Beyond Regeneration

by Jenny Schwartz

  “Charley, I was sorry to hear of Eric’s death. I was overseas at the time or I’d have come to the funeral.”

  “Thanks.” She fidgeted with the strap of her shoulder bag. Even after two years she found it hard to deal with sympathy, and even harder to think of Eric’s death. To have worked safely for six years in Nigeria, only to die in a road accident on a Christmas visit home, was an irony Charley couldn’t accept. It gave her no joy that the drunk driver, a repeat offender, was in prison for manslaughter.

  Jack seemed to understand. He switched the topic. “We’ll be boarding in a few minutes. Do you want a magazine or anything?”

  “No.” Charley found a small smile. “Thanks. But if you want one.” She looked towards the news kiosk. “Or a newspaper?”

  “I’m fine.” A grin pulled at his mouth. “A newspaper would probably have my photo in, and since I’m not photogenic, I think I’ll spare myself the sight.”

  She glanced around at the people in the boarding lounge. No one was staring at them. “Have people recognized you?”

  “Not often, fortunately. It must be my stunned fish expression in the photos that saves me. That, or I’m ordinary.”

  “Not ordinary.” She studied him for a serious couple of seconds, but the boarding call saved her from having to convey her own impression of him. Not ordinary, not handsome either with his light brown hair and eyes and square face, but competent. That was the word. He radiated the assurance of a man certain he could cope with whatever life threw at him, and that was reassuring. Little wonder his regeneration center was successful.

  “Are you okay if we drive straight to Margaret River, or do you want to stop and see your family?” They had been seated separately on the plane, and Jack had disembarked first, but he waited for Charley just inside the arrival lounge.

  “Direct to Margaret River is fine with me.” She rotated shoulders stiff with the tension of flying home. “I’ll see my family after I’ve visited New Hope.” In fact, she hadn’t yet told her family that she was back in Western Australia.

  Jack nodded. He collected their luggage and lead the way to the long-stay car park.

  “Is this your car?” A new, light gray Jaguar.

  “Yes. I thought it suitable for a successful doctor.”

  She glanced at him, and realized he was teasing. She relaxed into a smile. “That, and it eats up the distance between here and Margaret River.”

  “And is simply fun to drive,” he agreed, and straightened his glasses. “Don’t see through all my illusions, Charley.”

  The highway was empty Sunday morning and they were soon out of Perth. She breathed easier as familiar landmarks vanished behind them. Winter-flowering wattle splashed the green countryside with gold. They stopped for an early lunch in Bunbury, about half-way, and walked along the main street of the small city to stretch their legs. Bunbury had retained its country town feel, although encircled to the east by suburbs. It was a coastal town and the wind blew fresh off the ocean.

  Charley breathed in the cool air and felt some of the groggy feeling from the hours of travel dissipate.

  “Better?” Jack asked.

  She smiled. “Do you know what I find wrong with Sydney?”

  “Air pollution, over-crowding, the people?”

  “No. The ocean’s in the wrong place.”

  He laughed.

  She tilted her face to the breeze. “The sun’s meant to set over the ocean, not rise over it. The sea breeze doesn’t smell as fresh over there either.”

  “West coast parochialism.” He settled his glasses more firmly. “I’m guilty of it, too. I like coming home.”

  Home. The word sobered her.

  Back in the car, he navigated easily out of Bunbury and back onto the highway. He set cruise control. “Did you lose your hand in the car accident that killed Eric?” She straightened in her seat, and his mouth twisted. “I’ve found it’s best to be blunt about such things. Tiptoeing around loss only encourages emotions to fester.”

  “So you lance boils?”

  He refused the challenge. “What happened, Charley?”

  Her shoulders hunched. “Separate accident. It was my fault. Three days after Eric’s funeral. I was blind angry, furious. I hired a rental car and drove aimlessly. I couldn’t bear to be with Eric’s family, couldn’t deal with my own family’s sympathy. I was going too fast. Hit gravel. Skidded. The car hit a tree. They couldn’t save my hand, and as you can see, they ended up taking it off midway between wrist and elbow.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Yeah,” she paused. “Anyway, it healed and I got work freelancing, mostly specializing in health issues; hence my attendance at the conference.”

  “You write well.” He kept his eyes on the road. “I followed your work while you were in Africa.”

  She glanced at him, vaguely surprised. Then her mouth thinned. “So now you’re wondering why I sold out and write fluffy pieces on health trends and miracle cures for women’s magazines?”

  “No. I understand why you write those articles. You’re afraid that if you write anything deeper, all your raw emotions—your grief and anger and love—will come tumbling out.” He stopped. His voice lightened, a purposeful attempt to defuse the tension between them. “Plus, the articles pay your bills, and they’re not bad pieces. I expect a lot of people enjoy them, even learn a little. Charley, are you crying?”

  “No.” She fumbled for a tissue. “Do you always strip away your patients’ defenses?”

  “You’re not my patient, Charley. You’re my friend.”

  She bit her lip, but it wobbled. “Now, I’m crying.”

  He took his ungloved hand from the steering wheel and touched her knee fleetingly. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “Tell me about your regeneration center.”

  Three heartbeats, long enough to wonder if this time he’d refuse the change of subject.

  He didn’t. “The center is called New Hope. It has the capacity to house thirty clients. Usually, we aim at twenty five live-ins; that’s clients going through the active growth stage of regeneration. They need rest and good food and careful monitoring, so it’s best if they live in.

  “I do the actual surgery in the local hospital about twenty minutes away. Routine QNA addition is undertaken at the center. Currently, we have twenty six clients. Alan Do is my second in command. Lillian, his wife, handles our office work. She’s a qualified nurse. We’ve a couple of additional nurses, full and part time, a physio, a psychologist, and a housekeeper, cook and cleaning staff.”

  “A full complement.”

  “We’re lucky,” He smoothly changed lanes, accelerating around an old car towing a caravan. “Unlike hospitals, at the moment we have no staffing problems.”

  They arrived in Margaret River midafternoon and Jack drove directly to New Hope. It occupied prime real estate with a view of the Indian Ocean and a short path through the dunes to the white beach.

  Charley was uneasily impressed. She had realized Jack was successful, but she hadn’t realized the degree of his success.

  A large two story building occupied the center of a rectangular horseshoe of adjoining rooms that resembled an upmarket motel complex. The buildings were plastered a creamy white with red tiled roofs. Deep verandas ran around the outside of the apartments with comfortable reclining chairs for lounging in. The central building had no encircling veranda, but it did have a deep front porch

  “This guest apartment is yours for the duration of your visit.” Jack placed her luggage just inside the door. “My suggestion is that you leave your unpacking and take a nap. I certainly intend to. With your agreement, I’ll pick you up at seven and drive us back into town for dinner.”

  “Sounds good.” She was tired.

  He was already out the door. He raised a hand in farewell, and was gone.

  Alone, she looked around.

  The apartment comprised of three rooms: a living room with a kitc
hen nook, a large bedroom and a good-sized bathroom. All the comforts of home. She set the alarm and collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion mugging her. She slept deeply and woke in time to shower and dress for dinner. Figure-hugging black wool trousers and a cream sweater were, she decided, suitable for a country town renowned for its fine dining.

  Jack arrived to pick her up wearing jeans and a knitted brown and blue sweater. He drove them to an unpretentious restaurant located in a renovated, old settlers’ cottage. Winter wasn’t Margaret River’s prime tourist time, but the restaurant was still three quarters full; proof of the food’s quality. Portions were generously sized and the menu composed of whatever the chef decided was in season and worth cooking.

  Charley ordered Beef Stroganoff as her main.

  “They’re famous for their char grilled lamb here,” Jack said. “I can cut it up for you, so don’t limit your choices because of your arm.”

  She ducked her head. That was exactly what she had been doing. She had gotten used to such decisions over the last two years. “I’ll stay with the Stroganoff, but Jack, thanks.”

  He nodded, and let the matter rest.

  She finished with a chocolate mousse layered with segments of orange and drizzled with chocolate fudge sauce.

  At least some of the other locals dining in the restaurant must have recognized Jack from his stint in the news, but no one mentioned it. Charley was grateful for their restraint, and that by unspoken agreement she and he avoided discussion both of regeneration and of painful memories.

  She laid her spoon in the empty glass dish, a satisfied sigh escaping. “I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten better.”

  “We’ll eat here again, before you leave.”

  “I’d like that.” She smiled. “It’s nice here.” She glanced at the pot belly stove in a corner. “I love the smell of jarrah wood smoke. It reminds me of Sunday dinners at my grandparents’ house.” She grimaced, faintly embarrassed. “I know ecologically we shouldn’t burn wood from old growth forests, but jarrah is the only wood smoke that smells like home to me. I tell myself that the wood burning was collected only from fallen trees.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Jack said solemnly, a smile lurking. He finished the last of his red wine. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  She watched him order coffee, and shivered slightly. This was the first time since Eric’s death that she’d sat happily over dinner with a man, enjoying the give-and-take of discussing everything and nothing.

  “Are you cold?”

  Jack’s question brought her back to the present. “No. No, everything’s fine.”

  “Good. I want you to be happy here, Charley.” And then, before she could question that statement. “I’ll collect you for breakfast at seven thirty tomorrow, if that’s not too early?”

  “Seven thirty’s fine.” She accepted her coffee from the waitress, and pursued Jack’s introduction of business matters. “I appreciate the exclusive you’ve given me. I’ve sold the idea to a national magazine editor and I can probably sell it internationally, too. You’ll never believe how much the editor is willing to pay for an exclusive interview with you.” She quoted a figure well above her usual pay scale. It meant that for the first time since Eric’s death, she’d have some money behind her.

  They finished their coffee and she relaxed in the passenger seat of the luxury car as Jack returned her to New Hope. He unlocked her apartment door and switched on the light.

  “Thanks for dinner.” She hesitated, looking at his square, serious face. His glasses had slid down his nose, a sign of some unnamed emotion. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Charley.”

  She closed the door and listened to the crunch of gravel as he drove away. Presumably he lived somewhere other than New Hope.

  “New Hope.” Simple and catchy, the name of the clinic captured the driving need behind regeneration. “It’s clever, Jack. I wonder if you thought of it yourself?” She scribbled a note to ask him in the morning, and went to bed.

  Chapter Three

  Charley had set the alarm, but she didn’t need it. Her body clock was still a fraction ahead, operating on Sydney time, and that, plus the unaccustomed sound of magpies caroling and quarrelling outside, woke her early. She dressed and sat at a table by the window, flicking through her notebook to check that she had a clear idea of the questions she would ask Jack and what she needed to see on a tour of the regeneration center.

  It was kind of him to give her an exclusive, but he was busy, would be busier than ever after his time away at the conference and his announcement of bio-enhancement, and she needed to use the time he could spare her as efficiently as possible.

  “Charley?” He knocked. “Breakfast first,” he said when she opened the door. He carried two coffees and handed one over. “No milk, no sugar?” She nodded and he continued. “Our meals are carefully planned to ensure clients eat according to the energy and nutrient demands of regeneration. But I thought you’d appreciate a coffee, so I stopped in town.”

  They sat at the small table by the living room window and he opened a paper bag holding a selection of pastries warm from the oven.

  Charley selected an apricot Danish.

  Jack ate a sultana scroll and sipped his coffee. The window of the living area looked out over a well-kept, water-wise garden. It was green with the fresh growth of late winter, and a few hardy flowers provided bright color as they anticipated spring.

  “Tranquil,” she said, meaning it as a compliment.

  “It was designed to be.” Finishing the scroll, he selected an apple Danish. He ate absently, studying the garden. “This region is a center for New Agers. The landscape gardener I hired turned out to be a practitioner of feng shui. I don’t agree with all her notions, but the garden is serene. It fits with the idea of New Hope, which is to assist the healing growth of regeneration by providing a restful experience.” He smiled ruefully. “Some our clients find the slower pace hard to adjust to at first, but the reality is that the main focus of their energy has to be on re-growth, or the regeneration is sub-optimal.”

  “Are there many cases like that, where regeneration has less than perfect results?”

  “Very few at New Hope. Mostly I force clients to conform to the demands of their treatment. Rest is essential. Good food. Moderate exercise. Low stress.” He finished his coffee. “Limited caffeine and no alcohol. Absolutely no smoking. Clients have to sign a contract. Regeneration is a serious commitment.”

  Charley finished her own coffee, not commenting. “Shall we start the tour?”

  They walked up the steps of the deep front porch of the central administrative building.

  “Nice touch.” She nodded towards the swing seat. Thickly cushioned, it looked inviting, a place to sit and dream away the hours.

  He spared the swing a brief glance. “New Hope has to be a home away from home, not only for our clients but for the families who visit and worry about them.” He held open the front door and she stepped into a small reception area. A woman looked up from her work at a computer. “Good morning, Lillian. Charley, this is Lillian Do. Lillian, Charlotte Rowdon, a freelance writer. She’ll be interviewing me about regeneration and bio-enhancements.”

  The red-haired woman frowned.

  Charley recognized her.

  At the Sydney conference, the woman had been all smiles for the doctors and media interested in Jack’s bio-enhancement procedure. The smiles had hidden the bony gauntness of her face. Now, she faced the world stripped and driven.

  Not a person likely to reassure uncertain new clients and their families, Charley thought. Perhaps Lillian had gotten the job because her husband was New Hope’s second doctor, Alan Do. During the conference, Charley had identified him as the nervous Vietnamese man who’d sat beside her in the auditorium on the first day.

  Unkindly, she decided that being married to Lillian would make her nervous, too. Her reaction to the other woman was one of those spontaneous dislikes. The fa
ct that Lillian ignored her confirmed the feeling was mutual.

  “John,” Lillian began. “You need to look at—”

  “Later.”

  Lillian glared at Charley.

  Not my fault. Charley followed Jack into his office.

  He closed the door quietly. “Lillian’s very good at keeping me organized.” It was explanation and excuse.

  Charley didn’t answer. His interaction with New Hope’s staff was none of her business, no matter her own unreasoning antipathies. She studied his office, instead. The room’s wide windows opened onto the front porch, letting in subdued light. Bookshelves lined the walls, the jumbled colors of book jackets matching the bright colors of the woven rug that covered the dark, polished jarrah floor. The furniture was modern, spacious and light.

  Jack walked behind his desk and picked up a stack of papers from a shelf. “This is the introductory pack we give our new clients. It’ll tell you about New Hope and our regeneration work. I know your interest is bio-enhancement, but that’s built on the principles of regeneration as practiced here.”

  “Thanks.” She tucked the pack into her shoulder bag. Despite two years of practice, her one-handed action seemed clumsy under his dispassionate gaze. Yet he had to have seen worse. She tried to distract him. “Your office is lovely.”

  It was true. The office was as comfortable as a living room, and if an office was an expression of its inhabitant’s personality, then Jack passed with flying colors. Clients would feel welcome here.

  He nodded. “I spend a lot of time, here, and it’s where clients bring their problems. Ready for the whistle-stop tour?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Back in the reception area, Lillian kept her back to them. A very straight back. An aware and indignant back.

  Jack ignored her with an obliviousness far more effective than her posturing. “Next door to my office is the counselling room. We have a psychologist who works with clients on an as-needed basis, Keanu Trawling. He’s good. This is my colleague’s office.” He indicated a closed door. “Dr. Alan Do, Lillian’s husband.” They continued on, down the corridor. “Here’s the dining room.”