by Fiona Lowe
Pressing his foot into the foothold, he swung up and stepped onto the pool deck, the air feeling chilly after the heat of the water. He scooped up his towel and hurried to the locker room. He reached the door just ahead of Sam Bailey, The Harbour’s cardiac surgeon, who raised his hand with a smile. Avoiding eye contact, Finn gave a brisk nod of acknowledgment before heading straight to the showers. He cranked up the hot tap until the temperature was just shy of burning and let the heat sink into his skin and the constantly stressed muscles below. After doing his neck exercises under the heat of the shower, the skill lay in getting dry and dressed fast so his clothes could trap the heat for as long as possible. It was almost as good as the anti-inflammatories and he used it once a day to stretch out one time period between the pills.
With his towel looped low on his hips, he quickly grabbed hold of the combination lock, spun the black dial three times and then pulled down hard to open the lock so he could retrieve his clothes. The silver U stayed locked. ‘Blast.’ His fingers felt thick and uncoordinated. He tried again, but still the lock stayed firm. He slammed his hand hard against the unyielding door and the crash resonated in the cavernous room.
‘These locks can be bastards,’ Sam said quietly, having appeared at the locker next to his. He spun his own lock slowly and methodically. ‘If you don’t hit the exact spot, they won’t open.’
‘You don’t say,’ Finn ground out as he tried again, feeling the sideways glance of his colleague along with the fast-fading power of the heat from the shower. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and one trickled down into his eye. Hell, he was a surgeon. He could sew the finest and smallest stitches so that his patient was left virtually scar-free. He sure as hell could open a bloody lock.
A registrar rescued you when you couldn’t tie off that bleeder.
That was once. It hasn’t happened again.
It’s happening now.
His fingers on his right hand were doing exactly what they’d done during that operation and he couldn’t control their gross movements let alone make them execute a fine task. He brought his left hand up to the lock, and in what seemed like slow motion he finally got it to open.
Sam slammed his locker shut. ‘Will I see you in the gym?’
Finn shook his head. ‘I’m done.’
‘Catch you later, then.’
Finn didn’t reply. With a pounding heart he pulled his clothes on, wrapped a scarf around his neck and with legs that felt weak he sank onto the wooden bench between the lockers, dropping his head in his hands.
You can’t even open a blasted lock.
He rubbed his arm and swore at the offending fingers. He couldn’t deny it was happening more often—this loss of sensation that had him dropping things. Hell, he’d already had some time off and rested exactly as Rupert had suggested. He hated following instructions, but he’d done everything the neurosurgeon had suggested. On his return to work he’d cut back his surgery hours so he wasn’t standing for long periods. He’d taken up swimming, he’d even tried Pilates, which galled him, and none of it was working. He was still swallowing analgesia tablets like they were lollies and he refused to think about his Scotch intake.
He ran his left hand over the back of his neck, locating the offending area between cervical vertebrae five and six. Wasn’t it enough that the bomb had killed Isaac, stealing his only brother from him? Apparently not. Its remnants now lingered with him way beyond the pain of grief. The blast that had knocked him sideways, rendering him unconscious, had jarred his neck so badly that the soft nucleus of the cushioning disc now bulged outwards, putting pressure on the spinal cord. That something so small could cause so much chaos was beyond ironic. It was sadistic and it threatened to steal from him the one thing that kept him getting up in the mornings. His reason for living. The one true thing that defined him.
Surgery.
So far he’d been lucky. So far he’d been able to survive without mishap the few times his weak arm and numb fingers had caused him to stumble in surgery. So far his patients hadn’t suffered at his unreliable hand and they wouldn’t because he now made sure he only operated with a registrar present.
His gut sent up a fire river of acid and his chest constricted as the horrifying thought he’d long tried to keep at bay voiced itself in his head.
How long can you really keep operating?
CHAPTER NINE
HAYLEY was exhausted, but at least she was now warm. It always amazed her how therapeutic a hot shower could be. She’d finally got back to Tom’s place at eight p.m., after the SES guys had boarded up her windows and lashed a tarpaulin over her roof. She still couldn’t believe that ten minutes of freaky weather could wreak so much havoc. She smiled and hugged herself whenever she thought of how Tom had quietly and methodically organised things, including helping her neighbour, a single mother with a young baby. Thea had rushed in crying and he’d calmed her down, asked Hayley to make tea for everyone and had then made phone calls for her as well.
Hayley knew that if she’d been on her own she would have made herself cope with everything, but having Tom deal with the SES and the insurance company while she busied herself with the practical clean-up had made it all much more bearable. They’d made a great team, but whenever she’d tried to tell him that and thank him, his mouth had flattened into a grimace and he’d brushed her appreciation aside. Oddly, he’d accepted Thea’s thanks with grace, which Hayley didn’t understand at all, and it had left her feeling disgruntled.
Hunger had her quickly brushing her hair and padding out to the main living area, which was cloaked in darkness except for the glow of Tom’s computer screen. She automatically reached for the light switches and flicked them all on.
Tom immediately turned toward her and smiled. ‘My light bill has plummeted since I went blind.’
She jumped. ‘I’ll pay the electricity bill while I’m here.’
He frowned. ‘I was making a joke, Hayley.’
She forced out a laugh because as far as she was concerned the dark was nothing to joke about. She crossed the room and, with her heart racing, quickly closed the curtains. Despite the pretty twinkling lights, there was too much dark around them and it made her feel anxious. Shutting out the night was an evening ritual for her no matter where she was so she could bathe in the glow of artificial light and pretend it wasn’t dark at all.
Her stomach rumbled and she said brightly, ‘Do you actually cook with that flash stainless-steel gas stove or is it just for decoration?’
‘Even with the lights on, can’t you enjoy the night view of the city lights?’
The quietly asked question was tinged with surprise and it made her shiver. ‘Of course I can, but it’s cold tonight so I’m keeping the heat in.’ She sucked in a breath and rushed on. ‘Theo, at work, he’s been hammering us with sustainable living information and closing curtains at night cuts greenhouse gas emissions and saves you money. So, what are we doing about dinner? I’m starving.’
He closed his laptop. ‘I have three recipes I can manage in emergencies, but Gladys keeps my freezer filled with her home-cooked specialities, which has made me a brilliant defroster and re-heater. I’m also excellent at ordering take-out and dining at Wayan’s.’ He rose to his feet and walked into the kitchen, his gait the most relaxed she’d ever seen it. ‘Prepare yourself for a treat. Tonight we’re having Gladys’s tasty beef and ginger.’
She followed him. ‘Do you want me to cook the rice? Boiling water is my speciality.’
‘You’re on.’ He felt for a particular drawer handle, pulled it open, picked up a saucepan and handed it to her with a cheeky and generous smile.
Dimples twirled through his ebony stubble and part of her melted as it did every time he smiled. But this smile was extra-special because it wasn’t one she saw very often. It didn’t carry the vestiges of pain or grief, neither did it hold the rigid determination of striving to be independent at all costs. No, this smile was pure Tom and it spun around her heart lik
e gossamer thread.
Tom woke with a jolt of surprise, wondering what on earth was pinning his legs to the bed. He breathed in the scent of summer flowers and instantly remembered. Hailstorm, damaged house, and Hayley was in his bed. He stretched out his arm and touched an empty mattress. He kept going until his hand brushed her shoulder and he realised she was lying diagonally across the bed. Was this why she’d never stayed the night, because she was either a bed-hog or had restless-leg syndrome?
You never invited her to stay.
True.
But then it hit him that up until this evening they’d mostly had sex during the day because she’d been doing more than her fair share of night shifts. The one time they’d had sex at night she’d seemed eager to return home and he’d had no quarrel with that. Sex and friendship was one thing. Her toothbrush in his bathroom was another thing entirely.
She’s living here.
No, she’s staying here temporarily.
He disentangled himself from her legs and rolled over with the intention of falling straight back to sleep but something made him stare towards the door. It was the middle of the night, but he could see a shadow. He blinked and looked again. It was still there, so he rubbed his eyes. The shadow didn’t shift, which meant the room wasn’t totally dark like it should be in middle of the night. Had he slept so soundly that it was morning?
He reached for his talking clock but then changed his mind because he didn’t want to wake up Hayley. He patted the bedside table, feeling for his watch, and his hand collided with the recently replaced lamp. Why the hell had he let Gladys talk him into that? ‘Ouch.’ His fingers instantly pulled away. The lamp was unexpectedly hot.
Hayley’s legs twitched, hitting his, and he sat up, leaning back against the headboard. Just think this through.
Being confused about his surroundings happened out in the world, but it never happened in his apartment. This was his sanctuary. He knew where everything was and he knew all the familiar shadows and the times of day they appeared. He also knew all the noises, from the gurgling water in the pipes to the four a.m. clunk of the freezer. The shadow by the doorway hadn’t been there when he’d fallen asleep and he knew the lamp hadn’t been on because when they’d come to bed Hayley had suggested switching it on and he’d thought it irrelevant and had distracted her by trailing kisses down her neck and beyond. He grinned at how easy she was to distract and at the same time loving how responsive she was whenever he touched her.
The lamp is hot.
Which meant it was turned on. He swung his legs out of bed, pulled on some boxers and walked to the doorway. He ran his hand along the architrave and found the light switch. Touching it lightly so as not to move it, he worked out the switch was pointing down. He automatically scratched his head. He’d assumed that her fear of the dark only worried her when she was awake and in an unfamiliar environment. His apartment was hardly unfamiliar so why was she sleeping in a fully lit room? No wonder Hayley was restless.
He turned the lights out, made his way back to the bedside table and switched off the lamp. Then he got back into bed and Hayley rolled into him with a groan and her legs thrashing wildly. The groan wasn’t ecstatic—it was guttural and reminded him of pain. Whatever the dream she was having, it wasn’t happy. He threw his leg over both of hers with the intention of stilling them, and as he gathered her to him, he felt her body slick with sweat.
He found her head and tried to stroke her temple, but she was writhing about too much and he caught a sharp elbow to the jaw. He swore.
‘Amy!’ Hayley screamed, and stiffened in his arms, her chest heaving as if she’d run a marathon.
He gave her a small shake. ‘Hayley, it’s okay. Wake up, it’s just a dream.’
He heard her gasp, felt her body-length shudder and smelled her fear. Then she was out of bed, her bare feet slapping the floor, and the next thing he heard was the click of the light switch.
He instantly remembered her stop-start feet the night he’d met her, her reaction when the rug had gone over her head, and how she’d been turning lights on all night. And now this. Her reaction went beyond fear and edged on being petrified.
‘Hayley, what’s going on?’
She couldn’t get her breath and she wanted to sink to the floor, cuddle her knees and rock back and forth. Her recurring nightmare was getting out of control.
You know it’s been out of control for years. But admitting that out loud was too scary. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Just a bad dream after a big day.’
His head turned slightly to her voice and his sightless eyes stared straight at her. ‘It’s a hell of a lot more than that. It’s connected with your fear of the dark, isn’t it?’
Her chest tightened. She’d hidden this from so many people over so many years because she never let anyone get close, and yet it was a blind man who’d just worked it out. She blew out a breath, replaying his words in her head, and she realised his matter-of-fact tone held no condemnation. The part of her that always tried to hide her fear let out a tired sigh.
Tell him.
No. Reliving that night over and over in a dream was one thing. Talking about it would do her in.
It might help.
It won’t.
‘Remember our pact of not having to answer questions? Well, I’m invoking it.’ She got back into bed and snuggled down. ‘Let’s go back to sleep.’
His arms gathered her close and she let herself be cocooned in his mantle of safety. Under the soothing yellow beam of the central light her eyelids fluttered downwards.
‘Most of us grow out of this particular childhood fear. What happened to you that prevented it?’
Her eyes shot open. Why did he have to be so damn intuitive?
Because he isn’t distracted by images.
‘Nothing happened. I’m just an exception to the rule.’
He huffed out a breath. ‘Sleeping with a nightlight is one thing. Sleeping under the glare of three sixty-watt bulbs is another thing entirely. I live in semi-darkness, Hayley, it’s not that scary.’
She instinctively shuddered at the thought and then regretted it.
His lips grazed her shoulder. ‘Who’s Amy?’
No way. No. She threw back the covers as panic consumed her. ‘Go back to sleep, Tom.’
She grabbed her pyjamas and rushed towards the kitchen, flinging on lights wherever she saw a switch until the entire apartment was lit up like a Christmas tree. With trembling hands she filled the kettle and set it to boil and then she frantically opened cupboards, searching for some sort of soothing tea.
‘What are you looking for?’ Tom stood in a pair of boxers and a T-shirt that fitted his toned chest like a glove and made him look like an underwear model.
But it did nothing to dent her panic. ‘Chamomile tea, peppermint tea, any bloody tea!’
One corner of his mouth tweaked up. ‘I don’t have any.’
Ridiculous tears pricked the back of her eyes. ‘That’s not helpful at all.’
He put out his arm and caught hers, pulling her into him. ‘How about hot milk and brandy? The nurses swear by it for calming down crazy old ladies who try to climb over the cot sides.’
Her worst fear made her sharp. ‘I’m not crazy.’
His hand stroked her hair. ‘Not usually, but you are tonight and I’d hazard a guess you’ve been like this many times before. Isn’t it wearing you out?’
Yes. The sympathy in his voice unlocked something inside her and tears started to fall. ‘I’m so tired, Tom. I’m so very, very tired.’
He held her, his arms circled tightly around her and he pressed kisses in her hair. She could have stayed there for ever with his strength flowing through her. She felt protected, cared for and safe in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Eventually he dropped his arms and said, ‘You go sit on the couch and I’ll make you that milk.’
She almost said, ‘I’ll do it’, but the determination on his face stopped her. Instead, she did as she was told and cuddl
ed up on the couch with a light polar fleece blanket draped around her shoulders, and she came to a decision.
Tom picked up the mug of hot milk. Heating it was the easy part. Getting the damn thing to Hayley without spilling it was another thing entirely, but if he could do it anywhere it was here. Once he was out of the kitchen it was twelve steps to the couch. He started walking, concentrating on making each step smooth. ‘Where are you?’
‘On the right-hand side of the couch.’
He turned and counted five more steps. At least her voice sounded stronger than it had a few minutes ago and no milk had scalded his hand. Miracles could happen. He held out the mug. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ She accepted it, her fingers brushing his, and a moment later she started coughing. ‘How much brandy’s in this?’
Obviously too much. He hated that he had no clue how much he’d put in, and that what was supposed to be a helpful act had her coughing like an asthmatic. He sat down next to her. ‘Tell me about Amy.’
She gave a long sigh. ‘Amy’s my …’ She gulped and then her words rushed out. ‘Amy was my twin sister. She died suddenly when we were eleven.’
A shock of guilt flared through him, making him regret his previous accusations that, unlike him, she’d had a perfect childhood. The guilt tumbled over empathy. Although he didn’t have siblings, he’d experienced enough loss to have a form of understanding. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’ She sounded sad and resigned. ‘It was a long time ago. Too long ago.’
But time didn’t mean squat with grief. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’
‘No. I still miss her. I know that can’t be right but I do.’
She paused and he wished he could see her face, but he couldn’t make out anything but shadows. He heard her shudder out a breath.
‘For eleven years my life was happy and relatively carefree. Amy was my best friend, my conscience and my other half. Sometimes we didn’t even have to talk to find out what the other was thinking, we just knew. Once when Dad took Amy to buy me a birthday present she came home having chosen the exact same gift I had bought for her.’