Hana Du Rose

by K T Bowes

  Logan retched again and then plunged face first onto the rug, landing with a grunt. Hana dropped to her knees, pushing the bucket aside and calling his name. “Logan, Logan!” Hysteria bled into her voice and panic tightened her chest. He didn’t respond as Hana patted his cheeks and called his name, her breath coming in terrified hitches.

  The ambulance arrived ahead of Bodie. He ran from the passenger side of Amy’s car and opened the gate using the keypad. The big truck moved through without waiting. Both vehicles laboured up the steep driveway to chaos. Hana appeared from the front door, tears streaking her cheeks. “I can’t wake him up,” she sobbed. “He threw up and lost consciousness.” She spoke to her gathered audience, her expression pleading for help. Noticing her son climbing from Amy’s car, she stopped in confusion. “Did they call you?”

  “No, Mum.” Bodie took a step towards her and saw the wild fear in her eyes. “Jas wanted to see you.” He waved his arm towards the car as Amy moved it down the slope and out of the way of the ambulance. “What happened?”

  The paramedics proved competent, moving with practiced calm and asking logical questions. They filtered Hana’s panicked answers and assessed Logan’s condition. “Set up fluids,” the female officer said to her colleague after peering into the paste bucket. “Internal haemorrhaging.”

  Hana shook her head and forced out her words. “It’s wallpaper paste,” she said, watching as the male heaved Logan onto his back. The man shook his head at the pool of blood beneath him.

  “Internal, external. It’s coming from every-bloody-where.”

  “I’ll set it up.” The woman looked over his shoulder and waggled her eyebrows at the state of Logan’s stomach. The male paramedic sighed and reached backwards into his medical bag. His colleague touched him on the shoulder. “You patch him up. I won’t be long.” She left the room, avoiding Hana as Bodie pulled her aside.

  “Let them do their job,” he told her, his tone calm and reassuring. Hana squeezed her eyes closed as the paramedic stripped the gauze from Logan’s wounds and blood pooled in the cavity. Her mind tore her in two between wanting to see everything and keeping her eyes from witnessing the horror. Bodie spoke to the paramedic in low, professional tones, informing him of Logan’s recent operation and discharge from hospital. They conversed without Hana’s input. She stared at her new lobby curtains folded on the armchair and her small victory turned to ash in her mouth. She wished she’d spent the afternoon watching Logan instead.

  The female officer returned to the lounge and set up a bag of clear fluids. She exclaimed as blood squirted from Logan’s vein and stained her shirt. “Geez, you’re a bleeder, Logan,” she said, her voice jovial. “You trying to raise my laundry bill?”

  “All good here.” The male paramedic stood. “I’ve packed the wound. It’s open. Something else is going on inside though. His blood pressure sucks.”

  Hana whimpered and Bodie shoved her towards the paramedics as they hoisted Logan’s limp body onto a trolley. “He’ll be fine, Mum. Go with the medics and tell them whatever they want to know.” He gave her a warning look. “Tell them everything. I’ll follow you in Amy’s car.”

  Hana swallowed. “But Logan said something different on the form.”

  “Everything, Mum. Tell them how it happened. If it’s important, they need to know.”

  Hana nodded, willing to betray Logan’s trust if it meant saving his life. She heaped fresh curses on Tama’s absent head as she climbed into the heavy vehicle and belted herself in.

  Through the tinted windows, she saw Amy walk Jas up the porch steps and through the front door. The child clutched a card in his fingers and his face screwed up in misery. “I want my new poppa,” he wailed, waving the blue card. Porch light scattered sparkles across his hair as Amy led him inside. Hana closed her eyes against the sight of his distress and jumped as the woman swung the ambulance into the slope to make the tight turn back onto the driveway.

  Logan vomited twice more on the way to the Waikato Hospital and the tension in his muscles caused the wound to leak with more violence. Blood seemed to spray from inside and outside his poor body until the paramedic resembled an axe murderer. Desperation made Hana silent, staying out of the way while the competent paramedic handled each new crisis with clinical precision. He inserted pipes, tubes and needles into her husband, taking regular readings from a monitor above Logan’s head. “He’s burning up,” he called to the driver and she put her foot down harder on the pedal.

  Hana stared at Logan’s pink cheeks and blame licked at her psyche. “I covered him up,” she admitted, fear making her voice waver. “I lit a fire but got the wrong wood. I needed dry, not wet, but I didn’t realise. It’s all my fault. I caused this.” Her eyes looked huge and frightened, like saucers in her pretty face.

  The paramedic took pity on her. “You didn’t cause this,” he reassured her. “It’s common after spleen removals and I suspect there’s a sepsis somewhere. Did the surgeon prescribe antibiotics after the op?”

  “Yes,” answered Hana, as her mind did cartwheels with the information. “He took them. I don’t understand.”

  The paramedic stopped listening and turned away as a machine to Logan’s left bleeped out a frantic wail. He fiddled with the blood pressure cuff on Logan’s arm. Then he leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Put the lights on, Sal and warn them to get ready. Blood pressure is dropping. I’ll try to get him stabilised but my guess is this guy’s going straight into surgery.”

  As the driver pressed a button on the dashboard, Hana saw the red glow spin around her. The statistics he quoted and the ensuing discussion between the professionals went over her head as white noise. Hana concentrated on the strobe as it reflected off the river and the windows of silent houses. It felt surreal. Her throat ran dry and she coughed with the effort of swallowing. She knew how this scene played out and remembered the feelings of denial and loss. She lost one husband. It couldn’t happen again. Her lips moved with a familiar mantra. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered. “This isn’t happening.”

  Reaching the hospital reminded Hana of a game of Monopoly. Everyone wanted the card that entitled them to collect two hundred pounds and pass the square marked, ‘GO.’ Hana suspected she’d drawn that card as she skipped the crowded waiting room and Logan’s gurney spun through the doors to the resuscitation area without stopping. Faces stared through the glass from the waiting room as patients nursed broken bones, cuts and headaches. Hana found herself surplus to requirements as medics surrounded her husband. One man barked orders and the room silenced for the paramedics to give their verdict. They squeezed her out towards the fringes, a frantic bystander as they poked and prodded Logan, asking questions he didn’t answer. They behaved as though he did, nodding and continuing conversation with a man deep in unconsciousness.

  “Just a wee injection, Logan.”

  “Let me know if that hurts, Logan.”

  “Stay with me, Logan.”

  “Logan, can you hear me? Logan…”

  Hana couldn’t bear to leave, but found it terrible to remain. She discovered a little stool in a corner and sank onto it, putting her head between her knees. The heat in the room coupled with her own fear made her sick to her stomach. Acid rose into her throat and she took deep breaths to stave off the nausea. Her mother’s advice. She heard Judith McIntyre’s voice speaking into her memory. She never sounded like other mothers. How could she form words she never heard? Hana felt the lack of a mother as a physical ache. She reached for Judith’s facial features and saw only a dark haze. She owned nothing of her mother’s, banished before Judith’s death. No photographs, no keepsakes, nothing. Yet she remembered her voice. Stilted words spoken with love.

  The memory soothed Hana, urging her to fight. She sat up slowly in response to a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her delicate stomach gave an angry lurch. “Mrs Du Rose?” The name sounded alien on the doctor’s lips and sadness engulfed Hana. Her new name, s
poken only by medics so far.

  “Mr Singh.” Relief swarmed through her veins at the sight of Logan’s surgeon. No turban this time, but the same gentle face. She sensed he recognised the terror in her eyes.

  “Your husband is very sick,” he said and Hana knew she blanched even though she tried not to. “We’ll put him in intensive care overnight once we’ve assessed him. I suggest you ask a family member to sit with you.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring rub and moved away to deal with Logan. Medics swarmed around him like players in an orchestra, responding to his conductor’s baton.

  Hana ran through the day in her mind as a nurse offered her a drink of water. She accepted it with shaking fingers and spilled most of it. “He seemed better today,” she said, hearing the appeal in her voice. “He ate lunch and watched television. I suggested he took a nap and this happened.” Hana’s eyes widened. “I thought sleep was good for you.” Knowing her ramblings meant nothing, Hana silenced.

  Her husband lay flat with monitors affixed to his body and numerous lines piercing his veins. Hana swallowed her water and listened to the medical terms and instructions without understanding. Mr Singh issued orders. “Be extra careful putting lines in. Is that Factor 8 here yet?”

  “Factor 8.” Hana moved the words around her tongue as a memory blossomed. She’d heard them before. Not heard. Seen them written down.

  “Can I get someone for you?” a nurse asked and Hana nodded.

  “Yes please.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Pastor Allen blasted into the room where Hana waited with Bodie. The pastor’s tawny hair stuck up on end and he wore his dog collar inside out, stuffed half in and half out of his old pullover. He kissed Hana, shook hands with Bodie and apologised for his appearance. “Painting the shelves in my study,” he said, peering at the white streaks on his knuckles. “My tea is still sitting on the dining table and I left skid marks on the driveway.”

  Bodie leaned forward and jerked his head at the clerical collar. “Was it a passionate painting session?” he asked with a smirk. “Your collar is on inside out.”

  Allen looked down and shrugged. “Oops. No. It doesn’t match this shirt. Visiting hours finished ages ago and they won’t let me past the barricades without it.”

  “Like a holy warrant card?” Bodie asked and Allen nodded. He sank onto the seat next to Hana and put his arm around her shoulders, assuming authority over the situation.

  “Hello, sweetheart.” He crushed Hana into his side, bringing with his usual chaos a pervading sense of hope.

  “I haven’t made it to church for ages,” she began, offering an apology for her absence. He brushed it off.

  “It doesn’t matter, Hana. No excuses needed. I’m here because you called. I’ll always come.” He rocked her like a small child against his raggedy pullover. “God knows. He has it all in hand.”

  “I don’t understand what went wrong,” Hana sniffed and the pastor kept a sturdy arm around her shoulders and winked at Bodie.

  “I met Logan a while ago,” he said. “He treated me to a blat on his motorbike. I’ve spoken to him a couple of times since. He invited us to your surprise birthday party, but it clashed with a deacon’s meeting. I gather it proved more than just a celebration of your advancing years?”

  Hana nodded. “Yes. Marcus married us. Kind of.” She bit her lip. Everyone still assumed he married them, not that she’d eloped like a love smitten teenager and let a stranger put a ring on her finger.

  “That’s wonderful. But Logan always pops to see me or leaves a note. I didn’t have a return address. When I called at Achilles Rise, the man who answered the door said you’d shifted and he wasn’t sure where to.”

  “Yes, sorry. That’s my fault.” Hana sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “It’s complicated.”

  Bodie let out a snort which Allen tactfully ignored. The pastor left them for a while and fetched steaming cups of coffee from a secret stash only he knew about. And he produced a wad of tissues from his pocket when Hana needed them.

  Bodie wandered off on a pretext, embarrassed by Hana’s lack of control. Fear and worry got the better of her and she felt his animosity hike. Allen behaved like she knew he would, listening to her angst with endless patience. She didn’t mention her security issues, focussing on Logan’s health and reliving her horror of the bleeding. “I should have spoken to you before I got married,” she conceded, sniffing in tearful snorts of air. “But it felt so right and if I’m honest, I thought other Christians might want to talk me out of it.”

  “Ah, Cilla.” Allen’s slow nod betrayed a tense conversation. “That’s why I visited Achilles Rise. I didn’t like the half version and wanted the truth.”

  Hana shrugged. “What does it matter? I found true love after all these years and now I’ll lose him, anyway.”

  Pastor Allen’s brows narrowed to a single dark line. “Things aren’t always as they seem, Hana. Much can be done.”

  A medic walked along the corridor and Hana jumped to her feet, bracing herself for bad news. He ignored her and kept walking, alternately dashing and raising her hopes without realising. Hana sank into her seat, her legs like jelly. Misery ringed her green irises. “They didn’t care!” Hana turned towards Allen, her cheekbones pinked with distress. “Tama hit him from behind with a crow bar and they wouldn’t let me call the cops or get help!”

  “Ah, Hana.” Allen’s arm tightened around her shoulder. “You’ve had a terrible time. I’m so sorry.”

  She jumped up again as another doctor emerged from the room. Allen took her hand and pulled her back to a sitting position. “Stop, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Let me pray for you.” He soothed her with his gentle voice, infusing her with belief and assurance. Hana felt the overwhelming peace which surpassed human understanding. With it came the knowledge Logan would live to fight another day.

  Bodie returned and paced while the pastor ministered to Hana. A side-glance told her he detested the intimacy. Faith fled her son the moment his father departed this mortal coil, leaving him believing God either didn’t exist, or hated him personally. Muscle memory urged him to join in the prayer and Bodie fought it. But as the clergyman finished his whispered plea to the Almighty, Bodie’s dormant spirit uttered a veiled Amen.

  Logan went into surgery after midnight and Hana slept on the uncomfortable seating in the intensive care area. Pastor Allen stayed with her until the early hours of Sunday morning, squeezing Logan’s limp hand as he arrived on the ward. Mr Singh dropped his facemask into the dustbin and smiled at Hana. “I cleaned his infected wound under anaesthetic. I also discovered another bleed into his stomach cavity. I want him in intensive care for tonight on ten-minute observations. The staff will page me if he deteriorates.”

  Hana thanked him, fighting a frightening sense of gratitude which threatened to render her speechless. “Can I stay with him?” she asked, bunching her fist around the sheet near Logan’s face.

  Mr Singh nodded and rubbed his eyes until the exhaustion looked painful. “Of course, Mrs Du Rose,” he said. “Press the buzzer if you need anything.” He turned towards the glass door and the promise of home, halting for a second before facing Hana. “Good luck,” he said, his tone sober. Rich brown eyes quirked upwards. “Let’s hope we don’t find ourselves here again.”

  Hana nodded with enthusiasm. “Thank you doctor.”

  Bodie left with Allen, promising to return later with clothes and toiletries for Hana. “I’m glad he’s okay, Mum,” he said, sounding sincere. “I know you love him.”

  Hana sat on a two-seater sofa outside Logan’s room, watching through a huge glass window as his chest rose and fell. A nurse checked his dressings and took his blood pressure while he slept. Nobody troubled her. “You can go back in now,” the nurse said, leaving the door open for Hana to return. “He’ll be in pain when he wakes as I’ve just reduced the morphine level. Call me if I need to raise it.”

  Hana sighed. “He won’t co
mplain. Logan will put up with it.”

  The nurse nodded. “They’re the hardest sort to help,” she replied. “I heard Mr Singh say he must have been in agony. I’m guessing your husband didn’t mention it.”

  “No.” Hana swallowed. Her mind drifted back to their energetic lovemaking and she blushed. “Not once.”

  Logan woke twice and Hana fed him water through a straw. At six o’clock, the staff removed the oxygen mask from his face permanently and took away the extra needles from his veins. When he woke five hours later, he found himself in a single room on a different ward. “You’re out of danger,” Hana whispered, stroking his hair away from his eyes. “The operation worked and the intravenous antibiotics kicked the infection into touch.” The wobble in her voice betrayed her horrible night. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad it hurt?”

  Logan’s eyes fluttered and closed, the answer dying on his lips.

  Staff moved him again two hours later as lack of space bit. He shifted further away from the high dependency unit and nearer the dreaded surgical aftercare ward. Already exhausted, Hana felt tension hike in her chest at the memory of Selina and her dust up with the receptionist. When the moment came and a porter arrived to fetch a sleeping Logan, Hana panicked. “I can’t do this again,” she said, running sweating palms along her thighs. Tiny threads from her jeans stuck to her hands and reminded her of her uncleanliness. “You can’t take him back there,” she begged. “There must be somewhere else.”

  “Sorry.” The porter shook his head and examined his sheet of orders. “Logan Du Rose to general surgical. That’s all I’ve got.” He took off at speed, forcing Hana to trot to keep up. At the elevator he paused and nodded to a colleague as another patient wheeled out first. A teenage boy lay splayed on a gurney, wires and monitors attached to every available part of his body. His face looked so smashed he seemed indistinguishable as a human being. Hana counted her blessings and stepped into the lift, unseen by the glassy eyed mother in the nightdress and slippers, who followed her broken son along the corridor.