? Could George tolerate one in his condition? Who was the neurologist who had agreed to take George as a patient?
The more frightened Jean became, the more the anger deep inside her began to brew. What was worse, she couldn't contact Peggy. She knew Chris's family, still staying next door, had gone to the Williamstown airport to pick up his father. She even rang Julie, to find she was away fitting curtains somewhere. There was no one to talk to, to ask for advice.
Only now did she realise how much she had been unconsciously relying on Chris these past weeks. But he was gone. As before, when George had been unconscious after his stroke, there was no one. She was on her own.
Reluctantly, she gave permission for George to be transferred to the huge, brand-new John Hunter public hospital first thing the next morning, as this unit had not the facilities that George would need. He had an appointment there with Dr Clark, a neurologist, in the afternoon.
George tolerated the transfer very well, but was soon asleep in his bright new surroundings. Jean relaxed thankfully in a comfortable chair in his room, and was dozing herself when the door opened again.
'Well, how's everything going?'
'Chris! How did you know ‑?'
She scrambled to her feet in amazement, but stilled when he shushed her with a finger to his mouth. His long strides took him over to the bed. He stood for a few moments staring down at George.
She stared hungrily at him. He was so good-looking in what he had once laughingly called his work clothes. The immaculate dark grey three-piece suit set off his dark, handsome features beautifully. She was feasting her eyes on him when he looked up at her. Their eyes locked. He was searching her face as eagerly as she was his.
'Let's go outside,' he murmured softly.
'How . . . how did you know we were here?' she asked him when they reached a small lounge at the end of the corridor.
He looked surprised. 'How did I . . . ?' he repeated. 'Didn't you know I arranged the bed here?'
'You! But . . .'
'Didn't you get my message?'
'What message?'
He scowled, and suddenly he was all consultant specialist. 'The message you were to be given at the unit. It was to let you know I'd meet you here as soon as possible,' he said crisply.
'Oh, Chris, I'm just so glad you're here,' she said thankfully. 'I don't know what's happening ‑'
'But I understood Dr Evans would explain everything to you yesterday.'
'Dr Evans spared me about two minutes. The RMO was run off his legs. The nurses were short-staffed. And you didn't ring me!'
His expression darkened. He stared at her furious face as all her frustration and anger burst around him.
'I did ring you. You hung up on me.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jean felt the anger drain from her at his quiet words. They stared at each other. Some emotion flickered briefly in his eyes, but then his expression became carefully blank and she could not hazard a guess at his thoughts. She looked away, and down at her twisted hands.
'You sounded too busy to be bothered with me,' she muttered.
He gave a weary sigh. 'Jean, I thought we were . . . were friends. In fact I thought we were becoming more than just friends. I don't understand why you didn't ring me sooner. And I'm never too busy for the people I ... I love. Now, exactly what have you been told?'
She searched his eyes. Had he just said he ... he loved her? All she could see was growing impatience. She looked swiftly away, afraid he would see the disappointment and yearning of her heart reflected in her own eyes. She longed so desperately to be more than just a friend. Longed for him to really love her. If only she could believe . . . believe he could love her enough always to make time for her . . .
'Jean?'
He sounded impatient, and she told him quickly all she had been informed of.
'And that's all you know?'
She looked up at the anger in his voice, and nodded.
'But you must have heaps of questions.'
He ran his hand through his carefully groomed hair, which rarely seemed to stay groomed, Jean thought with a pang. It always made him look so much less the professional and more the overworked, tired man he was, she suddenly realised as never before.
'Look, I've come straight here from Sydney. Have you had any lunch?'
She shook her head speechlessly. He hadn't even been home first.
'Right. Let's go home,' he said tersely, grasping her arm in a firm grip, and hurrying her along the long corridor to the lift.
'But George . . . he . . .'
'He'll know you'll be back to keep the appointment with Allen Clark.'
He suggested she drive her car home and he would bring her back in his later. He was waiting for her at her front porch when she drove into the garage.
'Mum's home. Let's go over there,' he said shortly.
She hesitated, reluctant to confront Naomi again, but he just grabbed her by the elbow and steered her over to Mrs Bensted's house.
After expressing surprise and joy at Chris's unexpected appearance, the women were soon fussing over them both as they prepared a quick meal. A pale-faced Naomi nodded briefly at Jean, avoiding her eyes. They were just finishing their coffee, and Chris was reassuring her about George's ability to tolerate an anaesthetic, when an elderly man strode into the room.
Jean looked up in wonder at the tall, well built man with the steel-grey hair and warm, twinkling eyes, as Chris said simply, 'This is my dad, Jean.'
'My goodness, you look like Chris!' she blurted out, and then blushed furiously as he threw back his head and laughed.
'Well, that's about the first time someone's told me I look like my son, instead of the other way round.'
It was as he threw back his head that it registered with Jean that he was wearing a clerical collar. She looked across at Chris with amazement. His father was a minister.
Chris was smiling at her. 'Didn't you know I'm a PK? A parson's kid,' he explained.
'And a typical one, too,' snorted his mother. 'Knew every trick in the book on how to rebel in his teens.'
'But we used to tell you, Mum,' Chris said in a teasing voice, 'PKs know how to rebel better than most kids because we've been taught so carefully what not to do.'
'How did the seminar dinner go last night? And what are you doing back here today, Chris?' asked his father. 'I thought you were looking forward to giving more lectures today and tomorrow at that aged-care seminar in Sydney?'
Jean looked sharply at Chris. He had been giving the lectures!
He smiled at her, the dimple very evident. 'Guess all your teaching about prio
rities is paying off, Dad. My old retired professor, Eva Summers—remember, the one who's been picking me up each day?—she agreed to fill in for me.' His expression changed, his gaze intensifying as he stared at Jean. He added simply, 'Jean needed me.'
He pushed his chair back, and stood up as he glanced at his watch. 'We'd better get back to the hospital, I'm afraid, Jean.'
She was motionless. Still staring at him unbelievingly. His smile had been so full of love for her that she knew the others must have seen it too.
'Jean needed me'.
'Jean?'
Numbly she rose and followed him out to the car. As they drove back to the hospital, Chris told her that Dr Allen Clark had been a very good friend of his for many years. He had agreed to look at George for him. Chris assured her he was a very well known and respected neurologist.
She tried to take in what he was saying, but her mind was whirling, thinking back to all the things Chris had done for them.
'Jean needed me'.
She buried the words deep in her heart, and forced herself to listen to Chris as he talked about his friend.
It wasn't until Jean was talking to the nursing staff, much later, that she appreciated just how well known Dr Clark was. They seemed to regard both her and George in awe, when they found out he had agreed to treat her uncle at such short notice.
Jean liked Dr Clark at once. He was a little older than Chris, with several distinguished streaks of grey in his hair. His twinkling eyes studied her admiringly.
'Hmm. Now I know why you sounded so urgent about helping this beautiful lady's father,' he teased Chris, and, to Jean's wonder, a dark tide of red flooded Chris face. But then his friend became very professional, and said crisply, 'Now, let's make sure you know what these tests involve.'
To their dismay, Jean and George found out that the tests would take about two weeks. As he explained it simply to them, a valve would have to be surgically implanted on the top of George's head. It would act something like a pressure-cooker valve, releasing and measuring the pressure that was being caused by the build up of the cerebro-spinal fluid. That would then allow an assessment to be made whether a permanent drain, or shunt, as he also called it, would be feasible, and, if it was, what size would have to be used. He had booked an operating theatre for the very next day for putting the valve in place.
'Try not to worry too much,' Dr Clark said gently as he looked from George to Jean and Chris. 'I would be very surprised, after examining those pictures on the scan, if, in three or four weeks, you aren't terrorising the staff back at the rehabilitation unit again.'
So it was with a tremendous feeling of relief and hope that Jean kissed George goodbye later before leaving with Chris.
As the car joined the stream of rush-hour traffic, Jean was reminded vividly of that first day she had met Chris. She glanced at him, thinking how different he looked from the bruised and battered man in filthy old clothes . . . who had even then been putting her needs first, she suddenly recognised. Even when he had thought all kinds of awful things about her!
And suddenly she knew how blind she had been these last few weeks! How immature! He stood head and shoulders over men like Tony and her father in every way.
Her heart began to ache for love of him as she feasted her eyes on the features that had so often haunted her dreams. She noticed the lines that spread from the corner of his eyes. Laughter lines. In the world of life and death that he worked in there did not seem to be a lot of occasions to laugh. And yet she had seen for herself that he had an inner strength, a deep sense of joy in what he was trying to do for elderly people whose lives were drawing to a close.
She wondered briefly how he had survived those hard years doing his residency. Suddenly there seemed so much she did not know about him. Things that would take years of living together . . . loving together . . .
'Something wrong with my face?'
His voice was taut. His hands were clenched on the steering-wheel.
She didn't know how long she had been staring at him in a dream. Confused, she straightened, and looked through the windscreen. They had stopped at a set of traffic-lights at Warner's Bay shopping centre, waiting to turn on to the road around the lake.
'Jean,' he said hoarsely as the car moved forward again, 'we have to talk.'
After a brief pause, she turned and caught his eye. He was frowning.
'Yes,' she said with sudden decision, 'we definitely need to talk.'
She thought he would wait until they reached home, but suddenly he swung the car on to a narrow track that crossed a well laid out park that went down to the water's edge. The tide was in, only a very narrow strip of sand not being washed clean by the gentle swell.
It seemed to her that in one smooth movement he had switched off the ignition, put on the handbrake, released his seatbelt, opened his door, and was on his way round the car. Then he was holding her door open, grabbing her hand as she joined him, and pulling her down a rise to some sheltering bushes.
Almost before she knew what was happening, she was hauled close to him. She was off balance, and leaning against his strong body.
It felt like heaven. It felt like coming home.
His hands slipped over her back, up through her hair at the back of her head. Then they moved to cradle her ears and cheeks as he studied her startled face with dark, hungry eyes.
'I was lying. I don't want to talk. Not yet. I just need to feel your body close to mine. To breathe in your fragrance. To touch you ... to taste your beautiful mouth . . .'
The fire was building where her body was touching his. Then it seemed as though she melted in the flames as his lips devoured hers. She was clinging to him, this time holding nothing back. A groan of ecstasy rose from deep inside her so that her lips opened. Then he was inside her mouth, and they were straining to nourish and cherish each other.
'Oh, Jean, Jean,' he moaned against her lips at long last. 'I never dreamt love could be like this. I never knew a few days away would make me so starved for the mere sight of you, the sound of your sweet voice, the touch of you, the sweet perfume of your presence. I've needed you so.'
Time ceased to mean minutes and hours. It was whispered words of how much one had missed the other. Of straining to hold each other closer. Of fingers that caressed, and flesh that burned and quivered in response.
Chris's lips at last left a trail of fire along her neck and then was smothered in the wealth of her hair as they both fought for breath, and a semblance of sanity.
At long last Jean stirred. 'I didn't know either,' she sighed softly.
'Hmm?'
'I didn't know a person could ever feel like this.'
His arms loosened enough for him to study the swollen red lips, the mass of tossed honey-coloured hair.
'Your eyes are green again,' he mused, 'dreamy green. I've never been able to forget how they flashed fire at me that first morning.'
He kissed each eyelid so very gently that a quiver shot through her trembling body. He held her closely again for a moment and then let her go with a sigh.
'I suppose we do need to talk, though.' He paused, and, as though unable to resist, trailed the back of his finger, as gently as a feather, slowly over her forehead, cheek and down to linger on her lips.
Her lips parted and kissed the long, tapering fingers. A thought crossed her mind. She took a step back from him, her hands lingering on his waist.
'Chris, when did you start loving me?'
His grin was a little sheepish. 'I have a horrible feeling it was the morning you slugged me.'
Her eyes opened wide, in disbelief, but before she could say anything he added quickly, 'Well, I realised that night that only something as strong as love could ever have got me to go into a posh private hospital and confront the formidable Sister Howard in the state I was in. But I became so confused. Nothing added up. After meeting you, I was sure Mrs Jones was just a malicious troublemaker, especially when I realised you were Aunt Maud's beloved Georgie. Then
I saw the van there last thing at night, and the next morning you waving goodbye to a man in what I thought was the same van. And you in your dressing-gown! Then another day there was someone else . . . But you still seemed to be one of the bravest, most caring women . . . Only I wouldn't acknowledge that I could have fallen for someone who . . .who . . .'He stopped, his eyes clouding. 'I'd had to accept the fact that I loved you long before I went to Sydney for the weekend. In fact, I only went to try and get away from you for a while. It was when I saw Bill touch you that I knew what I'd been told about you, and then seen proved—so I thought—just didn't make a scrap of difference. I'd never stop loving you. You can't begin to imagine the absolute relief I felt when I . . . when I ‑'
'Oh, yes, I can!'
She closed her eyes, savouring the wonder. He had loved her even when he thought she was a tramp.
'Chris, why . . . why did you talk about me to Naomi?'
A flash of sheer astonishment crossed his face.
'Why on earth would you want to know ‑? Oh.'
Concern filled his eyes. 'Did she say something to you the last couple of days to ... to upset you?'
'When they all first arrived, yes.' She paused, searching his face. 'But we met the first time when you brought her back with you from Sydney.'
'Oh.' He ran a hand through his hair with a puzzled look. 'She never said anything. I. . . I'm afraid I wasn't able to keep my confusion to myself any longer that day. On the trip from Sydney I found myself telling her all about you. How much I loved you. She told me I was a fool, and we had some sharp words. Then she told me she had just broken up with a man she still loved. He had told her so many lies to stop her finding out he was married, and had been cheating on her as well as his wife. She's still not over it.'
He held her tightly against him again, but after a few moments of bliss Jean began to say hesitantly, 'Chris, there was only ever one man I thought 1 loved enough to marry.'
His eyes darkened with compassion as she briefly told him about Tony.
'And so that added to your phobia about your inherited money,' he mused understandingly, after he had kissed her so very tenderly when she had finished. 'Is that why you withdrew from me when I told you about my dream of the rehab complex?'
