by K T Bowes
Hana sighed and shook her head, pressing her face into the front of his shirt. “It’s a disaster.”
Logan nudged her with his arm. “You know they’ll beat me if you upset them!”
“They told me to come and then wouldn’t let me in,” Hana sniffed into the front of his shirt and Logan stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry, babe. Fancy going for coffee? There must be a cafe or something in this hell hole.”
“It’s downstairs,” Hana said, delving into her bag for a tissue. “It’s too far for you.”
“Oh.” Logan’s nose wrinkled in disappointment.
“If I leave you with this bag, I could nip there and back,” Hana suggested. “Would you like that?”
Logan pressed his lips against hers and she tasted toothpaste. His beard grazed her soft skin and she sighed with contentment. “I won’t be long,” she promised.
Hana bought two cappuccinos from the vendor near the front doors and returned to her husband. She found him arguing with a nurse in the corridor. “I can sit here if I want!” He raised his voice and the woman backed away. Logan inhaled and licked his lips, regaining control. “My wife went downstairs and I’m waiting for her.”
“I’m here now.” Hana fled the elevator through half-opened doors. She rushed to his side slopping coffee over the tiles. “He’s fine with me.” She took up a defensive position, blocking Logan with her body. “I got him coffee.” Hana narrowed her eyes and thrust the drink towards Logan. He took it with a smirk.
“Fine.” The nurse put her hands on her hips. “You’re on half hourly observations. Stay out here but don’t go any further.”
They sank into the ripped leather seats, Hana heaving out a sigh of exasperation. “Are you sure you’re not in prison?” she demanded. “They’re determined to keep us apart.”
Logan rested his cup on the seat next to him and slipped his good arm around her shoulder. “I appreciate the lengths you went to trying to see me. Nobody’s done that before.”
Hana knitted her brows. “I find that hard to believe. You’re gorgeous.”
As the hour for visiting arrived, Selina appeared to commandeer Logan. She eyed Hana as though herding a dangerous animal. “You’re not serious?” Hana snapped, already bridling. Her empty cup bounced onto the tiles. “You won’t let me see him outside visiting hours and now I can sit with him, you’re taking him away again. What did I ever do to you?”
“You got me in trouble with Mr Singh.” Selina projected her petulance across the distance. “And staff nurse.”
“Well, what did you expect?” Hana stood and the girl took a cautious step backwards.
“You need to come with me, Logan.” Selina laid a plump hand on his brawny arm and Hana experienced a flash of jealous rage. Colour heightened in her cheeks.
Logan sighed with exasperation. “It’s Mr Du Rose, to you,” he corrected. “And the minute you’re done, I’m leaving.” He stood and shuffled towards the ward, casting an apologetic look at Hana over his shoulder.
Hana chatted to another patient, a middle-aged man with a hand injury who had no visitors. “I hate this hospital,” he confessed. “I feel like a lump of meat.”
Hana nodded in agreement. “My husband’s just about ready to blow. I can’t see him lasting the day.” As the words left her lips, a commotion emerged from behind Logan’s closed curtains. She excused herself and slipped through the gap to find Selina arguing with her husband.
“You can’t go home, Logan, I mean Mr Du Rose! It’s too risky.”
“What’s going on?” Hana demanded, giving Logan a chance to snatch his sweatshirt from Selina’s hands. A bright blue plaster cast adorned his left arm and he looked grey and sick.
“I’m leaving!” he snarled. “I’ve had enough.” The muscles forming his bare torso rippled and the livid scarring across his upper abdomen oozed. Pink stained piping lay in a tray on top of Selina’s trolley.
“Patch him up, please,” Hana asked, her tone sickly sweet. “Mr Singh said he could leave today if I took responsibility.” She smiled and narrowed her eyes. “I’m happy to do that.”
The nurse in charge forced Logan to sign a waiver, convinced his early discharge would herald a dreadful mistake. A porter arrived to wheel him out to the car and Logan sulked throughout the fifteen-minute journey. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled. “I’m not an old man.”
“Stop complaining,” Hana snapped. “Otherwise we’ll leave you here.”
The porter snatched the wheelchair away as Logan stood, leaving Hana to manhandle him into the low vehicle. He groaned in pain as his body folded in half to get into the passenger seat. “Wow, Super-cop loaned you his car?” Logan grunted, eyeing the walnut interior. “I bet he didn’t put me on the insurance.”
“Don’t know,” Hana answered, refusing to take the bait. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t drive for a while, anyway.”
She stopped in Ngaruawahia to collect his prescription from the local pharmacy. Dashing to the cafe next door, she snagged coffees and took them back to the car. Logan lay back in the passenger seat with his left arm resting across his thigh. The effort of escaping the hospital exhausted him and dark shadows furrowed beneath his eyes. Pain washed out his olive complexion to a deathly paleness. With a fortune’s worth of medication and a dent in her bank balance, Hana drove home to Culver’s Cottage, carrying her precious load. She concentrated on not bumping the BMW too hard over the rugged driveway.
Logan slept for most of that day and the next. By Wednesday, he seemed more lucid and sat in the lounge admiring Hana’s struggling fire. The television fuzzed in the corner, the terrible picture offering little entertainment.
“He’s an awful patient,” Hana confessed to Izzie over the phone. “The exact opposite of demanding. He asks for nothing. I fuss around him and I sense he dislikes it. I’m a rotten nurse!”
“Just think yourself lucky,” Izzie retorted. “Marcus complains non-stop when he’s sick and he speaks in this pathetic voice that makes me want to commit murder!”
“At least you don’t get sick of the sound of your own voice,” Hana mused. “I do.”
“No!” Izzie snorted. “I get sick of his!”
The diabolical television reception gave Hana a headache. The rolling screen and horrendous snowstorm formed a black and white fuzzy picture that proved impossible to watch. In frustration, she phoned an aerial company in Hamilton.
“There’s an additional cost for travel,” the salesman told her. “It’s outside our zone.
“Ngaruawahia!” Hana complained. “It’s twenty minutes from Hamilton, not somewhere in the outback!”
The man attempted to blind her with technology and Hana gave up as the projected cost escalated. She texted Bodie in frustration. Half an hour later, he replied with the number of a local fitter who came recommended by a colleague.
An hour after her call to a mobile number, the aerial specialist drank coffee in her kitchen. “$150 all up, miss,” he said, the job already complete. “You just needed a booster.” He narrowed his bushy, black brows. “Them city blokes know nothin’. All piss and wind, bro’.” He waved the home baked cookie towards the kitchen window. “My ma lives over that way, through the bush.” He took a loud slurp of his coffee and helped himself to another cookie.
Hana straightened her spine, interest in her eyes. “Really? How far away?”
“Next door from here. Five minutes by road but twenty if you walk it. You’d get sore lost if youse didn’t know the way. It’s dense bush at the bottom with streams and ridges you can’t see until you trip over them.”
Hana gazed towards the forbidding darkness of the canopy with new respect. Hone continued, “Ma’s stopped working but my stepfather still does building work. I’m surprised she didn’t call by yet to say kia ora.”
“I’d like that,” Hana said, craving female company.
“What’s them gates all about?” Hone asked, bi
ting into another cookie. “Geez miss, these taste good.”
Hana bit her bottom lip and focussed on justifying her extreme safety measures. “We work in Hamilton during the week. The gate’s for security.”
Hone nodded and expounded on a vast knowledge of the bush and Hakarimata Ranges. “I grew up playing in those mountains,” he said with longing in his voice. “Most beautiful place on earth.” After another cup of coffee and four more cookies, he left with a cheery wave.
When Logan woke later and dragged himself to the kitchen, he discovered Hana with her sewing machine set up on the large pine table. She sang to herself and hemmed another set of curtains. Logan’s entry made her jump. “Sorry.” He leaned to kiss the top of her head. “I might watch the television for a while,” he said with a sigh. “If I can bear it.”
“About that.” Hana’s face shone with excitement. “Come and see.” She took his hand and led him into the lounge. “Sit.” She held his arm while he lowered himself onto the sofa. Hana used the remote to activate the picture, watching Logan’s face as the crystal clear images scrolled across the screen.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s awesome. It gave me seasickness before with all that rolling and snow.” His grey gaze settled on Hana’s face. “You’re so kind.” He cocked his head in confusion. “I don’t deserve it.”
“You do!” Hana leaned forward and kissed his soft lips, trying not to jolt his fragile body. His self-deprecation resonated with an inner voice in her own head. She ran a finger along his cheekbone. “Logan, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in years. You deserve so much more than a television aerial.”
As the week progressed, Hana used the enforced confinement to decorate the house, painting and wallpapering while Logan rested. She sat with him in his waking hours, watching television or talking. He grew stronger as the days passed and the surgical scars lost their angry hue. The days seemed to lengthen without the restraints of a timetable and Hana relaxed into her new, sedentary life. A district nurse visited at the end of the week, buzzing the gate alarm for admittance. An older lady, she hailed from Rarotonga and showed gentleness and care over Logan’s wounds. He lay on the sofa and allowed her to examine his stomach and ribcage as she chatted about the weather. “This looks good,” she said, getting to her feet. “Keep it dry for another week or two. I’ll keep checking it.”
“Thanks.” Logan sat up and yanked his dressing gown closed to cover his stomach. He made no attempt to chat and Hana experienced a flicker of embarrassment. She cleared her throat and distracted the nurse.
“Tea or coffee?” she asked and the woman nodded, her brown eyes widening in a meaningful expression. Hana swallowed, sensing trouble.
“Coffee, please.” The nurse stayed to pack up her medical kit and joined Hana in the kitchen. She seated herself with a grunt. “I hate being on my feet all day,” she sighed. “But I love my job.”
Hana nodded and put the mug in front of her. She added a plate of muffins she made in the middle of the night when sleep evaded her. The nurse reached for the mug first. “That dressing should be fine until Monday. Any problems at all and you must take him to the surgery or back to the hospital.”
Hana groaned. “He won’t go, so it’s pointless.”
The other woman’s nod looked slowed down. “Is he always that quiet?” she asked.
“He hates hospitals.” Hana chewed her lip. “I think he’s scared.”
The nurse’s lilting Pasifika accent sounded comforting and gave Hana confidence as they chatted. “That’s understandable. He must be sick of them.”
Hana sighed. “I know there’s something wrong. Mr Singh refused to tell me and Logan won’t discuss it.”
The nurse cocked her head to one side in sympathy. “It’ll be okay,” she said, reaching across and smoothing olive fingers over Hana’s. “It won’t be anything you’re imagining.” She let go and reached for a muffin. “But tell me something.” She took a bite and exhaled with pleasure. “Yum. But I know a fall down stairs when I see one and that ain’t no injury from a fall.”
Hana’s mug wobbled and her tea spilled on the table. She watched a trail make its way towards a dip in the wood and form a pool. The weight of truth pressed on her, constricting her chest. Guilt at the official lie lay as heavy as the injustice of Tama’s attack. “I’m not sure what to tell you,” she began. “We filled in an accident form saying Logan fell down the stairs of his parents’ hotel.” Grinding her teeth gave her a splitting headache.
The nurse reached across, patting her hand. “I won’t share anything you tell me,” she promised. “But your husband’s wearing a line around his body, like somebody struck him a hefty backhand with a thin, metal object. I can see where it contacted. With the angle of it, he’s lucky to just lose his spleen and break some ribs. If it hit his kidneys, we wouldn’t be sitting here sharing coffee and cake.”
Her crime scene assessment finished, she sat back in her seat and supped her coffee. Hana’s voice emerged as a whisper. “He used a crowbar, or a wheel wrench, same thing really. His nephew hit him from behind. I wanted to call the cops but Logan’s family wouldn’t let me.” Hana sighed and let her head fall back on her neck, staring at the freshly painted ceiling through eyes that were blind and unseeing. She played out the scene with Tama like a roll of film in her head. “Logan tried to protect me and got hurt in the process.” She let her head fall forwards again and met the nurse’s steady gaze.
“Thank you for the truth,” the older woman replied. “Keep a close eye on your husband, Mrs Du Rose. He doesn’t look so good and his temperature is high. I’ve recorded it in his medical notes so if you need help, they’ll see it there.” She popped the last piece of muffin into her mouth and stood. “Stay alert for signs of fever and higher levels of discomfort. And next time, lady, call the cops.”
She left spare dressings with Hana in case and told her what to watch out for. Then she sped away in her tiny black car, powering down the drive at breakneck speed. Hana watched dust from the gravel rise above the trees and opened the gate from the lobby.
Sitting on the porch alleviated the stress which threatened to drown her. Late autumn turned the leaves to ochre and red in the expanse of bush between the house and road. Birds twittered high above her and Hana succumbed to the urge to seek solace amongst them. “I’m walking as far as the trees,” she called through the open doorway, listening for Logan’s reply and hearing nothing.
Strolling to the bottom of the front garden before the trees started, Hana peered at the only part of the road she could see. She heard the squeal of tyres and saw a flash of black, guessing the nurse had left the premises. Hana waited until she heard the gate clang shut.
In the half-painted living room, she found her husband lying on the sofa in his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. He looked overheated, sweat beading on his brow. She plonked herself in front of him on the rug, leaning back against the seat. “You’re too hot,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the roaring fire. “You put more logs on.”
“I’m cold.” He stretched forward to kiss the back of her head, slipping his arm around her shoulders. Hana sat for a moment, recognising the character on the screen.
“Why are you watching SpongeBob SquarePants?”
Logan shrugged. “There’s nothing else.” He added as an afterthought, “I haven’t seen this one. Pete’s got the DVD’s and this one isn’t on it.”
Hana half turned to look at him in disgust. He gave her a smile more like his old self and she let the worry dissipate. She turned side-on to the sofa, putting her head on the warm cream leather next to his chest. Logan cuddled her in closer and they stayed like that for a while, Hana relaxing at last. Logan watched SpongeBob’s antics above her head, snickering at the behaviour of the little yellow man.
Logan ate soup for lunch and Hana’s optimism gained traction. He went for a lie down and she attacked the wallpapering behind the fireplace. A bold print made life h
arder, but she kept going despite the level of difficulty. Their journey to the store the previous weekend seemed a lifetime ago. “Look, Tiger, you like it?” she asked the cat. He licked his paws and turned his back on her. The coving sported a gentle off-white paint, the wallpaper a mix of Tudor Rose interspersed with a filigree pattern of silver. It looked striking against the grey paint on the other walls. Hana cleared the kitchen table and used the tarpaulin, carefully carrying the wet wallpaper into the lounge.
She suffered two significant mishaps. As Hana carried one sheet of paper, folded back onto itself in its sticky state, it unravelled and stuck to the rimu floor. It tore as she tried to pull it free. “Oh no,” she wailed as the glue welded it to the wood. Hana resorted to white spirit to remove the tacky residue. The house stank with a heady, chemical odour. The second mishap occurred as Hana climbed the ladder, trying to hold the folded paper aloft at the same time as watch her footing. She wobbled, failed at both tasks and put her foot clean through that sheet as well.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Hana stamped in fury. With the wastage, she made it to the end of the wall with only one sheet to spare. With glue in her hair, she stood back and admired the instant effect.
Exhaustion rushed over her soul like a tidal wash as she paused for breath. She’d created a marathon out of sewing, painting and wallpapering, in between caring for Logan. Her body ached and her sleep patterns seemed more messed up than usual. It left her with a disturbing sense of overwhelm. Shaking herself, Hana forced the knotty fingers of depression to release her heart. She persevered with her decorations until the part which television designers called ‘dressing the room’. For her, that signified another climb up the stepladder.
When Logan stumbled into the lounge later, he just managed stop Hana plunging backwards off the ladder. Immersed in swags of silver fabric in front of the bay window, she resembled a tall grey ghost tilted backwards at a precarious angle. “Whoa,” he shouted, jerking forward to stop her falling. “Why didn’t you wait for help?” He reached up and placed his hand against the shrouded shape, which wiggled, beneath his palm.