by Jenni Ogden
Turning back to the window I gazed down at the street. “I don’t think Dad liked Auckland much either. He established a successful little building business there but deep down, he’s still a fisherman.” I started as a red London bus rumbled by and realized I was twisting my long hair round and round my fingers. “He phoned last night. Dad I mean. He asked me to think about bringing the family home to New Zealand next January for Mum’s 75th birthday; he’s planning a big family occasion on the island. We go back to New Zealand quite often but the kids have never been to Great Barrier Island. They would love it, but I’ve always found an excuse not to take them. I haven’t been back since Danny and I were together there.”
“Tell me about it.”
I lent my forehead against the cold glass of the window and searched for some words to describe how I felt when Danny joined me on the island. No, why go there? I’ll tell her the bare facts.
“Once Danny arrived that was the end of any studying. The rest of the story is pretty straightforward. He came, he had fun, and he died.” I thumped the window and the glass quivered.
“You’re angry.”
“Apparently. Not that I’d noticed it until I started seeing you.”
“Or until Alfie died.”
“That was the killer. Not the best word I suppose. I should never have operated on him.” I returned to the couch and sat down, my head in my hands.
“So why did you? If you knew you shouldn’t.”
I sighed and looked up. “I didn’t become a good neurosurgeon by listening to my heart. There were no objective indications to warn me off. Alfie was the perfect candidate for a straightforward operation.”
“Why do you think your heart and not your head was telling you the truth in this case?” Sarah’s voice was gentle.
“It wasn’t. His aneurysm rupture was coincidence; nothing to do with my feelings about him. I can only assume the aneurysm must have been weakened to the point of rupture when the university researchers got Alfie's MRI done and discovered it. It would probably have ruptured soon, spontaneously, even if I hadn’t operated. In most cases when an unruptured aneurysm is accidentally discovered, the aneurysm is not even close to rupture, but unfortunately there’s no way of telling. My messing about trying to get the clip on probably weakened it further, and then the hemorrhage put strain on his second aneurysm. When that ruptured the following day, he had no chance.”
“Do you think it’s reasonable to feel guilty?”
“No, not logically. Upset, disappointed, but not guilty of any surgical misconduct or even poor decision making.”
“And that’s what the Hospital Morbidity and Mortality Committee decided?”
I nodded.
“So why the panic attack and this ongoing anxiety?”
“You tell me.”
“It all goes back to your daughter, doesn’t it? Her desire, her need—even perhaps her right—to know more about Danny. It all goes back to Danny and your heart. ”
Chapter 8
I woke before dawn on Saturday morning and lay still, watching the dark curtains dissolving to blue. The rain stopped and the silence was taken up by the melodic tune of the resident blackbird, always the first to begin the dawn chorus. I listened to the swelling orchestra of whistling and chattering as the birds of London woke, and hearing a little snuffle from a still sleeping Adam, yearned to snuggle into his arms and stay there forever. But he seemed as far away in the bed as he could get, his back turned against me.
My eyelids were being held open by barbed wire. I blinked hard, and they scratched across my dry eyes. It was weeks—months even—since going to bed had been something I looked forward to; now I almost dreaded it, knowing that, with or without a sleeping pill, I was destined to journey through hell.
As suddenly as it began the morning chorus stopped, and in its place another heavy shower marched across the roof. Now the full force of the rain was pounding the house, yet over that I could hear the delicate plop of individual spears as they hit the eaves and disappeared into the guttering, already half blocked by rotting spring blossoms. Then the sweet clear sound of the blackbird rose again and I imagined the sleek black shape braving the rain and proclaiming his right to be king.
Hauling myself out of bed and down the stairs into the cold kitchen I collected the morning newspaper. But it lay on the table unread as I slurped down two cups of coffee. Last night Adam and I had again failed to talk about anything important. He had almost given up trying. I knew it was my fault but I was so bloody exhausted by my misery and the emotions therapy stirred up that it was easier to shut Adam out. Even when I saw the hurt in his eyes. And Lara was being a toad; my fault too I suppose. Rude, and more often than not, late home from school. Yesterday her form teacher called, asking for a meeting. I thought she might be keeping it together at school at least, but apparently not. And poor Finbar. He adored Lara, even though he always pretended he found her a pain, but all they did now was fight. Tonight Lara was out with her friends yet again, leaving Finbar to put up with our problems all by himself. Last night he’d made such a gallant effort to chat over dinner, and Adam, his face gray with fatigue, had done his best to join in. I’d done nothing to help. After dinner the three of us sat dumbly and watched a murder mystery on the box, goodness knows what about.
I shook my head delicately but the barbed wire—inside my head now—didn’t budge. I had to get out of the house.
Gulping in the cold air, I raised my aching head to the drenching rain and closed my eyes as it ran down my face and seeped in the sides of my anorak hood, licking long strands of escaping hair. Then I walked, head down and hands deep in my anorak pockets, one suburban street to the next, making no attempt to avoid the occasional wall of water that plastered my cold jeans to my calves every time a car swished through the deep puddles spilling from overflowing gutters.
I have to stop this therapy. All it’s doing is destroying our family. It sure as hell isn’t getting Danny out of my head or clearing up what happened that night. Sarah had probably got the message that it wasn’t working—I’d missed my last two sessions and she’d left two messages for me, rescheduling for Monday. I’ll tell Sarah then. There has got to be an easier way to get over these cursed panic attacks.
Therapists were nothing but voyeurs. Sixteen years. How can I possibly be expected to remember with any sort of accuracy what happened so long ago? I unclenched my hands and pulled them from my pockets. Back then, I’d been stupidly naive about relationships, in spite of being twenty-nine. Too long locked up in universities and hospitals. No wonder I’d been snared by Danny's charm.
I looked up as a plane flew low over the city, headed for Heathrow. I cupped my cold wet hands over my mouth and blew on them. No stopping the rest of my body shaking. My teeth were practically rattling in their sockets. At least it had been a lot warmer on that November morning so long ago, when the small plane I was waiting for landed on the island.
Danny jumped out of the door onto the grass runway, his hair vivid red against the white of the plane, his grin lighting up my world. The late afternoon light was still bright as we drove north along the spectacular coast, Danny's exuberance spilling in pools around him.
“Hey, Georgie-girl, I can’t believe I’m finally back here,” he said, again and again. “You look good enough to swallow whole—you’ve even got a smidgeon of color on that alabaster skin of yours.”
I laughed at him and he put his hand on mine as I steered the big vehicle around the next bend.
“Mmm, and you look pretty delectable yourself, sir. You certainly don’t look as if you’ve just spent eighteen sleepless hours traveling. How do you do it?”
“Thinking of you-o-o-o” he sang. “I’ve spent the whole dang journey with a hard on.”
My face flared. “Stop it. You haven’t even seen our beach and our house and everything yet.”
“Slow down, you’re goin’ too fast,” sang Danny. “Sorry sweets, I want to see it all.”
> “Look out there,” I said, pulling my hand from under his and pointing out the open window. “I don’t believe it. Only for you.”
“Man! That is something else.”
And out in the surf a pod of dolphins danced along the waves.
I lit the candles in their glass jars and sat them on the wooden table on the deck. I’d already laid it with chunky blue and green pottery plates and my mother’s old silver cutlery, a treasured wedding present left in the house when we moved from the island. With a flourish I placed a blue vase filled with grasses and wild flowers I’d picked earlier that day in the center of the table.
“Hungry?” I murmured, leaning over the hammock and kissing Danny’s warm lips.
“Mmm, it smells phenomenal,” Danny said sleepily. “But you might have to drag me to the table.”
“My pleasure, sir,” I said, kissing him again.
“Stop it woman,” Danny groaned. “That’s if you don’t want to waste your bloody fabulous smelling dinner.”
“Did you ever see that old movie, Tom Jones?” Danny said. “Starring Albert Finney?” We were using our teeth to pull the last of the fragrant white flesh from the crayfish.
I nodded.
Danny's eyes sparked in the candlelight. “D’you remember that scene where Tom and his mistress were eating chicken legs?”
I licked my fingers. “I do, I definitely do.”
“Crayfish makes chicken seem like child’s play.”
“Hmmm.” I reached over and lifted Danny’s hand to my mouth. Kissing his palm, I bit the soft swelling at the base of his thumb, and then taking it in my mouth I began to suck on it, making a soft sound like a baby. Danny closed his eyes as I swirled my tongue around the tip, and slowly he slid it out and stroked it across my lower lip, buttery from the crayfish.
“I think I’ve had enough seafood,” he croaked, moving around the table and pulling me into his arms. “Time for dessert.” Kissing off the buttery remnants, he lifted me and walked backwards through the French doors. Then we were in the bedroom, filled with light from the bright half moon sailing in the sky, and he was laying me on the patchwork quilt and kissing my ears and my neck as he pulled the straps of my summer top from my shoulders. I closed my eyes as he undressed me, biting back moans as his mobile lips explored me, his warm hands moving me like a rag doll. I heard my cries becoming more urgent until he finally pulled away and moved over me. I captured him with my legs and felt him deep within me; my Danny, here with me on my island.
Floating in a bubble of happiness, we lazed, and swam, and cooked, and ate, and drank, and made love, and slept in each other’s arms in the moonlight. We even explored the island, as far as the roads, tracks, and our legs would take us. Three days before Christmas we cut down a wilding pine and decorated it with hand-made angels and stars that Andrew and I had made as kids, and we raided Dad’s shed and borrowed his drill and the finest drill bit and made holes in shells we’d collected from the beach and strung them and draped them around the tree. I painted sea urchin cases gold and silver with paint that still worked after a good stir, and we hung those too. Perched precariously on the highest rung of a step ladder that should have been retired twenty years earlier, Danny tied the star—a stunning creation of tiny red, yellow and white shells stuck on a star shape I’d cut from heavy cardboard—to the top of the tree.
On Christmas Day we packed cold crayfish and bread and cheese and wine into our backpacks and climbed to the saddle of the Pa at the north end of the beach. From there, sitting in a sunny hollow, on one side we could see the estuary and its stream winding along the beach and into the hills, and below us on the seaward side, the flax-covered hillside sloped down to a jewel of a cove with water such a clear green that we could see fish swimming about. Above us the Pa stood out against the deep blue of a perfect day.
“Let’s climb up there,” Danny said, when we’d woken from our nap after too much crayfish and wine.
A faint track led steeply up through the grass and flax to an enormous egg-shaped rock perched on the very top.
I shook my head. “No, it’s tapu.”
“Tapu?”
“Sacred, forbidden. Maori for taboo. The highest point of the Pa is where ancient Maori would have placed the bones of their chiefs before their final burial, so their wairua—their spirits—could fly free. Dad would never let us climb further than here.”
“Shame. It must be an incredible view from the top. Obviously some people climb up there. Perhaps it would be OK for me to go? I’m not Maori.”
“That would be worse, silly. If you went up there from this side the spirits might throw you off, and you’d be swept into the wild sea and never be found. We can go back down to the beach and get around to the other side of the Pa. It’s dramatic. A steep cliff face straight into the sea.”
“Charming. Has anyone ever fallen off?”
I shuddered and nodded. “Some teenagers were up there years ago, drinking probably, and one of them slipped and fell. His body was washed back onto the beach days later. The divers had given up ever finding him.”
On a dark night, two nights past Christmas day, we dragged an old mattress and some blankets onto the beach and lay gazing up at the brilliant wash of stars saturating the Milky Way, arching across the sky. The Southern Cross hung low over the dunes to the south, marking this as home. As the moon rose, a great orange orb coming out of the sea, Danny gently stroked my hair from my face and kissed me so very very softly.
“Marry me, my Georgia.”
“Oh Danny, yes, yes, I’ll marry you.” I felt the tears trickle down my cheeks.
“Why the tears?” Danny whispered, wiping them away with his fingers.
“Tears of pure, over-the-top happiness, silly,” I sniffled, laughing at the same time. “Are you sure you’re really OK about giving up New Orleans and your spoilt-boy Blues club? Giving up that offer from RCA?”
“Oh, yes, yes. This is what I want. You are what I want. I can sing here, anyway. I don’t need N’Orleans for that.”
“I don’t want my career to sink yours. I promise that once I’m qualified and get some consultant experience, I’ll look for a position in a big city where you can become disgustingly famous—New Orleans, New York, Chicago, or even London or Sydney. Almost anywhere would be better for your career than staying in New Zealand.”
“Fiddle-de-de, I do declare you’re serious,” teased Danny in his best falsetto Southern Belle accent. “You could get a little ole job as a noo-rosurgeon in dem cotton fields an’ makes us pots o’gold, so’s I can sing dem ole blues while I’se livin’ in our ole plantation mansion wit’ our five comely chil’un.”
“Five? Ten, by the time I’m done with you, you crazy crooner, dropping your blue jeans for any noo-rosurgeon who grovels at your feet,” I laughed, as Danny wriggled out of my arms and waving his hands crazily in the air, shimmied naked down the beach.
Chapter 9
The house was silent when I arrived back cold and wet. Stripping off my dripping clothes I deposited them in the laundry before standing under the downstairs shower for five minutes. Dry and warm, at least on the outside, I made Adam a cup of tea and took it upstairs. The bed was empty.
Finbar, still in his pajamas, was gazing at the contents of the fridge when I returned to the kitchen. “Hi sweetheart. Checking out the breakfast options?” I tousled his already tousled hair.
Finbar jerked under my touch. “Don’t.”
“Sorry, Fin. I keep forgetting you’re almost twelve. Where’s your dad?”
Finbar pulled the butter out of the fridge and slammed the door. “He’s gone to the university.”
“It’s Saturday. Do you think he got his days mixed up?”
“Nah. He said he had stuff to do.” He dumped himself down at the breakfast bar, his back to me.
“He left you here alone?”
“Lara's here. Not that she’s any use, sleeping all morning. Dad said to phone him if you didn’t come home soo
n.”
“Oh. Well, I need a jolly big breakfast. I’ve walked miles. Let’s have a feed of bacon and eggs”—I peered in the fridge—“and potato patties with the mashed spuds left over from last night.”
Finbar’s hunched shoulders straightened a little. “OK. I’ll have some. I’ll make some toast.”
“Thanks sweetheart. The aroma of bacon will soon flush Lara out of bed.”
“Not likely. She won’t eat fried stuff.”
“Since when was Lara so picky?”
“Since ages. She thinks she’ll get fat or get zits or something.”
“Really? I thought she had more sense. Perhaps Adam will get home soon and he can eat Lara's share.”
“Yep, whatever.” Finbar turned around and my heart ached. His face was so pale. My baby, usually so happy. I reached out and drew him close and felt him soften against my breasts. “Oh Finnie,” I said, his baby name escaping before I could stop it. “I’m sorry it’s been so miserable around here lately.”
Finbar sniffed and his body tensed. “It’s OK, Mum, it’s not your fault.” His voice was so muffled I had to strain to make out his words.
“It is my fault, and I’d do anything to sort it out and get back to normal.” I hugged him closer but he pulled away and looked up at me, a hunk of hair falling over his forehead.
“What’s the matter with you anyway? Why aren’t you operating anymore?”
“A young patient of mine died after I clipped his aneurysm and for some reason I lost my nerve after that.” I struggled to sound calm.
“But you’ve had patients die before. You’re a neurosurgeon; that’s what happens. Patients sometimes die. What’s so different about this patient?”