The Surgeon's Marriage

by Maggie Kingsley

  But he wasn’t. Deep down inside him he knew that he wasn’t. He was losing her. Slowly but surely he was losing her.

  He got through the pelvic floor repair operation and the ovarian cyst on autopilot. Somehow he managed to ask for the right instruments, didn’t drop anything, didn’t make any mistakes, but it was a relief when his last patient was wheeled in.

  ‘Do I recognise this face, or ought I to start getting out more?’ Barry said as he adjusted the oxygen dials.

  ‘It’s Mrs Foster,’ Helen replied. ‘She was in a month ago for a hysterectomy.’

  ‘Likes hospitals, does she?’ The anaesthetist grinned. ‘Or is it my magnetic personality?’

  ‘Don’t I wish,’ Helen said ruefully. ‘I’m afraid Mrs Foster is a DIY enthusiast. She came in with severe stomach pains two days ago after she’d finished wallpapering her sitting room.’

  Barry’s eyebrows shot up to his mask. ‘I wouldn’t call her a DIY enthusiast. I’d call her an idiot.’

  ‘You and me both.’ Helen chuckled. ‘What’s the damage, Tom?’

  ‘Not as bad as I thought, though it would have been better if she hadn’t done it at all,’ he replied. ‘She’s torn some of her vaginal stitches. How’s things your end, Barry?’

  ‘No problems. She’s sleeping like a baby.’

  ‘That must be a first,’ Helen said with feeling, and the anaesthetist laughed.

  ‘One of nature’s complainers, is she?’

  ‘Founding member of the group, I’d say,’ Helen replied, and Tom glanced suspiciously from her to Barry.

  Not Barry. It couldn’t be Barry. OK, so he was single, mid to late thirties, but wasn’t he dating one of the theatre nurses? Helen had probably told him which one, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. He wished now that he could.

  ‘Swab,’ he said more sharply than he’d intended, and saw the puzzled look appear in Helen’s eyes again.

  Strange how he’d forgotten how brown her eyes were. Like liquid amber. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her. That, and her ready smile. Her smile hadn’t been much in evidence lately, he thought sadly, and he should have noticed. Should have realised why.

  ‘BP’s up,’ Barry declared. ‘One-twenty over 85. No, make that 130 over 90.’

  ‘She’s very clammy,’ Sharon observed. ‘Neck veins slightly swollen.’

  ‘Pulse erratic.’ That was Helen, her eyes suddenly concerned above her mask.

  ‘Temps going up, too,’ Barry chipped in, ‘and her heart rate—’

  The high-pitched monotone of the heart monitor cut off the rest of what he’d been about to say, and the calm of the operating theatre was shattered in an instant.

  ‘My God, myocardial infarction,’ Sharon gasped. ‘She’s arrested, Tom!’

  Quickly Tom hit Mrs Foster squarely in the centre of her chest with his fist. Sometimes that simple action was enough to restart a heart that had stopped after a heart attack, but in this case Helen shook her head.

  ‘No tracing—no activity—nothing,’ she declared, her eyes fixed on the heart monitor.

  ‘OK, paddles, conducting gel, 200 joules,’ Tom ordered. With the efficiency of a well-oiled machine everyone sprang to their allotted places and Tom placed the paddles on either side of Mrs Foster’s chest. ‘So you think you can die on me, do you, Mrs Foster?’ he murmured. ‘Swan up to the pearly gates to plague St Peter instead of me? Well, think again. Everybody back.’

  As one they all stepped back from the operating table, the electrical switch was thrown and Mrs Foster’s body arched convulsively, then slumped heavily back down.

  ‘No change,’ Helen reported, her voice tense.

  ‘Being difficult as usual, are we, Mrs Foster?’ Tom said grimly. ‘Well, I’m the surgeon and I call the shots here, and you are not going to die on me. Three hundred joules, Sharon.’

  ‘Three hundred joules,’ she repeated. ‘OK, everybody clear.’

  Again Tom placed the paddles on either side of Mrs Foster’s chest, and again her body convulsed.

  ‘Slight tracing visible,’ Helen declared. ‘Too erratic—No, it’s starting to even out—becoming more regular—you’ve got her, Tom.’

  A collective sigh of relief went up, and Tom glanced across at Helen.

  ‘Five will get you ten that the first thing she complains about when she wakes up is the bruising on her chest.’

  She laughed a little shakily. ‘Hey, you should know by now that I never bet on certainties.’

  And I shouldn’t have let my mind wander, he thought as he rapidly repaired the stitches Mrs Foster had burst when she’d been wallpapering. If I hadn’t been thinking about Helen—

  No. Nobody could have been prepared for Mrs Foster having a heart attack. It happened. It happened in young, fit people as well as middle-aged, plump women with an attitude problem.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Helen asked when Mrs Foster was finally wheeled through to Recovery.

  ‘I’ve had better mornings,’ he admitted.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ she said encouragingly. ‘She’s too damned cussed to die.’

  A smile creased one corner of his mouth, then was gone. Barry would stay with Mrs Foster, monitoring her until he was sure she was emerging from the anaesthesia as she should, and with luck she should suffer no after-effects. She’d have to be told about what had happened, of course, be warned about her diet and lifestyle, but, knowing Mrs Foster, she wouldn’t pay a blind bit of notice.

  He just wished that there was some medical procedure he could perform which would turn the clock back for him. Back to the days when he and Helen had been happy. Back to when he’d been secure and certain of her love.

  ‘Have you time for lunch?’ he asked after they’d showered and changed.

  She shook her head. ‘Neither of us do. You’ve got a clinic, and I’ve got Gideon’s ward round to do, remember?’

  Why did they never seem to have any time any more? When they’d been students there’d always been time. Time for laughing, time for loving, time for making plans.

  And what plans they’d had. They were both going to be consultants by the time they were thirty-five. They would have two beautiful children, a nice house, a top-of-the-range car. They’d achieved so little of their dreams. Oh, they had the children, but the house they lived in was rented and their car was second-hand. It hadn’t seemed to matter before when they’d been secure in one another’s love, but now…

  ‘I’m going to try to get away early tonight, Helen,’ he said as they walked through the swing doors that led into Obs and Gynae. ‘Be home at a reasonable time.’

  ‘Famous last words,’ she said. ‘The minute either of us says that, an emergency always comes in just as we’re about to leave.’

  She was right, it usually did, but he couldn’t let her walk away knowing that by the time he got home she’d probably be fast asleep in bed.

  ‘I really like your new hairstyle, Helen,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s lovely.’

  She looked startled. Startled and wary. Did that mean he rarely paid her compliments? It probably did.

  ‘That’s a new skirt, too, isn’t it?’ he ploughed on. ‘And a new blouse?’

  ‘Tom, you bought me this blouse last Christmas, and I’ve had the skirt for two years.’

  Oh, great. Zero out of ten for observation, Tom. Minus zero, in fact.

  ‘Well, you look very nice,’ he said, only to groan inwardly. Jerk. Idiot. ‘Nice’ is a taboo word, remember? The verbal equivalent of waving a red rag in front of her face. ‘I mean, you look lovely, very lovely.’ Oh, even better, Tom, he thought, seeing her shoulders stiffen. Three ‘lovelies’. That’s another zero out of ten—this time for originality. ‘Helen—’

  ‘Why are you paying me compliments, Tom?’

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’ he protested. ‘You’re my wife, and if I want to say nice—’ damn, he’d used that word again ‘—things about you, why shouldn’t I?’
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br />   ‘No reason, I suppose,’ she muttered.

  Lord, but she looked tense. Tense, and edgy, and inexplicably defensive. What had he done wrong now? All he’d tried to do was pay her a few compliments and yet from the way she was looking at him you’d have thought he’d suddenly grown two heads.

  ‘Helen, listen—’

  ‘Are you going to be much longer, Dr Brooke?’ Doris asked, appearing at her office door. ‘Only you’re already more than an hour late for your clinic and your patients are beginning to get a bit restless.’

  ‘And as I’m busy right now they’ll just have to damn well stay restless,’ he retorted.

  ‘I see. Right, Dr Brooke,’ she replied, disappearing back into her office but not before she’d glanced from him to Helen with a knowing look that set his teeth on edge.

  ‘Helen—’

  ‘Brilliant, Tom, really brilliant, Tom,’ she declared tartly. ‘Not content with telling Doris on Monday that we’ve had one row, you’ve now gone and shown her we’re having another one.’

  Were they rowing? He hadn’t realised they were, but then he didn’t seem to know anything any more.

  ‘Helen, if I’ve messed up again, I’m sorry, but…’ He thrust his fingers through his brown hair with frustration. How could he say, ‘Look, are you having an affair—are you attracted to somebody else?’ If she wasn’t she’d think he was an idiot, but if she was… ‘Are you on call tonight?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m on call every night this week.’

  ‘Unless Mark plays the good Samaritan for you again,’ he said, hoping for a smile, but she didn’t smile back. Say it, his mind insisted. For God’s sake, just say it—ask her—find out. ‘Helen…Helen, we need to talk.’

  ‘You mean about a patient?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean about a bloody patient,’ he snapped, then bit his lip as she flinched. She wasn’t meeting his gaze. Why wasn’t she meeting his gaze? ‘Helen we never talk any more.’

  ‘Of course we do.’

  ‘No, we don’t, not about us. We talk about the children, our work, our patients, but we don’t talk about us.’

  She looked at the floor, at his white coat, at everything but him. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘You must do,’ he insisted. ‘Helen, our marriage—’

  ‘I don’t have time for this right now, Tom,’ she interrupted. ‘I’ve a ward round to do, and you’ve got a clinic.’

  She was backing away from him and she looked unhappy, and edgy, and…Guilty. Did she look guilty, or was it just his imagination—Doris’s poisonous words—making him think that she did?

  ‘Helen—’

  ‘Later, Tom. Not now—later.’

  He couldn’t make her stay and talk to him. He couldn’t force her into the store cupboard, and keep her there until she told him what he wanted—needed—to know. He had patients waiting. Patients who needed him. And no matter how much he wanted to go after Helen, to beg her to tell him what was wrong, right now those patients came first.

  So he buried himself in his work, listened to the worries and fears of the women who had been referred to him. But the minute his clinic was over he was heading for the door.

  ‘What about the files, Doctor?’ Doris called after him. ‘Do you want me to file the notes of the patients you’ve seen this afternoon or can I leave them until tomorrow?’

  For a second he was tempted to tell her exactly what she could do with his notes but common sense and tact prevailed.

  ‘I’ll file them for you—you get off home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said, already reaching for her bag and coat. ‘After all, it’s my job, not yours, and even though I’m supposed to go off duty at half past five, and it’s already half past six…’

  ‘I’ll do it, Doris,’ he said firmly.

  And he would, but not right now. The minute Doris had gone he was going to the ward. Helen would be getting ready to leave, and if he was lucky he might be able to have a brief word with her, apologise for whatever he’d done wrong.

  That, at least, was his plan, but though Helen was the first person he saw when he entered the ward, Gideon collared him before he could get anywhere near her.

  ‘Helen told me about Mrs Foster,’ the consultant declared. ‘Talk about drama!’

  ‘It was certainly a shock,’ Tom replied, trying to edge away only to see the consultant come after him. ‘But I understand she’s stable now.’

  ‘I took a look through her records when Helen told me what had happened,’ Gideon continued, ‘and there’s nothing to suggest she might be an at-risk patient.’

  ‘I think it was just one of those things,’ Tom said, desperately trying to catch Helen’s eye, but Mark was talking to her, explaining something judging by the way she was listening to him.

  ‘Probably.’ The consultant nodded. ‘Actually, she reminds me a lot of a patient I had years ago—Elspeth Mackay. Elspeth had a hysterectomy, too, and you’ll never believe what she did when she was discharged. You see, Mrs Mackay’s husband was a farmer, and…’

  What on earth was Mark saying to Helen? Tom wondered as Gideon recounted his tale of Mrs Mackay. Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to like it. She looked uncomfortable, and ill at ease, and then he saw the reason why. Mark was holding her hand. Holding it and murmuring something in her ear. Big mistake, mate, he thought wryly. Any second now Helen is going to give you one hell of an earful. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she looked up at Mark and shook her head. Mark said something else, and as Tom watched a slow blush of colour creep across Helen’s cheeks the bottom fell out of his world.

  Not Mark. Not his one-time best friend. Dammit, Helen didn’t even like him. She was always telling him he was a flirt and a womaniser, and yet—why was she letting him hold her hand? Why was she blushing and gazing up at him like a teenager on her first date?

  ‘And when Elspeth told me she’d been helping her husband with the lambing…’ Gideon laughed ‘…well, it all became crystal clear.’

  Too clear, Tom thought. He should have seen it before, should have guessed it might happen. Back in med school Mark had always been poaching his girlfriends for a joke, but it wasn’t a joke now, and Helen wasn’t his girlfriend, she was his wife.

  ‘Gideon, I need a favour,’ he said quickly. ‘A big one. I’m scheduled to work tonight until eight. Could you stand in for me—let me off early?’

  The consultant looked surprised, and not at all happy. ‘It’s a bit short notice.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,’ Tom insisted, noticing that Helen was walking towards the ward door and Mark was staring after her with an expression on his handsome face which made him long to rearrange those, oh, so perfect features.

  ‘I’d like to help you out, Tom, I really would,’ Gideon said, ‘but Annie and I are going to the cinema tonight.’

  ‘We’ll go another evening,’ the junior doctor interrupted, appearing at their side without warning.

  ‘But you said you were really looking forward to tonight,’ Gideon protested. ‘You said—’

  ‘Forget what I said,’ Annie declared. ‘Let Tom leave early, Gideon.’

  The consultant looked bemused. Annie didn’t. How much did she know? Enough, it seemed, judging by the pointed look she was giving her husband.

  ‘Well, if Annie says it’s all right,’ Gideon began, and Tom didn’t wait to hear any more. He was out the ward and running. Running to catch up with Helen. Running as though his whole life depended on it, and right now he thought it did.

  ‘And he gave you the rest of the evening off—just like that?’ Helen said for the third time that evening as she slid the lamb chops off the grill, took the baked potatoes out of the microwave and put the bowl of salad in the centre of the kitchen table.

  ‘He said something about me looking tired.’

  ‘John, take some salad as well as potatoes,’ Helen ordered. ‘It’s good for you.’

/>   ‘It’s rabbit food—’

  ‘It’s still good for you. Emma, how many times have I told you? No comics at the table.’

  ‘It’s not a comic, Mum, it’s a geographical magazine. There’s some really great pictures in it about Australia and some of them are of places Mark told us about. When’s he going to come back again for a meal? I think he’s great.’

  ‘Emma, will you sit on that seat properly instead of bouncing around like you’ve got ants in your pants?’ Helen ordered. ‘I’ve no idea when Mark might come back. He’s a very busy man.’

  Not that busy, Tom thought sourly. Not too busy to seduce my wife.

  How far had it gone? Not that far, he guessed, hoped. Helen was too straight, too honest to be able to keep something like that from him. If she was sleeping with Mark, surely he would know?

  They had to talk, but never had a meal seemed so interminable. Never had Tom so longed for his children to go to bed, but even after they’d watched their allotted amount of television they showed no sign of moving. Emma was too full of excitement because she’d been chosen to be a member of the girls’ swimming team at school, and John was equally determined to extract more pocket money out of him to buy some new computer game that ‘everybody’ had.

  ‘OK, time for bed,’ Helen eventually declared, to his relief.

  They didn’t go right away—they never did—but at long last, after the usual obligatory moans and groans, Emma and John finally made their way upstairs.

  ‘Peace at last,’ he said, switching off the television.

  ‘Do you want a coffee, or tea, or anything?’ Helen asked, and when he shook his head she sat down beside him on the sofa, reached for a magazine and began flicking through it.

  Now, he thought. Now’s the time, now’s the moment, but what could he say? He’d never possessed Mark’s charm, his good looks, his way with words. How could he convince Helen that he loved her when he was never going to be able to make the kind of flattering speeches that tripped so easily off Mark’s tongue?

  Show her, his heart suggested. Show her you care, that the love is still there.