by Sonia Henry
I take a step back from the tap.
‘Except now,’ he continues, ‘of course, it does make sense.’
I stare at him, wondering how long I’d have to serve in prison if I ripped the tap off the sink and charged at him with it. I imagine beating him across the head until he is lying, whimpering, in a pool of his own blood, at which point I would finish him off with a swift hard kick to the testicles.
‘So just think about it,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘Are you going to finish scrubbing in now?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ I say coldly. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to sit this one out.’ I leave the operating theatre, go down the stairs and sit in the deserted change rooms.
My medical career lies in tatters. Even if I technically can’t be sacked for kissing Dr Prince, the Joker could probably spin it to make it look as if we’ve been having a full-blown affair since the start of my internship. That would effectively destroy Jack’s career and also look very bad for me. They’d probably start to question what other sexual favours I’ve been performing to get through my neurosurgical term.
However I look at the situation, it’s a complete catastrophe. I wonder if I could just deny everything. Of course I’ll have to do that anyway, but the seed of doubt will be planted and my job at the hospital will be toast either way.
I wonder if I should go and talk to the Smiling Assassin. But as soon as the thought enters my mind, I reject it. She’s probably loaded up on so many different psych meds she’s completely out of it. And even if she wasn’t, I’d be the last person she’d want to see. I don’t want to make things any worse for her and I don’t have anything really constructive to say. Clearly she hasn’t said anything to anyone about the Joker, as he is still very much employed, and I don’t want to force her into exposing her private life, which she obviously wants to keep hidden.
I wonder if I could take some sick leave. Or move to another hospital. That’s probably my best option, I think as I pull off my scrub shirt. There’s no point in getting all upset and carrying on; I need to be pragmatic and think logically.
I’ve seen better days, I think as I zip up my bag and head out of the theatre change rooms to go home. I’ve definitely seen better days.
fifty-one
On the weekend, for the first time in a month, I make the long drive home to see my parents. It isn’t the bravest of moves, but I just don’t know where else to turn.
My parents left Sydney many years earlier and live down the coast on a small farm. It’s very peaceful there. When I look out at the green hills and the blue sky my mind is always calmed.
I tell my parents everything. I expect them to be shocked, but they’re not. I guess after twenty-nine years there’s nothing I can do that would surprise them.
‘Look, in the end,’ Mum says, ‘even though you’re an intern and they’re surgeons, you’re all just people. Jack Prince is just a person. And the Joker is just another dickhead in the workplace, like a dickhead in any workplace.’
The difference, of course, is the added complication of trying to heal people who are sick and dying, but all that really does is tack on another layer of stress. She’s right. The principles are the same as in any workplace.
‘I’d just keep your head down for a while and see what happens,’ Dad says, taking his usual slightly conservative approach, which is ironic considering he has such a wayward daughter.
‘It’s like a Greek tragedy,’ Mum muses. ‘You’ve got all the elements.’
We both smile despite ourselves.
‘Actually, darling, I bought you something,’ Mum says, standing up. ‘A book.’
Of course it is. Most gifts exchanged in our family are books. ‘Is it a good read?’ I ask.
‘No, it’s a book for you to write in,’ she explains. ‘I saw it at the post office and I thought you could use it to write down your thoughts. You’re always saying you want to write a novel.’
Mum and I share a weakness for pink sparkly things, and when she hands me the little pink hardcover notebook I love it immediately, despite it being so kitsch.
Follow your dreams! the cover urges in sparkly silver lettering.
Mum rolls her eyes, still smiling. ‘Yes, I know it’s a bit chintzy but, you know, it’s a nice colour. It’s only a small thing, but I thought you might like it.’
‘I do like it!’ I say, giving her a quick hug. ‘I’ll use it every day to write down all my feelings and how depressed I am.’
Mum, Dad and I laugh. It feels good. It makes me realise that Mum’s right; what’s done is done and I’ll just have to deal with it. It’s very easy to get caught up in the hospital hierarchy and the dramas, but the point is that what I’m dealing with isn’t actually that different to the shit most people have to deal with in their workplaces. I suppose there’s this expectation that as doctors we should all be a bit better behaved.
Even Greek tragedies have to end somehow, I muse as I fly along the highway back to Sydney on Sunday evening. (Always badly, I admit.) What I really need now is the ancient deus ex machina used to transport actors on and off the stage. The winged bird in the machine flies down and airlifts the protagonist away from their plight regardless of what wrongs they’ve committed. It’s a convenient way to wrap things up.
I never thought I’d say this, not having been a great fan of Greek tragedies at school, but if only real life were as simple.
fifty-two
The next night I’m sitting on the surgical ward on the after-hours shift, dreaming of the south of France. Going home to see my parents seems to have unlocked something in me. Mercifully, it’s a quiet night for once, so I take out the little book Mum bought me at the post office and start making some notes.
Chapter One, I write carefully with one of the hospital pens I’ve stolen from a nurse. Maybe I’ll begin with my first day as an intern, the failed cannulation?
Failed cannulation blood bath, I scrawl, chewing on the end of the pen. Or maybe a prologue? Toby Henderson perhaps, and his line about doctors not coping …
Kitty Holliday the writer is interrupted by her pager going off.
Almost immediately, the nurse appears behind me.
‘I just paged you!’ she says, sounding annoyed. ‘Why didn’t you call me back? You need to go and see Mrs Davies in bed eleven.’
‘Do I?’ I say, feeling belligerent. ‘Why?’
‘You know how we thought she was aspirating this morning?’
I grunt in response.
‘Well, ah, you know—she’s kind of been near the end …’
‘Is she dead?’ I ask bluntly.
The nurse begins to stammer. ‘Well, I—think so. I mean …’
‘What do you mean you think so? Is she dead or not?’
‘I don’t know. I want you to come and have a look. That’s your job!’
I sigh. ‘Is she breathing?’
‘No, she hasn’t taken a breath for at least five minutes.’
I bite my tongue. I know what the nurse is doing. She knows as well as I do the patient is dead but she doesn’t want the responsibility of calling it. I wonder what on earth she thinks is going to happen—that Mrs Davies will wake up after she’s told me she’s dead and then she’ll be blamed for—what? Calling a false death?
No, I think bitterly. In the ridiculous and unlikely event of Mrs Davies rising like Lazarus down in the morgue—despite the fact she never will, except in a horror movie—the nurse wants me to cop the blame.
I walk over to Mrs Davies’s bedside, where the nurses are speaking in hushed tones. I look down. Mrs Davies is indeed dead. I sigh. ‘I think she’s dead.’
The nurses look affronted, as if I should have put it more delicately. But I don’t believe in euphemisms when it comes to death. Saying ‘she’s passed’ or ‘she’s left us’ doesn’t change anything. Passed on what exactly? An auction? Left us for where—another house?
I go through the motions, then hurry out of the room.
In my haste, I nearly walk straight into the cleaner, standing with her mop outside the door.
‘Maybe don’t go in there yet,’ I suggest. ‘She’s just … died.’
The cleaner, an old Croatian lady I’ve seen on the ward before, doesn’t look surprised. ‘We must always be ready for death,’ she croaks unexpectedly in her thick accent.
‘Uh, yeah,’ I say, trying to walk past her.
‘He comes like a thief in the night.’
I stop. ‘Sorry?’
‘Thessalonians,’ she says, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Death comes like a thief in the night and we must always be ready.’
I’m lost for a response so walk away, feeling enormously unsettled. A thief isn’t welcome in my home, let alone Mrs Davies’s hospital room, but he’s come anyway and stolen her last breaths with little regard for anyone but himself.
‘Creepy Croatian cleaner,’ I mutter, feeling spooked. Who gets around in dark hospital wards saying that death comes like a thief in the night? Outside the rooms of dead patients, for God’s sake? Like, time and place, lady! Too soon!
‘Can you call her husband?’ the nurse asks, approaching from behind and making me jump.
‘Yeah, I can,’ I say, trying to ignore the hammering in my chest. ‘But shouldn’t the consultant looking after them do that?’
I call the consultant, hoping that he’ll do the awkward job of calling the family, but he asks me if I can do it.
‘Maybe just text me the husband’s mobile number,’ he says, ‘and I’ll call him later.’
‘So, do you want me to tell Mr Davies you’ll be giving him a ring?’
‘No, no!’ he says, sounding flustered. ‘Just don’t mention me! I’ll think on it.’
I stare into the receiver. Seriously? I manage not to say, ‘Thanks for nothing, fucko’, and hang up.
‘The husband, Keith, he always rings the ward around this time to check on her,’ the nurse says, hovering behind me, sounding anxious. ‘He lives pretty far away but he comes in every morning and stays till the afternoon, then calls at night to check how she is. You’d better call him straight away.’
She finds me the number for Keith Davies, and as the phone rings I flip through his wife’s chart. It looks like she’s been sick for a while. I feel a twinge of relief. He’s probably expecting it, to a certain extent.
‘Hello?’
‘Ah, hello. Is this Mr Davies?’
Suddenly his voice changes. ‘Yes,’ he says, and I hear the trepidation in his tone.
I swallow. ‘My name’s Katarina Holliday, and I’m the after-hours doctor at Holy Innocents. I’m sorry to be calling so late. It’s about your wife, Mary.’
‘What is it?’ His pitch rises. ‘What is it? She’s all right, isn’t she? I knew I shouldn’t have gone home! I was there earlier.’
I realise immediately that I’ve completely misunderstood the situation and that this isn’t an expected death at all. I’m about to say words that Keith Davies will never forget. My voice will be indelibly imprinted upon his subconscious. He won’t remember my name, but this phone call, this moment, this unwanted exchange between the two of us, will stay with him. What I am about to say will alter his life forever.
I start to feel mild panic rising in my chest. What the fuck do I say next? That she’s dead? Isn’t that too blunt? There’s no going back, so I push forward.
‘I’m so sorry to tell you this,’ I start, and I mean it, ‘but about half an hour ago the nursing staff noticed Mary’s re—’ I stop. ‘Respirations’ is a medical word. Too clinical. Too sterile. This is a human being I’m talking about. The love of his life, by the sound of it. The mother of the man’s children, for God’s sake. ‘They noticed that, ah, Mary’s breaths had started to slow down.’
‘Oh, God,’ he says, and his voice begins to break. ‘But I can drive down now? I’ll get there before she—’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say again, cruelly forging ahead. ‘They asked me to come up and see her, and I’m so sorry to tell you that around fifteen minutes ago Mary died.’
I didn’t think phone receivers could bleed, but in that moment I realise I’m wrong. Never have I felt someone else’s pain so acutely without being able to see them. His breathing is ragged, and his words are punctuated by sobs that go straight to my heart.
‘No, no, no, no, no,’ he repeats. ‘No. Please, no.’ He’s in agony. The man is in complete, soul-destroying, bone-crushing agony. I’m horrified to feel my throat closing over and tears welling up in my eyes.
‘I’m really sorry I had to tell you this,’ I say, my voice hoarse.
‘Me too,’ he says, and we both manage a bit of a laugh before he collapses into loud sobs again. ‘Where does she go now? Should I drive in?’
‘No, no,’ I say awkwardly. ‘The body—I mean Mary—will be taken to the mortuary and you’ll be able to see her in the morning.’
‘The mortuary?’ He sounds panicked. ‘What happens there? Is she on a bed?’
‘Well, um …’ I wonder how to tell him that Mary’s body will be put on a steel slab which is then pushed into a freezer.
Slab. Trolley. This was no good. No one wants to be told that the love of their life will be lying on a slab.
‘It’s sort of like a big chest of drawers,’ I say finally.
‘Mary’s going into a drawer?’
‘Well, no, not a drawer,’ I reassure him quickly. ‘It’s, ah, more like a bed, but it’s, ah …’ I really don’t want to say fridge. ‘Ah, it’s in a sort of cooling facility,’ I settle on.
By this point Mr Davies is sobbing again.
‘Keith, is someone there with you?’ I ask.
He isn’t coherent, having completely surrendered to his emotions, and another voice comes onto the phone. Keith and Mary’s daughter is as upset as her father but she keeps it together, at least for the phone call. She thanks me, and I tell her, against all my medical instincts, to go and get a bottle of whisky.
‘We’re on the reds,’ she says, and the Australian vernacular makes me smile.
‘I’ll say a prayer for your mum,’ I say, and there’s a pause. It’s weird, in the middle of all this science, hospitals, slabs, medicine—in the end, it’s the most comforting thing I can think of to do and say.
‘Thank you. That means a lot.’
‘She went peacefully,’ I say truthfully. ‘She really just sort of slipped away, the nurses said.’
I know that even if it had been a traumatic last few minutes I would have lied to her. I would have told her that Mary was prepared, that she was ready to go, that it was like she was drifting into the most peaceful sleep. I would have used platitudes like ‘she had made peace with it all’ and ‘it was her time’. I would have said all those things, even if none of them were true. Sometimes, I realise as I hang up the phone, being a good doctor is just a case of being a good liar.
That’s not a bad line. I find my new diary. Follow your dreams! it shrieks at me as I open the cover.
Sometimes, I write, being a good doctor is just a case of being a good liar.
fifty-three
‘Something weird is going on,’ Estelle says to me the next morning as I slide into a seat at our usual table in the cafeteria.
I’m tired from my late shift last night so I just yawn in response.
Estelle looks over at me. ‘I mean it, Kitty! I just got out of the lift and one of the surgical registrars got in and it looked like he’d been crying. Then, when I was coming to meet you, I walked past one of the residents and she was, like, sobbing.’
‘Job interview stress,’ I say dismissively, stifling another, bigger yawn. ‘It is that time of year.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ She looks unconvinced. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with your old registrar—she did try and kill herself.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘I saw the Shark on the round this morning, and apparently she’s close to being discharged. She’s doing much better, he said. They
’re having a meeting next week.’
The Smiling Assassin, according to the Shark, is ‘much improved’. He also said—in not so many words—that her surgical career’s probably over, in the city at least.
‘There are always jobs in the country,’ he told me uncomfortably. ‘We need surgeons out there.’
‘Life’s probably a bit more chilled out in Broken Hill,’ I said, trying to see the positives, and failing. Fabulous. Years of surgical training, sexual and emotional abuse by your superior, a suicide attempt, all for the glorious future of night shifts in Broken Hill, or equivalent.
‘Kitty! Estelle!’ The Godfather is striding towards us, looking flustered and upset.
Estelle looks at him. ‘Have you been crying?’ she asks incredulously. To me she says, ‘See? I told you something weird was going on.’
‘Is this about your job interview?’ I ask him.
The Godfather gapes at me. Something about the way he looks at me makes me pause. The old saying ‘somebody just walked over my grave’ springs to mind.
We’re interrupted by my phone ringing. It’s the Shark, no doubt about something I’ve forgotten to do for one of the patients.
‘Kit …’ The Godfather is still staring at me intensely. ‘I should tell you—’
‘I have to take this,’ I say. ‘It’s my boss.’
I answer my phone. Estelle is staring at the Godfather, he’s staring at me, and I’m trying to hold my phone while eating my lunch at the same time.
‘Is this about Mr Moretti’s bowels?’ I ask. ‘He’s passing wind today and feels like he needs to go, so I think his ileus is getting better. Do you want me to—?’
