Going Under

by Sonia Henry

  Tomas appears with three cups of black coffee, grinning. ‘Well done, Kitty!’ he says. ‘You have answered all the questions so confidently.’

  To be fair, I haven’t been asked that many questions about the poster. Everyone seems far more interested in the fact I’m from Australia. Most of the questions are about sharks and Bondi Beach.

  The Swedish approach to medical training is vastly different from the Australian one, I’m finding. Even though they’re just as keen to spend hours in theatre, probably even more so, they seem less prone to asking mean questions and teaching by humiliation. When I describe life on the ward with the Joker and the Smiling Assassin, Tomas shakes his blond head in exquisite Scandinavian confusion.

  ‘But, Kitty, you are so clever,’ he says. ‘You will be such a wonderful surgeon. I don’t understand why you are not more encouraged.’

  ‘Maybe your friend the Joker is not having enough sex,’ Wolfgang suggests.

  I smile, well aware that Wolfgang was having plenty of sex during his time in Australia.

  ‘Who is having enough sex?’ Tomas says, looking amused. ‘I know I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, me neither,’ I agree.

  We all grin.

  I am overwhelmed with warm feelings I find difficult to recognise, particularly while standing inside a hospital. I am really starting to appreciate the Scandinavian approach to surgical life.

  ‘Kitty’s hospital teaching system is more based on the American one,’ Wolfgang is saying to Tomas and another Swedish surgeon who has come over to say nice things about my poster. ‘Don’t you remember that conference we went to in Boston?’

  ‘It was unbelievable!’ Tomas recalls. ‘They invited us into theatre to watch, and I’ve never forgotten the junior doctor in there! He was like a robot!’

  Wolfgang adds, ‘The surgeon was just firing off question after question—I didn’t even know the answers to some of them—and this intern was just answering and answering and answering …’

  ‘And then, when he finally got one wrong, the surgeon started shouting about how stupid he was.’ Tomas shakes his head. ‘If we did that here, we’d be fired!’

  ‘Might make our junior doctors more scared of us, though,’ Wolfgang says with a grin.

  I feel as if I have fallen through a crack in the universe and stepped into a parallel world. The operating theatres look the same and the scrubs are the same but in other respects it’s totally, wonderfully different. I can’t believe there are surgeons other than Dr Prince who think the idea of bullying their juniors is needlessly cruel.

  I have had to travel to a hospital on the other side of the planet to rediscover my love of doctoring, but miraculously it has happened. Standing in the conference room on level four of Lund University Hospital, I feel happy with myself for the first time in a long while.

  ‘I think this will look good on my CV,’ I tell Wolfgang, feeling cheerful. ‘I reckon it’s pretty impressive.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ he says kindly, even though he’s published a million papers and regularly performs lifesaving operations. ‘We will tell Jack how great you’ve been.’

  Wolfgang insists we have a photo taken of the three of us and tells me to email it to Dr Prince. He stands over my shoulder, reading my message.

  Hi, Dr Prince,

  I made it to Lund. I’ve had a great time. Here’s a photo of me, Wolfgang and Tomas with the poster; the conference was a big hit.

  Thanks again for organising it all for me. See you back at work.

  Kitty

  ‘Say we said tjena!’ Wolfgang instructs me.

  I add: Wolfgang and Tomas say tjena, then attach the photo. I’m wearing white scrubs to match the Scandinavians. We look like evangelical Christians rather than doctors, I think.

  Wolfgang studies the photo. ‘We look like we are from a mental institution,’ he says mournfully. ‘The blue Australian scrubs are much better.’

  I laugh so hard he looks suspicious.

  ‘You were thinking the same! I know it!’

  ‘Not at all!’ My half-hearted attempts at denial are drowned out by uncontrollable laughter.

  When we have recovered our poise, Wolfgang turns to me. ‘We have planned a dinner for you tonight. Tomas spent all last night cooking. You must come.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I say.

  twenty-nine

  My already excellent mood is only improved by a message from Fabien as I am deciding what to wear to dinner with the surgeons: 32 hours. He’s right, in thirty-two hours we will be seeing each other in Amsterdam.

  I can’t wait. After months of telling myself we aren’t right for each other, the fact that I am tingling with anticipation seems to suggest otherwise. I can’t believe what a fantastic time I’m having. The research went well, the Europeans seem to like me, and soon I’ll be having wild sex with an age-appropriate hot man whom I’ve never been able to forget. Sweden, I decide, has been very good to me.

  Two hours later, I’m trying to resist as Tomas pours me another schnapps.

  ‘Tomas, you don’t know what I’m like when I’m drunk,’ I protest. ‘You have no idea what you’re unleashing.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Tomas retorts as he hands me a shot glass. ‘You’re an Australian!’

  I concede defeat, and down the drink. As they say, when in Sweden …

  I see Wolfgang watching me. He looks amused. Astrid glowers next to him, although she seems less fierce than she did yesterday. This, I’m sure, is down to the fact that I’m quite tipsy and have been regaling the gathering with accounts of my regular Friday night activities, which always involve me making a huge fool of myself and waking up not remembering what I’ve done the night before, usually sharing my bed with a pizza box. Astrid is no doubt comforted by the fact that I’m a disgraceful Australian mess and clearly no threat to her.

  ‘You know, sometimes I dream of Sydney,’ Wolfgang tells me as dinner wraps up and we put on our coats. ‘I dream of the ocean, the sun …’ He sighs, then smiles. ‘Tomas and I are coming to Sydney in a few months. We must see you there.’

  ‘I’ll have you over for dinner!’ I promise, forgetting in my schnapps-addled state that I barely know how to switch on the kettle let alone cook a passable meal. ‘It’ll be great!’

  ‘If it would not be too dull for you,’ he teases. ‘Now I know you are used to such adventurous Friday nights. You must find Sweden very boring.’

  ‘I like Lund,’ I tell him. ‘Even though I’ve only been here for two days, it has really cheered me up.’

  ‘Were you not cheerful?’ I laugh the question away, but he looks me in the eye. ‘Being a doctor is not always so fun,’ he says simply. ‘I would prefer to be James Bond, for example.’

  I’m surprised into genuine laughter. ‘No way! You’ve stolen my idea! I want to be a Bond girl!’

  Tomas walks us out, and we all exchange awkward hugs on the street. I watch as Wolfgang and Astrid stroll away, arm in arm. Then Wolfgang turns back. The streetlights illuminate his face, and he smiles at me. It’s not a longing smile, or a flirty smile. It’s the smile of a man who understands. There isn’t any attraction between me and Wolfgang Dietrich, it’s not quite like that. It’s as if we’re kindred spirits.

  ‘See you in Sydney,’ he calls. ‘You’ve promised us dinner.’

  I see it, just for a second, the glint in his eye. Wolfgang Dietrich is staring at me through his own looking-glass, behind him the crashing Australian ocean and a long mane of shining brown hair tumbling over a woman’s breasts. When I dream of Lund’s cathedral, he will dream of Sydney Harbour. It brings a new, much more personal meaning to the term ‘the grass is always greener’. Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that even as doctors we aren’t immune to the basic human desire of always wanting what we can’t have.

  thirty

  I arrive in Amsterdam and check in to the hotel only to receive a message from Fabien telling me he’s missed his flight. He’s trying to find another one
, but it’s not looking good. My buoyant mood instantly evaporates.

  When he calls me a few minutes later, I’m tempted to hurl my phone out the window into the canal. I press answer, and stare into the camera.

  When I see the worried look in his brown eyes, I feel my anger dissipating. I almost feel bad for him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kit,’ he says as his face goes fuzzy with the bad reception. ‘Don’t be angry—the bus broke down on the way to the airport.’

  ‘So now what?’ I say, trying to get my disappointment under control. ‘I only came here to see you and instead I’m all alone in this stupidly big hotel room.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats. He looks stressed. ‘I think there’s another flight tomorrow morning, so I should be able to get there by tomorrow night.’

  My frustration is rising to the surface again. ‘I just don’t understand how I’ve managed to get from Australia to Sweden, present a research paper, and fly to Amsterdam on time, and you can’t even get one lousy flight!’

  He’s saved by the lousy connection.

  ‘It’s okay, Kit,’ I hear coming through brokenly. ‘Lightning strikes, remember?’

  The connection dies just as I am considering smashing the screen with my fist. This is typical of Fabien, I tell myself. He’s just so charmingly agenda-less. Everyone else I know lives by the ticking of a clock. Fabien, though, never wears a watch and seems to just go where the wind takes him, which is why we have no future—and is also why I like him so much.

  The heart wants what it wants, Winnie says in my ear, even though she’s back home at number 19 and I’m alone in a hotel room in the Netherlands.

  Rather than drowning in self-pity, I decide to skype my housemates.

  ‘You’re alive!’ Max shrieks into the camera, slurring his words. I realise, too late, that it’s 1 am at home. In the background, I see the usual suspects.

  ‘Did you meet Fabien?’ Winnie’s face bobs onto the screen. Her voice is higher-pitched than usual and she’s holding a giant wineglass.

  ‘He missed his flight,’ I say, wishing suddenly that I was back in Sydney getting drunk with my mad friends.

  ‘What?!’ I hear Estelle exclaim indignantly. ‘What a fucking dick!’

  ‘He wouldn’t have meant to,’ Winnie defends him. ‘If you met the guy you’d understand. He never means badly, he’s just a bit …’

  ‘Hopeless?’ I say.

  ‘So, what are you going to do, mate?’ Max asks. ‘Are you going to fuck him off?’

  ‘I might wait one more night,’ I say. ‘He thinks he can get the next flight and I’ve got the hotel for three nights.’

  ‘Just go and smoke some hash and meet another guy,’ Max advises, ever the pragmatist.

  ‘Look, Kitty …’ Winnie is back. ‘If Fabien can’t make it tomorrow, just forget about it. Like, I love the guy but he needs to be more organised. You can’t put up with this shit. If he doesn’t come just fly somewhere else. Where does your flight home leave from?’

  ‘Copenhagen.’

  ‘Well, just fly back to Copenhagen.’

  ‘I agree!’ I hear Estelle shouting from behind her. ‘Kitty Holliday waits for no man!’

  I leave them to their night out—or night in—and decide to go to bed. I feel drained of energy now. The whole whirlwind trip has exhausted me.

  I sigh and switch off the light. Outside, the red-light district is just kicking off. Welcome to Amsterdam.

  I fly back to Copenhagen at five the following evening. My three-day European love fest had turned into a twenty-four-hour sob fest. The last I heard from Fabien, he was still trying to get a seat on a plane. I take Winnie’s advice and cut my losses.

  This, I tell myself, is why following your heart never works. It only leads to one place, and that’s heartbreak town. Much easier to have an unrequited crush on a fifty-year-old surgeon.

  I knock back five glasses of wine on the two-hour flight and am only prevented from requesting a sixth because the plane starts to descend. The one good thing about being back in Copenhagen so soon is that I’m a pro at the train and make it to Lund like a local. I’ve had the foresight to rebook into the Grand Hotel, and they welcome me back as if I never left—probably because it’s barely been twenty-four hours since I did leave. I decline to explain my sudden reappearance and tear-stained face, and they kindly refrain from asking.

  I don’t really know why I’ve returned to Lund when I could have flown anywhere in Europe. There’s something about the place that draws me back.

  I’m about to recommence the serious business of drowning my sorrows with the help of the minibar when my phone rings. Glancing at the screen, I see Fabien is trying to skype me.

  I press end and hope it hurts.

  He rings again.

  I press end again.

  He rings again.

  I press end again.

  He sends me a message. Pick up.

  I answer the next call, and glare into the camera. Unbelievably, he is smiling.

  ‘Kit! Where are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m here! How come you’re not in the room? The hotel people said you went out and gave them the key.’

  I start to feel a bit sick.

  ‘You said you didn’t think you’d make it,’ I say, trying not to admit to myself that it looks suspiciously like he’s standing in the hotel room I’ve just left behind in Amsterdam.

  He laughs. ‘That’s because I wanted to surprise you. But look—I’m here!’ He must notice my expression of horror because he starts to look worried. ‘You’re surprised, right?’

  ‘Very,’ I confirm.

  ‘We booked the hotel for three nights. I thought you would have just stayed here, and then I was going to make up for missing the plane by surprising you with this.’

  I resist the urge to put my head on my knees and start sobbing as he pulls out a bottle of expensive French champagne and a teddy bear in a little pilot’s uniform holding a sign saying, Sorry I’m late. Flight delayed.

  ‘Where are you, anyway? Did you move to another room?’

  ‘You could say that,’ I tell him.

  Understanding dawns on his face. ‘You’ve gone, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, what was I supposed to do?’ I shout. ‘How was I supposed to know you were planning a fucking surprise? Why can’t you just communicate like a normal person?’

  He starts laughing, half in irritation and half in disbelief. ‘This is just like that time in Zermatt when you thought I’d left you at the top of the run and you skied off in a huff. By the time I found you in the bar at the bottom of the slopes, you were drunk with a group of German guys on a bucks’ weekend.’

  ‘I thought you’d left me stranded!’

  ‘I had to go to the bathroom!’

  We yell at each other for a few more minutes, until I give in and start to laugh.

  ‘I guess I could try to find a flight to Sweden,’ he suggests, grinning. ‘Then we could fight in person.’

  Fabien and I spend our romantic night together on Skype getting drunk on the contents of our respective minibars. He looks up flights to Sweden, but they’re all over a thousand dollars one way.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he offers, opening his fifth beer. ‘I reckon Dad would lend me some money.’

  ‘Nah, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I think I might have overreacted a bit.’

  He smiles sheepishly. ‘I shouldn’t have tried for a surprise.’

  ‘I’m not much good at surprises,’ I admit. ‘Being a doctor has really killed my spontaneous side.’

  We stay on Skype until the early hours of the morning. I can’t believe it, but it’s the best date I’ve ever had.

  ‘Maybe we do better being in different countries,’ he says, his head resting on the hotel pillow, looking into the camera. ‘This has been a really good night together.’

  ‘I’m leaving in two days,’ I say sadly. ‘I don’t think we’ll get to see each other.’
<
br />   ‘I think I’m going to come home at the end of the year anyway,’ he says. ‘Life on the road is getting a bit old, you know?’

  I laugh in disbelief. ‘Sure.’

  He grins at me. ‘Maybe I’ll surprise you.’

  ‘You know how much I love your surprises.’

  I don’t believe him for a second. He’s been saying this for the last two years, so I’ve learned to ignore it. I know he thinks he means it, but then another adventure will beckon and the pull of home will be lessened by a new mountain, or a new beach—or, I think regretfully, a new girl.

  ‘Lightning strikes, remember?’ he says.

  I nod. ‘I remember.’

  It’s bittersweet, our European night together. I want to feel happy, but I can’t, then I try to feel sad, but that doesn’t quite work either.

  How do I really feel about Fabien? I ask myself after we’ve said goodbye. Love? What is that, anyway? Feelings and longings and desires … where do they even come from? Organs and blood vessels make up my body, but love and desire exist somewhere else, don’t they? Somewhere away from an operating theatre, inside the light of a candle that burns every day and night, and never dies. I hear Mum’s voice again. That bloody quote, following me around.

  Remember man that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.

  Is there any point in love if it’ll turn to ash anyway? Why waste all this time and energy on feelings that will only end up scattered as particles among the ether? At least surgery is tangible. Love is just air and words, and painful disappointment.

  Being in Lund has renewed my sense of purpose as a doctor, and that fills me with deep satisfaction. But larger questions about life swirl below the surface. Surgeons cut open skin and touch the organs that give us our life’s blood, our personalities, our souls. The intimate places that my future scalpel slices into are still shockingly unknown to me. Maybe I am afraid of feeling too much. How can I possibly be a good surgeon if I can’t learn to suppress my emotions? My head begins to ache, and I can’t think about it anymore. Doing neurosurgical training, I thought the brain was confusing—but I realise now that it’s got nothing on the heart.