Going Under

by Sonia Henry

  ‘Ask our intern a question,’ the Smiling Assassin is saying to Dr Johnson. ‘She needs to get better at her anatomy.’

  I realise all eyes are now on me to start naming the damaged blood vessels in the mangled brain on the projector. I forget about Dr Prince and start taking deep breaths to combat my rising anxiety. I stutter something about the basilar artery which sounds semi-right, but Dr Johnson’s look of disgust suggests otherwise.

  The meeting passes in a blur of humiliation, and as soon as the last slide has been shown I nearly knock my chair over in my attempt to be the first to leave. Dr Prince, amazingly, beats me out the door, and I watch his back disappearing towards the safety of the private hospital.

  The Shark is surrounded by his surgeon mates congratulating him on his show of dominance, including the Joker, and I use this opportunity to leave the area before they remember how badly I performed at question time.

  ‘Kitty!’ I walk out of the conference room and hear someone calling my name. I look up to see Estelle, charging down the corridor towards me. ‘I came to find you. Let’s get a coffee!’

  Estelle has tracked me down to plan our trip to the country, which, unbelievably, is only a week away. I’m still not reconciled to the idea, but at least I’m now distracted by my research paper for Dr Prince and his German surgeon friend, the wonderfully named Dr Wolfgang Dietrich. With a name like that he must be a bit of fun, surely, I think to myself. Between Mozart and Marlene he’s got all his creative bases covered. Dr Prince emailed me last night with the opening words, Shouldn’t take too long, followed by millions of links to articles that looked like they’d take years to wade through. The quiet life of the country might be a good place to focus on my more academic, rather than alcoholic, pursuits.

  Wingabby is around nine hundred kilometres from Sydney with a population of seven thousand and nearly as many birds, or so Estelle tells me, adding that the region is also famous for its orange trees. Every big city teaching hospital has a rural sister hospital, all in the spirit of helping out our smaller hospital siblings. In keeping with that spirit, the consultants refuse to go anywhere near the place, so junior doctors are sent to represent the hospital instead. The hospital newsletter always has photos of smiling city doctors standing with local Wingabby council members, proudly proclaiming what a great addition we make to the rural community. Max, on seeing one such photo, told me that he slept with one of the doctors in the picture and knew for a fact that the city doctors were only smiling because they were all high when it was taken.

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ Estelle says with an optimism that is clearly forced. ‘I think it’ll be fun to work somewhere different for a change. Everyone here is so obsessed with status. It’ll be nice in the country. Surely they’re a bit more relaxed out there.’

  Our conversation is interrupted by the Joker calling to inform me that my show of ignorance at the meeting has reflected poorly on him, and that I need to go to the ward to discuss with him how I can improve myself. I sigh.

  ‘See you on Saturday, mate,’ I say to Estelle, reluctantly standing to go back to hell.

  Maybe Estelle’s right, I muse as I take the lift to the ward, where the Joker and the Smiling Assassin are waiting to administer my daily flogging. Wingabby could be a bit of a relaxing tree change, a chance to recharge the batteries.

  The Joker pushes past me as I enter the ward. He looks annoyed. ‘There’s been a problem in theatres—get out of my way,’ he snaps. ‘We’ll have to do teaching later. Go and round with the registrar.’

  My momentary reprieve is short-lived as I realise the Smiling Assassin is waiting for me.

  ‘God, I wish I was anywhere but here,’ I mutter to Lawrence as we wrestle with the printer to sort out the patient list. ‘I can’t believe my next stop is the middle of nowhere for three months.’

  ‘Where would you go instead?’ he asks.

  I let my mind transport me to all the places I dream about. ‘I really like the south of France,’ I say, considering. ‘I’ve been there once, and I loved it.’

  ‘The list is missing the new patients who came in overnight.’

  Lawrence and I snap to attention to see the Smiling Assassin bearing down on us.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lawrence says, kindly taking the bullet. ‘I was distracting Dr Holliday by asking her which part of the world she’d most like to visit.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ She looks up. ‘Where?’

  Lawrence and I exchange a glance. This is some kind of trap, no question.

  ‘The south of France,’ I say finally.

  A funny expression passes over her face. ‘Do you speak French?’ I laugh. ‘I wish. I did it for a few years at school but I’m pretty hopeless.’ I make the little sign between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Je parle un peu français.’

  For a second her face reminds me of my own when I’m transporting myself mentally to a preferred destination.

  ‘I love the south of France,’ she says suddenly.

  There’s an awkward silence.

  ‘You know what they say: speak in French when you can’t think of the English for a thing,’ she says, looking up at us almost shyly.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  She sees my expression.

  ‘Turn your toes out when you walk. And remember who you are!’ we recite together.

  Lawrence’s mouth is on the ward floor.

  ‘Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass,’ I say in amazement. ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she says abruptly. ‘It’s not important.’ Her lips tighten, and she stares down at the patient list intently, as if it will provide the answers to the meaning of existence.

  ‘Okay … well, we can fix the list for you,’ Lawrence says, looking uncomfortable; it’s bizarre to have an exchange with the Smiling Assassin that doesn’t involve her yelling at anyone.

  ‘Hurry up about it,’ she snaps. ‘I have to go to theatre.’ She backs away, already pulling on her scrub cap. ‘Call me if there are any problems.’

  We watch as she rushes out of the ward, blue scrub jacket flying behind her.

  Call her if there are any problems? What?

  ‘Was she just being, like, nice?’ Lawrence sounds confused. ‘How did she know that quote? Do you reckon her mum’s an English teacher like yours?’

  I shake my head. ‘God, who knows? Maybe she’s getting the flu or something.’

  I look at the list, and sigh. My pager starts to beep. I look down at it.

  Mr Smith in bed 4 bowels not open five days pls review.

  I make the executive decision to take the battery out of my pager and leave it on the desk.

  ‘Come on, Lawrence,’ I say to his shocked expression. ‘Let’s go get a coffee and look at how much flights to Paris cost.’

  Mr Smith’s bowels can wait. They’ve been waiting nearly a week with no movement; another hour won’t be the end of the world, or his colon. Plus, I’m about to be deprived of city comforts for a while. Wingabby might be spoiled for choice when it comes to bird species, but I doubt you can say the same when it comes to coffee.

  fifteen

  I wake up gradually, clambering out of sleep, and roll over slightly. What time is it? Have I slept through the alarm? I fumble for my phone, feeling the weird panic that assails you in the space between asleep and awake. It’s only 3 am. Phew. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a shape lying in the bed beside me.

  I gasp, knowing immediately that something is very wrong. Dread hits me like a blow.

  Something’s here.

  I swallow.

  Something is next to me. Something is next to me. Something has come for me. I know I have to look but I’m terrified. The fear is so intense it is visceral. Please, just make it leave.

  Just breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.

  I reach out tentatively to touch it but it doesn’t move. I’m not surprised. I know what it is. There’s a corpse lying next to me in my bed.

&nbs
p; Just stay calm, I tell myself. It’s only a dead body. You’ve seen lots of dead bodies. They can’t hurt you. And you can’t hurt them.

  In my dreamlike state I vaguely wonder why there is a corpse in my bed. Is it haunting me?

  Katarina, says the voice of reason buried deep in the layers of my subconscious brain. Listen to me.

  How can I make the dead body go away? I wonder frantically.

  Kitty, says the voice, get up. Get up and turn on the light.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, and feel tears starting to form. The panic floods through my brain. It’s roaring in my ears, hammering my chest. I feel bile rising in my throat. Oh my God, I’m going to be sick.

  Get up! the voice commands. Get up and turn on the light!

  I throw back the covers and in two giant steps have reached the switch on the wall. White brightness floods my vision.

  In an instant I’m completely awake. I look down and see I am still wearing my scrub top from yesterday. I must have fallen asleep before I could get changed. I glance over at my bed.

  There’s nothing to see but crumpled sheets.

  I shut my eyes. A nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

  Just a nightmare.

  I sit down on the edge of my corpse-free bed and run my fingers through my hair. My hands are trembling.

  ‘Kitty?’

  I look up to see Winnie and Max standing in the doorway.

  ‘Kitty, are you all right?’ Winnie asks.

  I can only gape at them.

  ‘Have you been called in to work?’ Max asks, looking at the scrubs I am still wearing. ‘Is that why you were screaming? I thought you were going to the airport this morning.’

  ‘I was screaming?’ I say.

  Winnie’s forehead is creased with worry. ‘We thought you were being fucking murdered! The whole street must have heard you.’

  ‘I had a nightmare,’ I say lamely. ‘Sorry I woke you.’

  ‘I think you’re just a bit stressed,’ Winnie says, coming over to sit next to me. ‘You’ve had such a stressful time on surgery. And now going to the country.’

  ‘I …’ I clear my throat, but my voice is shaking. ‘I …’

  Winnie looks appalled. ‘Oh, Kit. Look at you. My poor little Kitty.’ She envelops me in a big, warm hug.

  The tears fall like rain. I don’t even know why I am crying, but I can’t seem to stop. I keep trying to apologise but the sobs erupt from me, a tidal wave I cannot hold back. It’s as if finishing my first surgical term and knowing I am leaving Sydney has allowed this small crack inside my subconscious to open, and now it won’t close.

  The images swirl around me. The Joker sneering as I answer another of his questions wrong. Mr Waters’s face as he shakes on the bed, his heart rate dangerously high as he haemorrhages blood. Laura the intern vomiting on my shoes at our house party. Toby Henderson’s voice. How do you cope? You just don’t.

  Was this me not coping? Was I acopic?

  Acopic. You’re acopic. Doctors and nurses love to use the word.

  What the fuck does it even mean? We’re ordinary people in extraordinary situations; who wouldn’t be fucking acopic?

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ I say, fighting the weird rising anger, taking breath after breath, trying to will myself to calm down. I need to get control of myself and my emotions. Get a fucking hold on yourself, Holliday. Winnie keeps her arm firmly around me. She is an anchor in a wild ocean of I don’t even know what. Max is looking worried.

  I glance at my phone. It’s 3.10 am. In four hours, I have to get up and go to the airport to fly to another hospital. All I do is go from one fucking hospital to the next.

  I close my eyes. I’m standing in a ski field in Switzerland, staring at that fantastic mountain. I’m smiling. There’s sunshine and powder and a beautiful man with brown eyes smiling back at me. My breathing gets easier. For a second, I forget about the hospital. Then I remember I’ll be back to work tomorrow. I almost roll my eyes. No one will realise when I walk through the doors of the ward, but the truth is that I never actually left.

  PART II

  life

  ‘Out beyond the ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.’

  —Rumi

  sixteen

  Looking down from the tiny plane all I can see is light yellow, the grass starved by drought, and winding through it like a snake the deep brown of the Murrumbidgee River.

  ‘It looks fucking hot out there, man,’ Estelle says, craning to see past me.

  ‘Apparently you can swim in the river,’ I say without much enthusiasm.

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t believe they’re allowed to just send us out to the middle of nowhere like this,’ she says. ‘But, you know, that’s medicine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed,’ I agree. ‘They did this to us as students and now again as real doctors. It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘Being a doctor is just one big game of rural bingo,’ Estelle says mournfully, leaning back in her seat and massaging her temples. ‘I can hardly wait to check out our new drinking hole—the RSL club.’

  Not for the first time, I consider filing a lawsuit against the producers of Grey’s Anatomy for false advertising.

  Several hours later and the reality that we’re stuck in Wingabby for a little over two months is starting to sink in.

  We’re sitting on the couch in a fibro house that is decorated exclusively in shades of brown. Estelle is staring out the window.

  ‘I haven’t seen any birds yet,’ she complains. ‘Isn’t this place meant to be, like, bird central?’

  There’s a rustling outside our front door. I sit up. ‘Do you think it’s a bird?’ I try not to sound scared.

  The bird knocks on the door, then yells, ‘Guys! Open the door! It’s so fucking hot out here!’

  Estelle looks at me. ‘Are we expecting someone?’

  I have no idea who our visitor is but, appreciating how sweltering it is outside, I go to the door and open it.

  A man is standing there, looking thoroughly aggravated.

  ‘Fuck, Katarina.’ He sounds annoyed. ‘I’ve been trying to find you for ages.’

  I examine his face carefully, and realise we know each other. It’s one of the other interns from the hospital. I think I might’ve spoken to him once in the first week and then I never crossed paths with him again. Pete someone or other. I recall someone telling me that he’s super uptight and gunning to do cardiothoracic surgery, and repress a groan. Great. We’re stuck in a tiny town in baking heat with a junior version of the Joker.

  ‘Thank God I found you,’ he says. ‘Do you have any cigarette paper? I really need to roll a spliff. I’m fucking desperate.’ Then, seeing Estelle’s less-than-impressed expression as she realises who he is, he adds defensively, ‘I’ve brought my own weed, and three bottles of wine.’

  My mouth is open.

  ‘It’s a bit warm,’ he says apologetically, ‘but at least it’s something.’

  ‘Is this a test?’ Estelle’s staring at him suspiciously. ‘Like, we aren’t falling for it.’

  He looks as if he’s about to protest, but we’re distracted by the creaking of hinges as someone else pushes open the door and enters the house.

  The first intruder seems relieved. ‘Thank God you found the bottle shop. Can you please tell Kitty and Estelle that I’m not a psycho and find me some tobacco paper?’

  ‘It’s all right, guys,’ Max says, walking through the door with a carton of beer. ‘He’s clean.’

  I don’t know whether to be more surprised by the appearance of Max, who’s meant to be back in Sydney about to start his surgical term, or by his apparent friendship with our uninvited guest.

  ‘By clean he means really dirty,’ the uninvited guest explains.

  Max throws himself onto the couch and grins. ‘Ladies, it’s time you met the Godfather.’

 
Max and the Godfather met for the first time at the airport gate, we learn. They were the only two on the afternoon flight to Wingabby who weren’t wearing Akubras, so they correctly assumed they were both junior doctors on the way to their rural secondment. The Godfather, formerly known to us as uptight heart surgeon wannabe Pete, was drinking from a hip flask of whisky. On identifying Max, he immediately offered him a sip.

  Max, who was about to start his surgical term, had managed a swap at the last moment with a girl who had anxiety issues and claimed special consideration. Figuring he was going to be sent to Wingabby at some point anyway, Max had decided he’d rather go with his mates, but instead of just telling us the good news like a normal person, he’d decided to surprise us with a dramatic entrance.

  By the end of the ninety-minute flight, Max quite liked uptight heart surgeon wannabe Pete. As well as sharing his flask of Jack Daniel’s, Pete revealed that to earn extra money on the side of junior doctoring he dealt marijuana; he’d already lined up some connections in Wingabby. Max rightly acknowledged him as the Godfather, and the name has stuck.

  ‘We thought you were obsessed with being a cardiac surgeon,’ Estelle says as we gaze at him in amazement. ‘But you’re actually a pot dealer!’

  ‘I also dabble in a bit of blow now and again,’ the Godfather says. He’s puffing away happily on the spliff he’s creatively fashioned out of a page of Estelle’s emergency medicine pocket book.

  ‘You kept that quiet!’ Estelle, not normally impressed by any doctors, looks floored.

  ‘I find it best to keep my private life private,’ he says sensibly, leaning back on a mouldy cushion. ‘And I was interested in cardiac surgery for a while, but I’ve changed my mind since.’

  ‘Sensible,’ I say, thinking back to my own experience on surgery and shuddering.

  ‘The G wants to do anaesthetics now,’ Max says cheerfully, opening his third beer. ‘The access to restricted prescription drugs appeals to him.’