Rescued by the Single Dad Doc

by Marion Lennox

  He had Roscoe in the background, he reminded himself, and he had Rose. They’d keep an eye on her.

  But her anger stayed with him.

  He looked down at Kit’s white face, at his limp little body. These kids had been through so much. And his lack of care had caused more pain... She’d been right to look at him with fury.

  ‘Lie down,’ the paramedic said again, gently, and he thought maybe he needed to.

  He looked sick because that was how he felt.

  * * *

  What had she done, offering to mind two boys for days?

  She didn’t get involved. Ever. What crazy impulse had led her to say she’d help out?

  Medicine was what Rachel used to settle her and it was medicine she focused on now. She sat in Tom’s office and read through histories of the patients in the hospital. Five were elderly, recuperating from falls or waiting for home care arrangements. Three were here for rehab, transferred back from city hospitals, preparing to go home. One was a thirty-seven-weeks-pregnant mum with five kids at home. Tom had written in heavy letters—‘Bed rest until her sister arrives from Canada!’

  The final history was that of a farmer with an infected leg after being kicked by a cow. According to the history, he was responding to antibiotics. There seemed nothing she couldn’t handle.

  She did a round and introduced herself. Without exception, the patients were full of questions but she backed away fast. That was something else she’d been warned of with country medicine. ‘Everyone will know everything about you in two minutes.’

  Tom Lavery already knew more about her than she was comfortable with. At least she could back away from patients before they got personal.

  Roscoe found her as she saw the last one. ‘Everything’s arranged,’ he told her. ‘Christine’s feeling bad about what’s happened. Big of her, but she’s decided to be helpful. She’s moving her Aunt Rose in now. Rose will give everyone the hugs they need. The boys love her. If you can...your job is just to be there at the edges. Make sure Rose doesn’t start washing or scrubbing. She has osteoarthritis and her hip’s probably more painful than she’s letting on, but she loves the boys.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Rachel said, feeling relieved. ‘I can do whatever else needs to be done but the hugging is her department.’

  She didn’t do hugging. Almost unconsciously, her fingers drifted to one of the bands of scar tissue she could still feel around her upper arms. After twenty-eight years she didn’t know how to hug. She didn’t know how to love, and she had no intention of trying.

  So now what?

  ‘Roy Matheson’s outside, checking the damage to your car,’ Roscoe told her. ‘Tom must have phoned him. All he needs is your keys and he reckons he’ll have her good as new in no time. Here are Doc’s keys for Moby Dick. We’ll call you back if we need you. Meanwhile, you go and do what you have to do.’ He hesitated. ‘You know how grateful we all are that you’re doing this? It’s really generous.’

  ‘I hardly had a choice.’ She couldn’t help it; her voice sounded waspish.

  ‘You could have refused. We’d have found a way. This is a tight community. If you hadn’t offered we’d have muddled through somehow. No one’s left in the lurch here. We care.’

  And why did that make her feel weird?

  Her childhood. The loneliness.

  No one’s left in the lurch here.

  Enough. She gave herself a mental shake and took the proffered car keys. She needed to find... Moby Dick? She also needed to figure out the boundaries of the next few days.

  For boundaries had to be set, she told herself. Boundaries were what she lived within.

  She could do this.

  But at the back of her mind a question was niggling. She’d wanted to ask Roscoe but her boundaries had stopped her.

  These were Tom’s stepsons—what on earth was a man doing with three kids who weren’t his own?

  Hadn’t he heard of boundaries?

  CHAPTER THREE

  THREE DAYS LATER the medevac chopper deposited Tom and a recuperating Kit back home, on the landing pad three hundred metres from Shallow Bay Hospital.

  They’d arrived earlier than Tom had expected. Air transfer was available only in emergencies. Transfer home to Shallow Bay wasn’t classified as an emergency. That meant Tom had been trying to decide whether to hire a car or wait for road ambulance transfer. However, on Monday morning a scuba diver had come up too fast after a dive south of Shallow Bay. Worse, he’d gone diving alone. He was in extremis when his friends found him and he’d died before they’d found somewhere with enough mobile coverage to ring emergency services.

  The coroner needed the body and the coroner was in Sydney. Thus the chopper was on its way, but there was no rush. The crew who’d taken Tom and Kit to Sydney had kept tabs on where Kit’s treatment was up to. Kit’s hand was stable, with no more need for specialist intervention. They’d been offered a ride back.

  Thus they rode back in style, arriving at Shallow Bay mid-morning. Tom emerged from the chopper and lifted Kit down after him. A still shaky Kit stood by his side until Roscoe drove up to meet them.

  ‘Hey!’ he boomed in greeting, and Tom was aware of a wash of relief at the sight of his friend’s broad smile, at the hug Roscoe was giving Kit. ‘It’s great to see you, mate,’ he told Kit and then he straightened and grinned at Tom. ‘And you too.’ Tom’s hand was enveloped; the hold was tantamount to a hug, and Tom felt better for it. ‘It’s great to have you back.’

  ‘The place hasn’t fallen apart without us?’ Tom took Kit’s good hand and held on because the little boy was still shaky. His arm was a swathe of white under his sling but it wasn’t only the shock and the injury that was making him shaky, Tom thought. These kids had had their foundations shaken by their mother’s death.

  ‘All good,’ Roscoe was saying. ‘You’ve hardly been missed. Our Dr Rachel is a beauty.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Efficiency R Us,’ Roscoe said. ‘You have no idea how a ward round should be conducted until you see Our Rachel at work. She can get a full history in less than three minutes. The patients don’t know what’s hit them.’

  ‘You’re saying she cuts corners?’

  ‘I didn’t imply that at all,’ Roscoe said, swinging Kit up into his arms, giving Tom the illusion—at least for a moment—that responsibility was shared. ‘No corner dares to be cut on Dr Rachel’s watch. Now, mate,’ he said to Kit, ‘where are you up to?’

  ‘We’ll be keeping Kit in hospital for the next few days,’ Tom told him. ‘Until his stitches are out.’ The job the plastic surgeons had done on Kit’s hand was stunning but broken stitches could see him being sent back to Sydney. There was no way he was letting Kit near his rough-and-tumble brothers until they were out.

  He’d need to spend time with him, running through the exercises the hand therapist had set. At least with Rachel here he’d have the time. To have an efficient colleague was a blessing.

  But what Roscoe was saying had sown doubts. He thought of the frail, elderly patients in his hospital, their need for human contact, for reassurance, and he thought, Three minutes for a history?

  ‘Where’s Rachel now?’ he asked.

  ‘On a house call,’ Roscoe said. ‘Herbert Daly. District nurse asked if she’ll check his legs. He has three ulcers now, but the old coot won’t take care of them, nor will he come in. But Rachel’s on to it. Expect to see him in Ward One by lunchtime.’

  ‘She’s bossy?’

  ‘Just organised,’ Roscoe said. ‘You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Now, Kit, I’m betting your dad would like to take your gear home and catch up with Rose. Your brothers are both at school. How lucky are you to get this time off? Let’s get you settled into the kids’ ward. We have the best video games, plus Xavier Trentham’s in there with a broken leg. He fell out of a tree on Saturday. H
e’s in your class, isn’t he? Dr Rachel’s fixed his leg but she’s keeping him in hospital until the swelling goes down and she can put a proper cast on. Meanwhile, he’s aching for company. Come in and help him fight it out with Battle-Axe Warriors or whatever you kids play when we leave you alone with those game consoles. Tom will be back to see you within an hour, right, Tom?’

  ‘Why do I feel like I’m being organised?’ Tom said faintly and Roscoe chuckled.

  ‘It’s rubbing off,’ he said. ‘The Rachel effect. She’s here for two years—I can’t begin to imagine how we’ll be by the end of it.’

  ‘Assembly line medicine?’

  ‘She’s not that bad,’ Roscoe said. ‘She’s good.’

  But underneath Tom thought he heard doubt.

  ‘Go see Rose and she’ll tell you the same,’ Roscoe said and lifted Kit into the car.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ Tom said, grabbing his gear. ‘It’s only five minutes. It’ll give me space to get my head organised.’

  ‘See, what did I tell you?’ Roscoe said and chuckled again. ‘Organisation. The Rachel effect already.’

  * * *

  The lovely, dependable Rose was settled on the living room window seat overlooking the bay when he arrived. He paused at the door, taking in the scene before she realised he’d returned.

  This place had been his grandparents’ home, where he’d come for holidays as a kid. He’d loved it. He’d had freedom to wander. He’d learned to surf here. The locals had always made him welcome, had always treated him as a local.

  But then his career had taken off and life had become frenetic, fun, city-centric. With his grandparents dead, his parents overseas, there’d been little reason to come back to Shallow Bay. It was only when he’d been landed with three grieving kids that he’d thought the only place they could be happy was here.

  There’d been no other way. Decision made, he’d moved them here and tried to be content with the messy, kid-filled space his life had become.

  But it wasn’t messy now. Rose was sitting with her feet up, placidly knitting. That part felt normal. The rest of it, though, wasn’t normal in the least. His usually messy house looked as if some sort of whirling dervish had swept through, but instead of creating chaos it had transformed it into... Home Beautiful?

  Occasionally, during his bachelor existence, after the cleaner had been in, his city apartment had looked this tidy, but this was different. Not only was his house tidy, it seemed to have been transformed.

  The furniture was arranged differently, invitingly, not wherever the kids had hauled it to get it out of the way when they were playing. Rugs were neat, vacuumed, not a wrinkle in sight. The pictures on the walls, seascapes painted by his grandmother, pictures he hadn’t even realised were out of line, were now in straight lines. A couple that had descended to be propped on the floor had been rehung.

  There was more. The jumble of seashells—generations of family beachcombing left in dusty piles wherever—was now arranged on a side table, with a couple of pieces of driftwood supporting them. Instead of a jumble, the shells now looked like an eye-catching art installation. The kids’ books and puzzles were tidy but, more than that, they’d been arranged in enticing stacks. There was a jar of native bottlebrush on the sideboard, crimson, gorgeous.

  Tuffy, the kids’ fox terrier, bought in desperation from a rescue shelter in those first appalling weeks after Claire’s death, had been asleep on the mat. He’d sensed Tom’s arrival now and was rising to greet him. Last week Tom had been dumb enough to give him a bone and the resulting mess had still been horrible when he’d had to leave. Now he looked brushed, washed, almost presentable.

  ‘Rachel’s an amazing lady.’ Rose had now realised he was there and was smiling a welcome. ‘Welcome home. She hasn’t let me do anything.’

  ‘So don’t do anything now,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’d like to go home if I can,’ she said, rising and packing away her knitting. ‘I’ll come back before the boys get home from school. Rachel and I have it organised. Tell me, how’s Kit?’

  He told her and her face cleared. ‘Well, that’s wonderful. We can go back to our old arrangement then, me being on call as needed. But Rachel tells me she’s here too, if I need her. She’s very bossy about my hip. I haven’t felt so fussed over for years.’

  ‘She sounds...bossy.’ Tom had stooped to pat Tuffy but he was still looking around the room, still trying to figure all the differences.

  ‘She likes to be busy,’ Rose said, and he heard the same doubt he’d heard in Roscoe’s voice. ‘She’s kind, but she can’t sit still. Last night there was a lovely movie on the telly but she was polishing every shell while she watched it.’

  ‘That’s...great.’

  ‘And cooking. She has three casseroles and two pies in the freezer for you. I told her I usually cook for you and she said, “Not with your hip.”’

  ‘I’ll thank her.’

  ‘You do that,’ she said and then she paused. ‘Oh, here’s your car now. She must be dropping by to check on me before she goes back to the hospital. She makes me feel like I’m a patient myself.’ She paused. ‘Not that I’m not grateful, but I’ll slip out the back way and leave you two together.’ And she gathered her knitting and disappeared.

  * * *

  Tom Lavery was on the rug in front of the fire. He was scratching behind the ears of the misbegotten little mutt the kids called Tuffy. Tuffy was practically turning inside out with pleasure.

  And for some reason the sight of this man stopped Rachel in her tracks.

  She had things to do. She’d dropped by to make sure Rose was okay, and then she was due at clinic. Tom’s call to Roscoe had said he’d be back some time today. She hadn’t expected him this early.

  He was tall, six two or maybe more. His dark brown hair was a bit unruly, tousled, sun-bleached at the ends. He was wearing casual chinos and a short-sleeved khaki shirt. His deep green eyes were crinkled at the edges—from the sun? As he looked up at her she thought he looked weary.

  He’d have been at Kit’s bedside for most of the last few days, she thought, remembering legions of parents watching over their kids in the paediatric wards of her training days. Some hospitals provided beds for parents, but medical imperatives and the needs of scared, ill or hurting children meant sleep was hardly ever an option.

  There’d be a reason this guy looked haggard.

  And maybe tiredness was a constant state for him. Roscoe had filled her in on his background over the weekend, not because she’d asked—he’d just told her.

  ‘Tom was a surgeon in Sydney until the boys’ mother died,’ he’d told her. ‘Their dad disappeared. Tom’s all they’ve got.’

  The boys were his stepsons. He’d married their mother and then she’d died, Roscoe had told her.

  But how could he care so much for kids who weren’t his? It was beyond her but looking at him now she had no doubt that he did care, and he was exhausted because of it.

  Roscoe’s story had made her feel more than a little guilty that she’d let her prejudice show when she’d first met him. He might be a stepdad, but stepfathers shouldn’t all be tarred by the same brush. It was just the word. Stepfather... After all these years it still made her feel ill.

  ‘Welcome home,’ she said now, trying for a smile. His obvious weariness seemed to be making something twist inside her. Normal sympathy for a tired and worried parent? For some reason it felt more than that, and the sensation made her unsettled.

  ‘How’s Kit?’ she asked, pushing aside her niggle of unease, heading back to talk medicine. Work was always safest.

  ‘Roscoe’s putting him into a bed in the kids’ ward,’ he told her. ‘The surgery’s gone well. Flexor tendons were damaged as well as nerves but the surgeon’s done a great job and he has every hope that there’ll be no long-term damage. If he wa
s an only child I’d bring him home, but he and his brothers play rough. He has a protective plaster so maybe I’m being ultra-cautious, but given how far we are from help I’d prefer him to stay where he is until the stitches are out. He knows I’ll be in and out. Henry and Marcus can visit. It’s good to have him home.’

  Then he gazed around the room again, slowly, as if taking it in. ‘It’s good to be home too,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your care.’

  She followed his gaze, noting with satisfaction that nothing had been disturbed after her clean. ‘You’re welcome. I’m not bad at dusting and polishing.’

  ‘It’s not actually the dusting and polishing I’m thanking you for,’ he told her with a slightly crooked smile. ‘That’s great, but with three kids I’ve pretty much learned not to value them. It’s for starting at the hospital three days early, but mostly it’s for caring for Marcus and Henry—and for Rose too. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

  ‘It’s just what needed to be done.’ She shifted uncomfortably. He was thanking her for care rather than cooking and cleaning? She didn’t care, at least not in the emotional sense. She did what she had to do to keep her world functioning as it should, to keep her patients safe, to keep herself safe. She accepted responsibility when she had to, but that was as far as it went.

  Caring was something that had been driven out of her from a time so long ago she could scarcely remember.

  So now...she looked at Tom’s weary smile, seeing the telltale lines of strain around his eyes, and she thought it wasn’t caring to accept a little more responsibility. It was simply doing what needed to be done.

  ‘You look like you could do with a sleep,’ she told him. ‘Why don’t you take a nap now? Roscoe and I have things covered. There’s nothing urgent. We don’t need you.’

  ‘I’d like to see everyone, though,’ he said diffidently. ‘You’ve been out to see Herbert Daly?’

  ‘His son’s bringing him into hospital,’ she told him. ‘He should have been in days ago, but he’s stubborn. I had to insist.’