The Practice Baby

by LM Ardor

  ‘More chips too,’ said Dee.

  ‘Fried carbs, salt, alcohol, the perfect prescription,’ said Raj.

  ‘Raj, you know this isn’t real.’

  ‘What’s not real? You can feel the sun on your back and the breeze on your cheeks. You can smell the oystery tang of the ocean and all around there’s the noise of the traffic on the bridge and your eyes are full of the harbour, of water and breezes and swimmers and blue sky and clouds. What can be more real?’ Raj waved his arms about—a conductor bringing each of the elements around them alive to their senses.

  ‘Work is more real. People who have problems; people who are dead and who have no one speaking up for them.’

  ‘Well, why not speak up for them?’

  Damn Raj; he could always get her.

  ‘It’s too hard and, anyway, it’s not my job.’

  ‘Whose job is it?’

  ‘The police, the pathologist, the coroner.’

  ‘That’s okay then. I’m sure it’ll all get sorted.’

  ‘Stop it, Raj. They don’t know Tom like I do. He’d never let his asthma get that bad. He knew what to do. He had all the right medications. Why didn’t he take them? Why didn’t he ring an ambulance?’

  Raj didn’t say anything. The ball was still in her court. He sat back, left foot up on his right knee.

  ‘Tom was up to something; I don’t think he died of natural causes.’

  ‘Do the police know all that?’

  ‘They’ll work it out once there’s an autopsy.’

  ‘And what about a crime scene? That’s in progress, isn’t it?’

  ‘Please, Raj. Let me alone for now. We’ve just lost a friend.’

  ‘And what about speaking up for those who can’t?’

  ‘Yes, yes—I’ll go to the police and tell them and make a statement for the coroner.’

  Half the second bottle of wine was gone. Her blood alcohol had reached the point where anything was possible. Tomorrow she would go back to the police station and make a statement.

  The sun went down in a blaze of pink and purple, a bruise on the edge of the sky. The warmth at her back was gone. Dee shivered, her bare arms covered in goose bumps.

  The triumphant sense of possibility, of being able to conquer the world had gone too. Her confidence that the police would take notice of her went with the sun. All she could do was hope for competence.

  Raj said he wanted to come with her to inform the police about her suspicions. Dee rolled her eyes.

  ‘They were contemptuous of me before …’

  ‘Men are better with men.’

  Dee rolled her eyes again. No Go Joe wouldn’t see Raj as the same species let alone a man.

  ‘I’m sure the police are competent. Once there’s an autopsy they’ll have a proper look at what happened. They’ll have to find out what’s going on,’ Raj said as though it were true. Dee had been there. She had to wait and hope.

  Then Dee remembered she had gone to the GP meeting last night. Beatrice would expect a driving lesson tonight. That wasn’t possible but she should at least go home to make her excuse.

  ‘I need to go while I can still walk and make dinner. I’ll let you know what’s happening.’

  Raj paid. Since he had drunk too much, he asked Gina from his office to drive Dee home in his car. When they arrived Dee had Gina park at the entrance to the cul-de-sac.

  Dee got out and walked up towards the house. She sat out of sight on the top step of a walkway down to the harbour. The trunks of the angophoras and ghost gums glowed orange and silver in the reflected light from the sunset behind her. The harbour was deep blue but for the lights of a ferry beetling its way around Middle Head. Tom would never see this beauty again. It was wrong for the world to just go on.

  A white BMW four-wheel drive drove up and stopped outside her house. Eleanor got out and waved goodbye to the passengers with her hockey stick. It must be her friend’s mother dropping her home after practice. Dee pushed herself up. It wouldn’t do to be seen slumped, drunk in the gutter.

  Dee waved as the car went past. A small dark-haired woman was at the wheel. Parvu or something similar, a full-time mother who often drove Ellie to and fro. Dee couldn’t keep up. She must ring and thank her.

  At the footbridge, Dee paused. She didn’t want to go inside but if she waited too long her kids would see her and she’d have to explain herself. She couldn’t tell Beatrice she’d been trumped by another patient’s death.

  Inside, all three of her kids were in their rooms, hopefully getting their homework out of the way. She wasn’t any later than normal.

  ‘Mum, you’re early,’ Beatrice said as she came out of her room and leant against Dee for a cuddle.

  ‘Well yes, I am. And I thought, maybe …’

  ‘A driving lesson?’

  ‘What about a movie and then dinner at the new pizza place?’

  Beatrice stood back and scrutinised her.

  ‘Who have you been drinking with? Was it Raj?’

  Eleanor and Oliver had appeared at the doors to their rooms. Her three children ready in judgement.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  The three of them nodded yes furiously.

  ‘Raj is a friend, it was a nice afternoon and sometimes your mother likes to have a drink, or two.’

  ‘Or three,’ they chimed together.

  ‘Do you want to go to the movies or not? ’Cause if you don’t I’ll have to get dinner on.’

  There was a revival of Casino Royale, the first of the Bond movies to star Daniel Craig, at the local cinema. Oliver was keen to see it on the big screen. Dee and the girls resisted but there wasn’t much else of interest so she gave in. From the stunning start, Dee was gripped and for the next two and a half hours sat suspended a couple of inches above her seat.

  11.

  A constable from Glebe Police Station wanted to interview her about the death. Dee fitted him in at lunchtime. It was good the police wanted more information, and it saved her dealing with No Go Joe, but a constable? The case wasn’t being given much priority.

  Dee picked up his card from her pigeonhole: Detective Constable Craig Mason.

  There were three men in the waiting room. He was probably the one with the shiny shoulders and scuffed shoes.

  ‘Craig Mason,’ she called from the reception counter.

  The person who stood up wasn’t the one she expected. He could have been an accountant, a young banker or stockbroker; young, late twenties, Dee guessed. Too old to have come straight from school and still be a constable—probably a graduate entrant to the police. And he was too well-dressed—sharp grey suit, ultra-white shirt and lilac silk tie.

  She met him in the corridor.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me, Dr Flanary.’ He extended a manicured hand.

  His palm was soft and moisturised but the grip was too strong. It hurt. She suppressed a wince and gave him a friendly smile.

  ‘Come through.’ Dee waved him into her room and shut the door.

  Craig headed for the chair at the desk. He was about to sit in her place.

  ‘Have a seat here. I’ll need to use the computer.’ Dee indicated the patient chair beside the desk. Craig stopped and pulled the chair out from the wall to the corner of the desk and angled it towards Dee so they were directly opposite each other.

  Dee sat and swung around to face him. Not tall, he was a natural mesomorph but looked like he kept in shape at the gym. It all said he made an effort, was ambitious and likely to be on the way up. Twenty-five years of experience as a GP also told her he was a candidate for blood pressure and cholesterol problems.

  ‘I’m making a report for the coroner on the death of Tom Harris. I understand you were his doctor?’

  ‘Yes, from when he was born, twenty-five years.’ Dee struggled to keep any emotion out of her voice or expression. Emotion wouldn’t hold much sway with Craig. Any hint that she cared would discount the value of what she said.

  ‘Yesterday you were unw
illing to sign a death certificate. Has that changed?’

  ‘No. A death certificate requires a cause of death and that’s not apparent.’

  Craig sighed and sat back in the chair. He opened his legs to point his groin at her. Once he was settled he got a small pad out from the inside pocket of his jacket and turned to an empty page ready to take notes.

  ‘Can you tell me Mr Harris’s medical history?’

  ‘The only serious illness he had was asthma. He—’

  ‘No other problems, insomnia? Anything requiring sedatives?’ Craig interrupted.

  ‘No, Tom hated drugs. His mother had a couple of boyfriends who indulged. Tom worried about his younger brother being affected.’

  ‘So have you ever prescribed any sleeping tablets for him?’

  ‘No, never. The only prescriptions he’s had have been for asthma medications.’

  ‘Are sedatives ever used for asthma?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. Anything to depress brain function could suppress the natural urge to breathe. Why are you asking about sedatives?’

  ‘Sorry, doctor, I can’t talk about our findings at this stage.’

  Her question at least stopped him harping on about drugs.

  ‘So is there anything more I can tell you?’

  ‘He had bad asthma?’

  ‘As a child he had a lot of severe attacks and ended up in hospital quite a few times. But in the last few years treatments have improved and he was doing well. He managed—’

  ‘When was the last severe attack?’ Craig interrupted again.

  ‘He managed it himself and has been stable for years.’ Dee completed her sentence in a firm voice.

  She turned away from Craig to the computer and made a few keystrokes.

  ‘His last attack was…’ She paused to regain her composure as she clicked through the record and her memories of Tom. ‘Yes, last time he was in hospital was eight years ago when he was seventeen.’

  ‘And that was asthma?’ Dee nodded. ‘Would you say he had life-threatening asthma?’

  ‘Certainly in the past, yes, but, lately, essentially no. Tom had an obsessive personality. That meant he followed instructions to the letter, and he was smart. Once he learnt to manage his asthma he never let it get bad enough to be dangerous.’

  ‘He managed it with medication?’

  ‘Yes, several different kinds. I don’t know if you know much about asthma?’

  Craig looked blank, Dee went on.

  ‘The essential problem is that the air tubes in the lungs get narrowed and blocked so that it’s impossible to get enough air out to make space to breathe in fresh air. The state of the airways—that is, the current severity of someone’s asthma—can be easily and quickly measured with a peak flow meter.’

  Dee picked up a plastic cylinder about fifteen centimetres long and seven centimetres in diameter with a numerical scale on the side.

  ‘You breathe in here.’

  She attached a cardboard mouthpiece to one end, demonstrated, put a new mouthpiece on and handed the meter to Craig.

  ‘Have a go if you want, just blow as hard and as quickly as you can into the mouthpiece.’

  Craig could not resist. He gave an almighty blow.

  Dee looked. ‘Mm, 660, that’s good, you seem to have good lung capacity.’

  Craig smiled.

  ‘Tom was obsessive about measuring and charting his peak flow. Any mild fall to warn of an attack and he would start stronger medications before it got out of hand.’

  ‘So if he was out of medication, if his puffer was empty, he could be in trouble?’

  ‘That would never happen. Tom was obsessive. He had other medications, oral prednisone as emergency backup if the puffers were ineffective, and he was on regular inhaled cortisone to stabilise things.’

  ‘But without medication his asthma was potentially life threatening?’

  Dee nodded. Craig scribbled in his notebook.

  ‘Look, constable, you don’t understand. Tom Harris looked after his asthma perfectly. It’s not possible for him to have neglected it enough to die from it.’

  ‘Is there any other reason he may have let it go?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Was he depressed, worried about anything? Could his mental condition have got on top of him, caused him to stop his medication?’

  ‘Tom didn’t have a “mental condition”. He was obsessive but not to the point of a disorder, not to the point of a diagnosable condition that interfered with his life. His obsessive personality structure was an advantage rather than a hindrance in his life. And he was happy. He had his first long-term girlfriend.’ Craig hadn’t written anything further while Dee spoke. ‘They were planning to have a baby. They went to have genetic counselling about it.’

  ‘Counselling?’ Craig sounded interested; had his pen ready to write down her answer.

  ‘Not counselling for a mental health problem, advice about the risk of autism in the baby he was planning. It’s evidence of a future plan for his life.’

  Craig diligently wrote this down.

  ‘So, doctor, what do you think was the cause of death?’ he asked without much enthusiasm.

  ‘The only explanation I can come up with is foul play.’

  ‘In a deadlocked apartment with no evidence of a break-in that’s quite a leap.’

  There was no question, no request for more information.

  She was tired of this game. Craig scribbled on. He hadn’t asked anything more about Tom’s life.

  ‘Was anything unusual found at the flat?’ Dee asked.

  ‘Sorry, any information about an ongoing investigation is confidential.’ Craig spoke with obvious satisfaction.

  The words ‘ongoing investigation’ gave Dee some hope.

  ’There were some other things you need to be aware of.’ Dee paused until he looked at her. ‘Tom was a cybersecurity analyst; essentially, a hacker. He specialised in medical systems. In the weeks before he died, he was excited about an investigation he was doing—something about designer babies.’

  Craig didn’t write anything down. His expression was blank. She might have been reciting the times tables. He’d made up his mind. For an ambitious young cop, a quick resolution of a case was a good thing. If something complicated came up, he’d have to give up the case to a senior officer. No credit there.

  ‘And there was the life insurance policy. He took it out three months ago, a $500,000 policy.’

  Craig’s eyes flickered, betrayed his interest.

  ‘Who was the beneficiary?’ he asked.

  Dee assumed it was Charlie but the timing suggested the baby plan had something to do with it.

  ‘You must have found the policy in the flat, didn’t you?’

  Craig pressed his lips together. Was he disconcerted?

  ‘Without a death certificate isn’t there an investigation, a crime scene declared?’ Dee continued.

  What sort of investigation had they done?

  ‘Well, we need to have a crime for a crime scene. It’s public money we’re throwing around if there’s a full crime scene for every sudden death.’

  Dee reminded herself that any show of her anger would ramp up the disregard he had for her into contempt.

  ‘So no investigation? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Doctor, calm down, that’s not it. If there is anything in the autopsy report to suggest the young man didn’t die of natural causes then everything will be examined.’

  Calm down? Dee didn’t trust herself to respond immediately. She stood up. ‘Would you like some water?’ she asked and left the room.

  In the tearoom she splashed water over her cheeks. Tom was dead, a cold lump of meat on a slab in the morgue, and this fool was in charge. She wanted to make him take it seriously, to listen, to care.

  Her immediate aversion to Craig wasn’t typical. It took extra time to get through the shiny tough shells of patients like him but underneath they were people too.
>
  It was his lack of regard for Tom that made her furious. Yesterday there was the vision of her hands around Joy’s miserable neck. Now she wanted to be a bird of prey; she wanted to draw blood from Craig’s smooth cheeks with her talons while she pecked out his eyes with her long, hooked beak.

  She had to stop this. Tom wasn’t her chick and it was too late to protect him.

  She took two glasses of water back into her surgery. Craig must get a hard time at the station in that outfit, she reasoned. She tried to feel sorry for him. It helped her rein in her desire to cut him down. Hopefully the autopsy would be ready in a day or two and the police would have to take Tom’s death seriously. Someone else would be put in charge. Dee hoped Tom’s flat was properly secured.

  ‘So there’s not going to be any investigation until the autopsy result?’ Dee tried to keep her voice calm.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘You might want to check out the insurance policy though?’

  ‘That’s of interest, yes.’

  ‘Well I guess there’s nothing a constable can do to change that.’ She couldn’t resist the insult. ‘I would be grateful if you could arrange for a copy of the autopsy report to come to me.’

  Craig started spluttering about privacy and procedures as she knew he would. Dee cut him off.

  ‘You’re right, of course. The request would be more effective if it came from me. Thanks for coming over here to see me.’

  Dee got up and left the office. Craig trailed after her.

  12.

  ‘Sorry, Joan, for keeping you waiting.’

  ‘No, sister.’ Joan Fellows patted Dee on the shoulder and laughed. ‘Sorry, I mean doctor. Silly old me. I know you don’t mind.’

  For Joan, women were nurses, men were doctors. Nothing would change the prejudices of a lifetime. And Dee knew that when Joan called her a nurse it was a signal of inclusion, a connection beyond doctor and patient: We’re part of the same tribe, you understand me and I feel safe you won’t use power against me.

  ‘Nothing I have to do is important and you always take the time when it’s my turn.’

  So no hurrying you then, Dee thought. It was true though, Dee could never work fast because she couldn’t ignore the real problem confessed at the end of a series of time-wasting distractions. To give people the time they needed to confess to what was really troubling them was more effective in the end. She sat facing Joan, resigned to not interrupt even as the message icon on her monitor flashed urgently at her.