Hard Choices

by Ashe Barker

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” Nick helps me to my feet and waits for my response.

  I nod vigorously—it never occurred to me that he might not. Nick again holds my bag, and now my jacket as well, as together we make our way down the long, clinical corridor. Nick opens the door to cubicle three. Inside we meet a motherly-looking casualty nurse dressed in purple scrubs. She has bright yellow Crocs on her feet, and I guess these are the most practical footwear for her line of work. The cubicle has two doors, the one we just entered by and another on the opposite side. This second door is open slightly to reveal the clinical efficiency of the main crash area. I can see staff in similar purple or pale blue tunics hurrying about, and what seems like enough technology to launch a lunar expedition. Our nurse, whose name badge proclaims her to be one Sheila Laycock, rank of Staff Nurse, smiles at us both. She gestures for me to scramble onto the trolley, which takes up most of the space in the small room. Nick takes the one chair at the foot of the trolley, my belongings at his feet. Staff Nurse Laycock has a clipboard in her hand and, once she’s happy that I’m properly installed on the trolley, she glances at it then at me.

  “Aphonic, I see. Would you like a British Sign Language translator or will your friend do that?” She nods in Nick’s direction, which he takes as his cue to explain.

  “Normally Freya uses sign, and I can translate. But, as you see, her hands are out of action for the time being, at least one of them is. She’s left-handed, so writing might be tricky too.” He turns to me. “Can you type with your right hand, do you think?”

  I make a rocking gesture with my uninjured hand to indicate yes, I probably could. It’ll be slow, but I’ll get by. Standing, Nick shoves his iPhone into my right hand, as the nurse gently lifts my left wrist to examine it.

  “The notes say you fell off a chair?”

  I may be imagining it, but I detect what seems to be a slightly suspicious glance directed at Nick. His exasperated eye rolling confirms my suspicion. It never occurred to me that anyone would think he did this to me, the very idea is laughable, but I suppose Staff Nurse Laycock sees enough victims of domestic violence in these cubicles to set her antennae quivering. I want to set the record straight, but even with Nick’s iPhone at my disposal communication is more than a little tricky right now. I settle for a brief nod in response to the question, but drop the iPhone into my lap to reach for Nick with my good hand. He takes it, and I squeeze, hoping the nurse will spot the gesture and interpret it correctly.

  Her mouth flattens, and I daresay the jury is still out. It’s progress, though.

  I hiss sharply as Staff Nurse Laycock gently lifts my wrist. She’s being careful but even so she presses on the bruising.

  “I’m sorry. First things first, some pain relief. Then we need to X-ray this wrist, find out exactly what’s going on here.”

  The mention of pain relief is the most encouraging thing I’ve heard since Nick told me he was on his way, and Staff Nurse Laycock is as good as her word. She bustles off, but soon comes back with a young and rather harassed-looking doctor in tow. He gives me a very cursory once-over and jots something on the top sheet of the notes attached to a clipboard on the end of my trolley. It seems this authorises Staff Nurse Laycock to administer a suitable dose of pain relief, sufficient to make me feel more comfortable. The requisite drugs are quickly produced, two white capsules and a glass of water to swill them down. I take no persuading. The staff nurse leaves us to our own devices for a few minutes to give the drugs time to take effect before she tries to examine my wrist in any great detail.

  Ten minutes later she reappears.

  “Right, are you feeling a bit more comfortable now?”

  I nod, realising that the painkiller has kicked in already and the searing pain in my wrist is already fading to a dull throb.

  “Good. I’ve ordered some X-rays for you, then the doctor will need to take a proper look. The X-ray department is along the corridor to the end, then turn right. I’ll find you a wheelchair.” At my startled expression she goes on to explain. “You’ve had a shock and you look a bit unsteady to me. It’d make me feel better anyway if you weren’t hiking around the casualty department. So, a wheelchair, then?” She nods in Nick’s direction. “You’ve brought a nice strapping bloke with you—he can shove you around.”

  Can’t he just? But I don’t bother to elaborate, just nod and wait for my wheelchair.

  An hour later, the casualty doctor has confirmed that my X-rays show my wrist to be broken in two places. But she assures me they’re clean breaks and should heal nicely. In about six weeks’ time I’ll be good as new again. She goes on to explain that I’ll be in plaster during that time, but that I should soon feel a lot more comfortable. They’ll set my wrist here in the casualty department temporarily, and I’ll need to come back to the fracture clinic at the hospital in two days to have the temporary cast removed and a proper one put on. The first pot will be heavy and feel awkward, but the next one will be a lot lighter and I’ll be able to manage better by then. She must be able to read my concerns flitting across my face as I contemplate the prospect of six weeks with my wrist in plaster, and pats my hand sympathetically.

  “I realise this is a big deal to you. You need your hands, more than most of us perhaps. But we can fix this. And in the meantime you’ve a good excuse not to do any washing up. You’ll need to keep your plaster cast dry.”

  Nick chuckles. “Freya’s not especially keen on washing up at the best of times. What about showering? Or taking a bath?”

  The doctor nods. “Yes, showers are a problem, though some people manage by wrapping the cast in a plastic bag. A bath’s easier, though, you can just keep that hand out of the water.” She looks at me sternly. “You’ll need to be very careful getting in and out of the bath. Your balance will be all over the place until you get used to the uneven weight of the cast, and it’s very easy to slip. I don’t want to be seeing you back here with the other arm broken too.”

  Me neither. I wonder if I can manage a whole six weeks without having a bath or a shower… Possibly, but I’ll need to invest in a crate or two of deodorant.

  We’re shown into another cubicle, which the staff call the plaster room. Clearly this is where pots get put on. Nick squeezes my hand and we wait patiently while Staff Nurse Laycock assembles the gear she’ll need for putting my wrist in plaster, which seems to mostly consist of a plastic bucket half full of tepid water, some rolls of bandages and a huge plastic overall. She covers herself with the overall, settles me on a bed with a splash-proof cover on, places a towel over my clothes then gets started. It’s a messy business, but within a few minutes my wrist is encased in quick drying plaster bandages. Staff Nurse Laycock arranges my wrist carefully to make sure it’s in exactly the right position before she loops the plaster around my thumb, effectively preventing any further movement in the joint. She finishes with a dry top cover then hands Nick a card with my appointment for the fracture clinic in two days’ time.

  And that’s it, I’m sorted. At least for now. The effects of the painkillers are wearing off by the time we cross the car park back to my car, but my wrist feels sort of okay now that the pot is taking all the weight. I manage to get back into the passenger seat unaided, but Nick has to click my seatbelt into place.

  As we pull away from the hospital I’m wondering how I’ll get to the clinic for my new pot to be put on, as it’s clear I won’t be driving for a few weeks. I need to ask Nick to pre-book me a taxi. I’m too shattered to concentrate on typing the message into his phone just yet, though, so I settle back to rest my eyes again.

  Chapter Two

  When I wake up, it’s to find us purring along the thickly wooded road leading from Newby Bridge down towards Cartmel. This is definitely not the quickest route from Barrow to Kendal. I glance across at Nick, frowning in puzzlement.

  He doesn’t even look at me, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. But he’s aware I’m awake, and clearly looking for some sort o
f explanation for this detour. “I thought you’d be better at mine for a few days at least. Maybe later, when you’ve got the lightweight plaster on, you’ll be able to manage. Meanwhile, you need someone to look after you and I guess that’s me. Any objections?”

  Well, that explains the detour. Now he does look at me, and I see the steely glint of the Dom in his eyes. He expects me to obey him, even though we’re not—what?—together anymore. And for my part I appreciate now that old habits die hard, and maybe not so old ones as well. I nod my acquiescence. Satisfied, Nick returns his attention to driving.

  My last thought before I drift back to sleep is that at least I can have a bath now. Nick won’t let me slip.

  I waken again when the engine dies. This time we’re outside Nick’s bungalow, the Vanquish occupying its old position in his cobbled forecourt. Nick gets out first, coming around to open my door and help me to my feet. He drops my jacket across my shoulders then reaches in to grab my bag from the back seat before looping his arm around my waist. I’m surprised by the gesture, but come to the conclusion that it must be to make sure any last lingering effects of the pain relief don’t cause me to make an exhibition of myself on his front doorstep.

  Once inside, Nick directs me into the comfortable lounge and tells me to sit down on the couch. I do, and he comes around to slip my shoes off, and lifts my feet up too. Then he stands, looking down at me, very much the intimidating Dom.

  “Right, Earl Grey, isn’t it? And, you, you don’t move until I get back.”

  Ah, bossy as ever. But not quite the Dom after all. I nod, and settle happily into the cushions. I could get to like this being looked after lark.

  A few minutes later I’m sipping hot Earl Grey, my feet on Nick’s lap as he idly massages my toes. Christ, he never did this before—it feels wonderful. Almost worth breaking my wrist for. He smiles at me and waits patiently until I finish my tea before taking the cup and setting it down on the floor. Then he shoves his iPhone into my hand instead.

  “Right, so what were you doing standing on a chair? You were standing, I take it?” He’s assumed his stern Dom tone again.

  He pauses and I nod. So far so good.

  “Right. And how did you come to fall off it?”

  He releases my foot to point at the phone, the gesture meaning me to get on with my explanation. It’s slow going, but eventually I manage to type in what happened, all about my ill-fated plan to wash my curtains, and my intention to get my flat cleaned.

  He looks puzzled. “This domestic goddess stuff isn’t your usual style, if you don’t mind me saying so. And your flat still looks like you’ve had a visit from the drug squad. What brought all this on then?”

  I was bored. I type the words laboriously, then hand the phone back to him.

  He’s not impressed. “Bored people read a good book or go shopping. In your case they make quilts or even swan off to Australia. Bored people don’t wash curtains, not as a rule. And you definitely don’t. Try again, Freya.”

  I glare at him mutinously, but he’s unmoved. He simply continues to massage my feet, and he waits. Eventually I’m the one who cracks. I know when I’m beat.

  I was missing you. I’ve been pretty miserable.

  He smiles at me, his eyes warm. “I’ve missed you too, Freya. It’s good to see you again, though I’m sorry you’re injured. Still, I’m glad you phoned me.”

  I couldn’t think of anyone else.

  “Ah, I’m wounded. I was your last resort then. Still, I’ll take what I can get.”

  And his smile reaches his eyes as he continues to roll my feet in his hands, the firm strokes sending shivers up my legs. It’s sensual but tender too, and I could sit here all day. The tension and fear of earlier in the day just melt away, I’m totally relaxed.

  “So, you’re to be my guest again, at least for a little while. I suppose I’d better get some fruit bought in. Any requests?” His eyes take on a warm glint as he carries on with his gentle teasing.

  I shrug then shake my head.

  “Right. I’ll choose then. Tesco’s online do bananas and such like. But I will need a list of things you need from your flat. I can nip round later and collect enough stuff to keep you going as you’ve turned up here in just what you stand up in. You know I much prefer you without knickers, but I expect you’ll want some spares eventually. What if you get run over by a bus?”

  I suspect I’m safe from the hazards of major road traffic accidents for the time being, but even so I hand over my keys then use Nick’s phone to make a list of essentials for him to pick up for me. Then I curl up on his settee and fall asleep again.

  * * * *

  When I awaken it’s dark outside and I’m alone in the lounge. The sound of a television is coming from somewhere, the low murmur of the voices rising and falling. It’s a football commentary. I slide my feet off the couch and place them on the floor, using my good arm to steady myself as I slowly, experimentally, get to my feet. No dizziness, no almost fainting. I think the combined effects of shock and painkillers may have worn off. I wander off in search of the football, because there, I suspect, I’ll find Nick.

  He’s in the kitchen, casually lounging at the large oak table there. Some European football match is on the television, and as I watch from the doorway he seems to be dividing his attention between that and his laptop on the table in front of him. I can just make out the Tesco’s logo on the screen so I assume he’s buying bananas. He has his back to me, so my choices seem to be I either knock or whistle. I settle for knocking, and he turns to face me.

  “Hey, looking better. The sleep did you good. I hope you’re not too hungry, though—earliest delivery slot I can get is tomorrow morning.”

  I shrug. To be honest, all I really want right now is tea. I head for the kettle, but he soon puts a stop to that.

  “No way are you getting hold of a kettle of boiling water. At least not until you’ve practised using your right hand a bit. Sit down. I’ll get it.”

  I do as I’m told—what else? And spot Nick’s phone next to his laptop so I decide to make use of it. I’m getting quite good with my right hand now.

  Thanks for being so kind. I didn’t expect you to, not after everything.

  He reads my note as he puts my cup in front of me and squeezes my shoulder reassuringly.

  “It’s no hardship, Freya. You’re very easy on the eye. You brighten the place up, even with a broken wing. I just wish you weren’t always so chatty.”

  I smile into my tea. It’s really very nice to be back.

  We spend the rest of the evening curled up together on Nick’s sofa watching television, first the end of the football, then Nick lets me flick through the channels until I find a re-run of Dirty Dancing. The story’s a bit dated now, perhaps it always was, but Patrick Swayze is just timeless. Eventually, despite having been nodding off most of the afternoon and evening, I’m yawning again.

  “Time for bed, I think. I’ve made up the bed in the spare room for you.”

  I just stare at him in astonishment. I’d assumed, naturally…

  “You’re not my trainee anymore, Freya. You’re not my anything. I don’t have the right to lay a hand on you now, let alone fuck you. You don’t have to sleep with me.”

  But I want to. Please.

  I don’t protest, though, there’s no point. He’s being incredibly nice to me, looking after me, letting me stay here. Ordering healthy food for me. I really am grateful, but he made his position about our relationship clear two weeks ago, and foot massage or not it’s obvious nothing has fundamentally changed. I nod, manage a small smile, and head off to the spare room without doing anything unduly pathetic.

  * * * *

  I can’t sleep. I was tired earlier, when we were watching television. Now I’m wide awake, my mind racing, whirling with confused, haphazard thoughts. My head is a chaotic jumble of Queen Anne chairs, dirty curtains, plaster of Paris bandages, bananas and hot Earl Grey tea. My wrist is sore, but not so much that
it’s that that’s keeping me awake. My biggest problem is the fact that Nick Hardisty is sleeping just in the next room, and I’m stuck in here on my own. I don’t feel quite as alone as I did back in my apartment, but it’s not enough. I need to be with him, properly with him.

  I reach out and switch on the bedside light. It’s after two in the morning—I’ve been lying here for over two hours, just churning over the day’s events in my head. And I keep coming back to the same place, the same core fact. No matter what he might have said to me, no matter how many times he tells me we don’t have a future together, when I needed him he came. No messing, no questions asked. He just came. That must mean something. And on that thought I slide out of bed and head for the door. The hallway is in darkness, but I remember there’s a light switch just outside my door. I fumble for it—the last thing I need is to trip up in the dark, break something else.

  Nick drove back to my apartment while I was asleep on his sofa and brought me a couple of pairs of pyjamas, but I didn’t bother to put any on when I got ready for bed. I just stripped off my clothes and slid into bed naked. I don’t bother now as I make my way silently along the hallway to Nick’s bedroom door. I open it softly, and for long moments just stand in the doorway watching him sleep. I wonder if he’d notice if I were to creep in and snuggle up alongside him. I don’t even need to go under the duvet, and I could sneak back to the spare room before he wakes up.

  “Are you looking for a nightdress?” Not asleep then. Nick’s low voice rumbles from the bed, and he props himself up on one elbow to watch me.

  I shake my head and he continues to hold my gaze. It’s just like old times. Well, almost.