by K T Bowes
Hana watched him in confusion as he mirrored Logan’s stance against the windowsill, minus the folded arms. “I thought they hit you on your crown.” She tipped sideways to inspect the large packing bandage adorning his head. Her elbow twinged and she sat up at speed.
Pete removed a hand from his pocket and jabbed a dirty finger at his forehead. “You did this!” he snapped.
Logan leaned sideways and lowered his voice. The air dripped with latent warning. “Watch your attitude,” he whispered.
Pete pouted. “You put me in the car upside down.” His blue eyes flashed accusation and Hana swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
“She rescued you despite her broken arm.” Logan’s low hiss made Pete stiffen. “You’re lucky she didn’t leave you there.”
“It’s her fault.” Pete spun around so Hana could appreciate the size of the bandage covering his downy head. “She never does as she’s told.”
Hana hung her head, regret rendering her speechless. Logan’s face remained dark and forbidding and the atmosphere crackled.
“I didn’t get a nice hospital room.” Pete chuntered about his hard-done-by situation as he inspected the plush room. “You came to the Bramwell and I get shunted through the state emergency room. They sent me home after two hours and I still couldn’t see straight.”
Logan smirked and looked away, sparing everyone his ready sarcasm about Pete’s eyesight. His expression clouded as the skinny man continued his litany of complaints. Hana held her breath as Logan’s patience ran out. “Maybe if you looked after her like I asked you to, none of us would need hospital attention.” His jaw flexed and Hana’s eyes widened at the sight of his fists bunching.
“It’s all my fault, I admit that.” She rushed to shoulder the deserved blame. “I gave him no choice, Logan.”
“She didn’t,” Pete squeaked. His eyes darted in Hana’s direction like a cornered rat.
“Sweetie!” Henrietta squealed from the doorway. Hana winced, unsure whether the larger-than-life chef referred to her injured boyfriend, Logan or her. The relief on Pete’s face showed his appreciation for the reinforcements.
“Logan’s blaming me, Henri,” he whined. He edged away from danger with tiny steps. His simpering stance made Hana recoil and shoot a glance at Logan. She found her husband exhibiting signs of major disgust in his grey eyes and the curling of his upper lip.
“Pussy,” Logan mouthed.
To Hana’s dismay, Henrietta bounced in her direction like an overflowing soup tureen. “Pregnant!” she screeched and Hana stiffened for the onslaught. Her elbow sent darting stabs of pain into her shoulder and wrist as the large woman slavered lipstick kisses over her cheek and eyelids. “Peetipoos told me everything,” she intoned and Logan narrowed his eyes at his friend.
“What about me?” Pete whined as he tugged on his girlfriend’s blouse. “I’m injured too.”
“But not pregnant,” Henrietta chuckled. She ruffled the remains of Pete’s hair and planted a chaste kiss on his bruised forehead. Logan’s face creased in mirth at the impression of rosebud lips left in the centre of the swollen skin. It looked like someone tried eating Pete’s face.
“I want to leave,” Pete complained, drawing his face into a toddler-worthy pout. “I’ve not had a good time of it.”
Logan offered a tight-lipped smile and casual wave as Henrietta led Pete away by the hand. “Watch your back,” Logan hissed after him. The remaining colour drained from Pete’s face as he sped up and disappeared.
“Leave him alone,” Hana sighed. “It’s not his fault.”
Logan raised his eyebrows. “If a bro’ asked me to look after his wife, I’d look after her.”
Hana cringed. “You might wish to rephrase that.”
“Rephrase what?” Pastor Allen strolled through the open door, dangling a limp bunch of grapes between finger and thumb. He waggled them at Logan. “Got anywhere to put these? I sat on them in the car by accident.”
Logan frowned and carried the squished purple orbs to the sink, dumping them into the porcelain and running cold water over them. Allen lifted Hana’s left hand and kissed the back of it. “Not many bits left to kiss,” he chortled. “Not decent ones anyway. Are you both competing for the most broken bones in the first year of marriage? It looks like it.”
“No.” Hana shook her head. “How did you know?”
Allen shrugged. “I have my sources.” He winked at Logan and Hana frowned. Jealousy coursed through her chest at her husband’s monopolisation of her friendship. Allen sat in the chair nearest the bed and grinned at Hana. “You’re taxing our prayer chain, Mrs Du Rose.”
Hana eyes widened and she pushed herself upright. The groan she released came from deep down as her elbow jarred. “You can’t tell people. Nobody can know.”
“I gave no details.” Pastor Allen got to her pillows first and plumped them into a mound. Logan stood on her other side like a sentry. “All they know is that you broke your arm.”
“I appreciate that.” Logan swallowed. “This needs to stay out of the public eye. It’s what the cops want.” He narrowed his eyes at the pastor. “It’s what I want.”
“The prayer chain is like a gossip circle,” Hana panted, closing her eyes against the pain. “They mean well but they can’t help themselves.”
Pastor Allen winced. “Only if you don’t also run a secret prayer chain of elders and deacons.”
Hana’s jaw dropped open. “Oh my goodness!”
“Sorry, you’re shocked.” Allen’s cheeks flushed pink and he retook his seat. “It is a little underhand.”
“That’s not why I’m shocked,” Hana grumbled. “It’s because all these years you left me on the other one. Why aren’t I on the secret one?”
Allen smirked. “I thought you enjoyed games of Chinese whispers on a regular basis. What’s not to like about the way some of those prayer requests end up? Remember the one which started as prayer for Mabel’s floral group and ended up as Mabel’s funeral? The kindness of our Hamilton citizens meant she didn’t need to cook for months afterwards.”
“It’s not funny.” Hana fixed her lips into a thin line. “I’m hurt.”
“How about we pray now?” Allen asked.
Hana wished for the ability to fold her arms and display her irritation. “Is this the real prayer or the fake one?” she bit. “Because I wouldn’t want to waste my breath.”
“No prayer is wasted.” Allen gripped the fingers of her left hand and held on. He winked at her.
“Will you shut your eyes?” Hana demanded, getting ready to stick out her tongue.
Allen faked shock. “And miss you sticking your tongue out at me?” He rolled his eyes heavenward as though for inspiration. “Of course not. They taught us in seminary to pray with our eyes open. It would be a shame to miss God when he does something amazing.”
“Yeah, I wanna pray,” Logan said. Hana glanced up at him and found him staring at the ceiling. His neck flushed with embarrassment. “I’d like to thank God for keeping you as safe as your stupid ass could allow. I’d also like to appeal on behalf of your guardian angels. Somebody deserves a pay rise.”
Hana gave an indignant inhale but Allen cut her off, gripping her fingers and giving her a sideways look of rebuke. He launched into his usual brand of casual chatting with God and glancing at Hana, caught her watching. His lips curved upwards in a grin and he finished with a gentle amen.
Hana stifled a snort. Her head felt woozy and the situation pulled on a humorous thread. Allen took it in his stride having seen human nature at its best and worst. Hana started as he glanced sideways at her and darted towards the door. His crablike movement intrigued her and she watched with her head on one side as he closed the door and leant against it. “Now for the good stuff,” he hissed.
Like a pickpocket, he opened his coat and disgorged two chocolate bars from within the lining. He dumped them on the side of the sink and reached in for
a jumbo bag of crisps and three cans of soda. Two limp sausage rolls tumbled from his trouser pockets, leaving flakes of pastry on the tiled floor.
“Choice!” Logan murmured in approval. “I’m starving.”
“I know aye,” the pastor sniggered. “Praise the Lord for this overcoat!”
Allen handed over the loot and retreated with a wave. Logan shook his head. “That guy continues to surprise me.” He laid into the chocolate and the crisps, popping open a soda can and slurping the liquid from the top of the lid when it fizzed over. “Want some?” he offered.
Hana nodded and waited while he fixed a straw through the hole. She sipped the sugary liquid and shivered. “Can I go home?” she asked again.
“No.” Logan sighed and scooted onto the bed next to her. He slipped an arm around her waist and tried not to jolt her. “Not yet. Do you want to talk about Bodie’s reaction to the baby?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Okay. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.” His eyes widened at Hana’s unladylike burp. She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“I’m sorry. Where did that come from?”
Logan grinned. “I’m not shocked, babe. I lived with Pete remember?”
Hana’s smile drooped. “Speaking of Pete, it wasn’t his fault, Logan. I made him take me up there. He didn’t want to.”
“So why didn’t he text me, Hana?”
“I don’t know. In his defense, he put his phone on charge as soon as we got in the car. I think it died.” She sighed. Resting her head against his shoulder, she looked up at his profile. Days of stubble covered his angular jaw and he chewed a square of chocolate with concentration. The grey streaks either side of his chin gave him a distinguished air and matched the increasing salt and pepper in his hair. Hana linked her fingers through his and squeezed. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.
Logan leaned sideways and kissed her temple. “I know. I’m sure you’ll grow into your responsibilities.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You need to behave though.”
Hana inhaled. “Okay.” Her eyes filled with tears and Logan saw. His expression grew serious.
“Hey, it’s turned out fine, Hana. We’ll get through this.” His nearness comforted her, his musky hay and sunshine scent warming her bones. She breathed in his smell and allowed her eyes to close. The child entertained other plans and gave her a sharp jab in the stomach. Hana grunted and Logan’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Just the baby,” she muttered. The fizzy drink gurgled through her stomach causing a wave of nausea. A nurse appeared to administer a painkiller that wouldn’t hurt the baby, pushing it through the cannula in Hana’s hand. The vice of pain receded and she descended into an easy sleep, accompanied by the fluttery kicks in her womb.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The sleep lasted until a disoriented Hana tried to sit up in her hospital bed unaided. Drowsy and mindful of the urge to use the bathroom, she grappled around and yanked the cannula from her hand. A spurt of blood leaked across the white sheets and she spent valuable moments staring at it in confusion. “Logan?” She called his name and hearing nothing, panicked.
The ward sister discovered her wandering around the hospital, her gown open at the back. “What are you doing?” she asked, getting a garbled reply.
“I need to get out.” Hana clutched her chest with her good hand and stared at the plaster cast on her right elbow. She remembered nothing of its arrival. Her heart pounded in her chest and she dipped forward to increase the blood pressure to her head. “I don’t feel good.”
“Let’s get you back to bed,” the nurse stated, calling for reinforcements. “It’s just low blood pressure and you need your sleep.”
They stuffed her back into bed after a detour to the bathroom. A doctor appeared like a genie in Hana’s peripheral vision and administered a sedative and more fluids. She drifted back into a doze as the steady throb of her baby’s heartbeat sounded into the room. “Leave the monitor on,” the doctor said. “Check her and the baby through the night. Let’s have her on fifteen minute observations. Surgery sometimes causes this, but the pregnancy makes it more complicated.”
“Do we fetch her husband back?” the nurse asked, her tone brusque. Hana struggled to push herself up from the grasping waters of sleep to demand Logan’s presence. She heard everything, but the sedative warred with her ability to respond.
“No.” The doctor sounded positive. “It’s not urgent and he looked knackered. When did you send him away?”
“A few hours ago.” The nurse sighed. “He didn’t want to go.”
“Just watch her.” The doctor’s shoes scuffed against the tiles. “Only call him if you need to.”
The clattering of trolleys along the corridor jolted Hana awake at seven with a bad headache. Her arm throbbed from the weight of her cast and it rested across her chest to constrict her breathing. She rejected food in favour of the wheeled medicine cabinet, opting for its tablet delights to remove the stabbing pain in her elbow. “I hate hospitals,” she grumbled to a good-natured nurse wielding low-grade pain pills. “Why can’t I have something stronger?”
The woman nodded towards her stomach and held out the two white tablets identical to ones available at supermarkets. “Doctor won’t give you anything else because of the baby.”
“I hate my life,” Hana muttered.
“Yes, but look at the man you get to go home with.” The nurse winked at her. “I’ll swap him for the lard ass in my bed.”
Hana conceded. “He’s an amazing consolation prize.” She lowered her head and glared through the tops of her eyes. “Hands off. I don’t want your lard ass thanks.” She held her good hand out for the pathetic tablets and forced them down with water.
To her dismay, the nurse accompanied her to the bathroom and waited like a sentry while she used the toilet. “This is so undignified,” she grumbled. “I bet nobody dared do this to Logan.”
The nurse snorted. “Lady, we formed a roster just to keep it fair.”
“That’s disgusting. I’m reporting you all.”
The nurse laughed and adjusted the drip wheels so Hana could wash her hand at the sink. Hana splashed around one handed and glared at the tousled headed banshee in the mirror. Green eyes stared back at her. “I’m a mess,” she complained. “I need a shower.”
“Not today.” The woman’s brows knitted as an emergency call came from a buzzer overhead. “Damn. Will you be okay while I find out what’s happening?”
“Yep. I’m fine.” Mischief glowed behind Hana’s smile, but the harried nurse missed it.
Hana heaved a sigh of relief as the woman rushed away and grinned at herself in the mirror. Wheeling the drip trolley back into her bedroom, she closed the main door. Then she scooted her bag of clean clothes and wash things into the bathroom using her foot. “Thank goodness for reliable husbands,” she breathed, pushing her fingers through the zipper and finding enough supplies for a week.
The washing process proved difficult one-handed. Hana scrubbed where she could reach, using a stash of cloths from a shelf above the sink. The sense of cleanliness proved invigorating and she relished the thought of clean clothes.
She unfastened the robe using the necktie, screwing her body round to see in the mirror as she reached behind her. It slithered down her shoulders and came to an abrupt halt before the cannula in her hand. “Ah.” Hana studied it like a complicated mathematical problem. Standing on tiptoes, she threaded the drip bag and rack through the armhole of the robe only to find it bottlenecked at the castors. It refused to go over all four wheels at the same time.
“Oh no!” Hana moaned, clasping her hand over her mouth to dull the frustrated cry. She assessed her new situation, crouching on the floor and pinned by her robe to a drip trolley. The clunky cast rested on her bent knee and Hana bemoaned its uselessness.
Backtracking, she rived the sleeve from its trapped position and threaded it back up the stem of the tro
lley. “Sparkling teeth and no knickers,” she berated herself. “What use is that?” Her new focus involved remedying that situation.
Donning fresh knickers one-handed and catching the scent of floral washing powder, Hana felt more positive. She went a step further, hopping on alternate feet to get socks on. Confidence budded and she convinced herself she could do even better, hauling a clean bra from the bag. “You can do this,” she hissed, sizing up the drip. A stupid idea formed in her addled brain and she wasted no time putting it into action.
Hana pulled the dangling robe back up over the rail at the top and stopped at the bag. “Genius,” she breathed. Unhooking the bag of fluid, she lifted it down and held onto it. She pushed her arm and the bag through the hole and almost cheered as the robe fluttered to the tiled floor.
Hana fed her bra strap over her broken arm, wincing at the pain which moving it caused. She panted with her efforts and almost dropped the fluid bag, catching it at the last moment and wailing in agony. Trapping the swollen bag against her cast and chest, she wrestled her other arm into her bra. “Oh.” She looked down at the sagging underwear and sighed, knowing nothing would enable her to fasten it at the back. Shrugging, she fumbled in the bag for a tee shirt.
The drip bag slipped onto the tiles with a whump sound and Hana squatted to retrieve it. Relief flooded over her that it didn’t burst. The liquid inside bloomed pink and Hana watched as the tube filled with blood. She jerked it upright and her elbow complained, sending her back to her knees in agony.
“What happened?” the nurse shrieked, pressing an alarm on the wall and running to Hana’s side. The sound of footsteps heralded other arrivals, including the doctor.
“Bloody hell!” he hissed. “What’s she doing?”
“Putting my bra on!” Hana shouted. “Turn around!”
He grunted and turned his back as the women sorted her out. One helped her off the floor while the other fastened her bra at the back and shoved the tee shirt over her head. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve seen in a while,” the nurse hissed and Hana closed her eyes against the rebuke. They at least let her step into her tracksuit bottoms before replacing the pink drip bag with a new one and forcing her into bed.