by Sally Bryan
But there was no time to consider that revelation as the stabbing pain shot through my chest. “What? Is he all right?”
“Dad, erm, yes, he is … it’s Lachlan.”
“Lachlan?”
“Freya, you need to come home right away.”
Epilogue
After four days, we turned off his life support and we all watched as my big brother slowly slipped away.
“You’re with your mother now, my son.” Dad let go of his hand, took Lizzie’s and walked toward the door, glancing back at me. “You coming?”
“A few more minutes.” I waited for them to leave and took my brother’s hand. “I want you to know that I’m back and I will fulfil the promise that I made to you.”
If you don’t have a purpose, you need to find it so you can bring meaning to your life. If you know your purpose then you have a duty to realise it. Circumstances, fate, life will distract us and throw all kinds of obstacles in the way. It’s called living.
* * *
I began my belated residency at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness and was immediately given the responsibility of overseeing the ongoing care over a number of patients with diabetes, heart disease, cancer and even a few road traffic accident survivors who required routine checks. These fields would be rotated every few months, the intention being to give trainee doctors like myself experience over as large a base as possible.
Arwen understood, eventually. Judging from our many calls, she was beyond devastated, but she understood.
Her work visa required that she had to remain employed to avoid deportation and although she was entitled to the same breaks and holidays as any other worker within the European Union, what would you know, but the UK and Ireland were the only two countries within the EU not to allow her entry on a work visa. It was just another in a long line of setbacks we’d already had to deal with.
Regardless, I was busy, as was Arwen, and although we spoke regularly and made promises of “hooking up” at some point, as the months progressed our contact gradually diminished.
I’d arrived in Scotland on the eighty-ninth day, my braid unravelling under its own weight and on day ninety, I’d freed it and made my own. It wasn’t anywhere near as good as the braid Arwen had done for me but the intent was there. I would keep a braid until the day arrived when Arwen could undo it herself, even if, under the workload, she began to occupy ever less of my thoughts, as unthinkable as that was, and I realised it was probably a defence mechanism of some kind, even if it took a whole year to reach that stage and then, because we were barely speaking anymore, I finally gave up on the idea of maintaining a braid. It was mostly because of my own circumstance, I was working exceptionally long hours and had heavy responsibilities and things with Arwen eventually fizzled out.
Besides, she’d probably moved on.
Though I will admit to feeling a small sensation of hope every time I was due a patient with a Welsh-sounding name, Miss Jones, Williams, Evans, only for the hope to be dashed when someone else entered. There was even an occasion when one female patient was speaking with an Australian accent from over the dividing curtain and I had to leave the ward in tears. They were futile dreams and such things shouldn’t have been allowed to upset me but they did, it couldn’t be helped, not that I wanted Arwen to be one of my terminal patients or anything.
The family had a long discussion over what to do about the pond that had claimed the lives of two of its members. Lizzie and I wanted to have more fish living in it and to possibly construct some kind of a permanent memorial, whereas Dad wanted the whole thing bulldozed, concreted over and steamrolled. He got his way.
The death of Lachlan had the effect of changing my dad’s perspective on a few matters and although I was told his first meeting with Uncle Paul had resulted in the latter being punched on the jaw, they were playing golf soon afterwards. Besides, Dad had a grandson, which was the one thing he’d wanted more than anything else in the world and within six months, Lizzie, Uncle Paul and Wee Angus had relocated to the Highlands.
After two years, I finished my residency at Raigmore and progressed straight into my first of six years specialist training in emergency medicine, which meant rotating hospitals again and again and again. My responsibility involved being the first doctor to review incoming patients and from there, either treating the minor injuries, or else sending them onto the relevant specialist after making a diagnosis, which at first I did under very close supervision. Emergency medicine was exceptionally broad because there was no way of knowing who was about to walk, or be carried, through the door and there were times, Friday and Saturday nights particularly, when thanks to the fuel of alcohol, the once orderly department would turn to sudden chaos and then there’d be cut limbs, concussions, broken faces and stomachs to pump. The weekends were long and often went by in a haze and it was during one such usual Friday when I received the email informing me of yet another rotation and I was relocating from Yorkshire back to Scotland, Saint Andrews to be exact.
The home of golf it may have been, not that I had chance to play, or would be any good even if I did but I’d always thought of it as Scotland’s most beautiful town. It had other things to boast, such as the third oldest university in the English speaking world, a castle and lovely beach, not that we ever had the sun to enjoy it.
“You had a call,” Tracy, the department administrator and receptionist interrupted as I was charging towards Accident and Emergency.
I slid to a halt, “who was it?”
“I wrote it down on this.” She held out a Post-it but I was in too much of a rush to consider it now.
“I’ll grab it in a bit … incident … must go.”
It was my first major cycling accident, which required my consent before sending the patient to theatre, as though the gaping hole in the guy’s leg wasn’t invitation enough. Two minutes later I was rushing back the other way, the downed rider on a trolley trailing blood, helmet still in situ and the strap clenched between the man’s teeth. Just ahead, Doctor Swift was exiting his office and we only just caught up with his long strides.
His dark eyes passed over the patient as his large, brilliant, skilful hands were relegated to the task of fastening the buttons of his blue surgery coat that filled out so splendidly. He said nothing, just finished with the buttons before grabbing the handle, and it was like the trolley’s weight disappeared completely.
It was ninety minutes later when I discarded the gloves, left the theatre and drifted towards the front desk, filled a cup from the water dispenser and enjoyed the short respite. “An experience.” I quietly moaned, not immediately noticing Tracy because I was operating on some other level.
“She called again.”
“Again?” I looked at her like she was crazy. “I’ve not spoken to anyone a first time.” Then I remembered. “Oh, who?” To get a call at work was a first, I moved around all over the place to the extent that some of the time I didn’t even know where I was or how I got there.
She shuffled through a mess of papers, “one moment,” no rush, and then she found some scrawl made earlier on a Post-it, “someone by the name of…”
“Freya,” it was Doctor Swift who was standing beside me and I jerked to attention, as did Tracy, as did the three female patients waiting nearby. He rubbed a dexterous hand over weary eyes that exhibited such intellect, “I wanted to say you did a great job in there. You kept a cool head.”
“Oh, I didn’t really do anything.” I flapped a hand, forgetting it was still holding a paper cup half-filled with water and sent the lot splashing over his scrubs. “Oh, fu…” the heat.
It didn’t even faze him, in fact, he was nice enough to find it amusing and stepped into my personal space. “Just for that, you owe me a round of golf,” he said low enough nobody else could hear, our little secret.
“It would be my pleasure,” I said too quick, “but my game will put all of Scotland to shame.” Seriously, the last thing I needed was for Doctor Swift to witn
ess me making a fool of myself on the world’s most famous golf course.
He leaned even closer so that his scent was almost overwhelming, or perhaps I was augmenting it in my own mind, the first few strands of grey visible in his short brown hair. He’d make my dad happy, all right. “Then we can skip the silly game and go straight for dinner.” He pulled away, leaving me questioning whether he meant it. “Again, great work. Was that really your first theatre?”
I nodded and swallowed, “I’m in my second year of emergency. The worst I’ve had so far was a sliced hand … knife job … no nerve damage so…” I had to force myself to stop lest I ramble and embarrass myself.
He nodded appreciatively, “I’m impressed. You’re not afraid of a bit of blood … a good start.” He jerked his chin towards the corridor. “Anyway, I’ll be seeing you about.” He strode off as every pair of eyes followed after him and I had to hastily turn away when he checked back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Freya?”
“Huh?” I scratched my neck and looked up at the lights.
“Practice your drive, I’m holding you to that game.”
“Um, yeah, I will,” I watched him leave and muttered the rest under my breath, “practice my bloody drive.” The room fell strangely silent and I turned back to Tracy. “Did someone walk into a glass door? Send him through.”
It was eight in the evening when I could finally get away, donned my rather unimpressive, inconspicuous, but comfortable civvies, and ordered a club sandwich with a large glass of red in The Jigger. It was turning into a regular thing, which I didn’t necessarily like, but who wants to spend precious time cooking a healthy meal after such a long day?
I took my drink to the corner, where I sat alone and brought out the stack of papers I had to read about the new technology relating to 3D wound visualisation, so exciting, more wine might be required. The tiny black text was blurry as I flipped through the pages and forced a yawn, just as the long blonde hair slinked into my dazed periphery.
“It’s true what they say about doctors and alcohol,” came the familiar Australian accent.
I looked up, “I’m not proud of myself,” and smiled at her, “hi Charlotte, how are you?”
She set my club sandwich down on the table, “I gave you extra chicken because you’re my favourite customer.”
“Thank you, and you’re my favourite employee of The Jigger.”
She ran her finger subtly along the vein on my hand as it rested over the fork. “When do you want to have that drink together?” She was a lovely girl, my age, and could probably teach me how to golf. But it wasn’t a good idea. She wasn’t the real thing. So close yet so far.
“I told you, Charlie, you remind me of someone, it wouldn’t feel right, but we most definitely can be friends, I know next to nobody in this town.” I hoped she’d accept that.
She removed her finger and smiled. “Of course, but you can’t blame me for persisting.”
An hour later, I left, enjoyed a short walk around the town, its walls and stone harbour pier before returning to my small flat and meditating prior to collapsing bedwards.
The alarm woke me at six and I staggered into the bathroom and stared at my worn out reflection. I’d turned twenty-seven a couple of weeks before and the highlight had been coming home after a long day and lying on the couch. Life was turning into a blur, where everything seemed to coast by without incident or excitement, which was saying something considering I worked in the Accident and Emergency department. I looked into my eyes and for whatever reason thought of that one summer and chuckled. “Those were some wild times,” and I was glad I did it.
I turned on the shower, removed my pyjamas and laughed louder as I stepped into the tub. “Did I really steal a bloody camper?” And not a stain on my reputation.
I arrived at the hospital before eight and changed into my uniform, green scrubs that identified me as a junior doctor, and went to see how many people in this small town had already managed to injure themselves this early on in the day.
Tracy prodded the form across the desk and turned away pouting. “She says she’s got a sprained ankle, from dancing, yet she seemed perfectly fine walking.”
I took the form and rolled my eyes, could someone please find her a man? I scanned the reception area, nobody there. “Where is she?”
She smiled mischievously and wiggled her shoulders. “CR6.”
I narrowed my eyes for her benefit but said nothing, she’d sent a girl with a sprained ankle to the consulting room that was farthest away because, I’m guessing, she was young and pretty.
I decided not to get involved and paced down the corridor as I read the form, Miss A Llewellyn of no fixed abode, knocked once, “hello,” looked up and gasped.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to pin you down … Doctor?” She spoke the last word in a voice filled with pride and struggled to restrain herself as she stood and for some crazy reason, the first thought that came to mind was, be careful, you’re injured. She must have seen it in my eyes and because I was unable to utter anything, or even breathe, she spoke in my stead. “I’m fine, by the way, and that bitch out there knows it too.”
“Arwen.” For some unknown purpose, I goggled downwards to check the incident form but it was no longer in my hands. I could swear, the damned girl got off on doing this. We embraced and the intoxicating peach aroma smelled like coming home. “Three years, two months.”
“And one week exactly since you made me leave you standing at that airport.” She pulled away and slapped my arm. “And you were supposed to be there ninety days later.” Her head tilted to the side, “you look bloody good though.”
I slapped her back and my hand remained where it was. “Oh, stop it, I look totally knackered out and you better believe it was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”
She smiled sadly for what could have been. “I know.”
There was a short silence, evidently, my brain still wasn’t convinced it was Arwen standing in front of me. How long would that take to kick in? I reached behind with my foot and prodded the door closed and we both opened out our arms for the second embrace.
“It’s so very good to see you again,” she croaked into my ear and sniffled as I felt her tears against my cheek, “I was beginning to fear you were avoiding me.”
“Never, ever,” I hissed and it was several minutes later when we again pulled away, even though our hands were unable to separate. “But how? How are you here?”
Her face was red, puffy and still the most beautiful thing I ever saw. “It must be for the golf courses.”
I shook my head in alarm, “oh, please don’t joke about that,” and laughed.
“Why do you think I’m here, really?” She asked rhetorically, her hand stroking my shoulder and even after all this time, it felt so normal, yet if I had any awareness of self in this moment, I’d be sure I was shaking uncontrollably.
Arwen. She looked exactly the same but different, which was crazy. Still the same incredible figure, an impossibly narrow waist above hips that projected miraculously, perfect round breasts that pushed out her overcoat, something I’d never seen her wear before, and cute elfin features that always made her look like she was concocting mischief, probably because she usually was. The most notable change was her hair because the braids were gone and in their place was a straight, shiny mane of blonde.
There was so much to say, to ask, to feel, but I had to bloody work. “Meet at seven tonight?” It would be the longest day of my life.
She nodded, “looks like golf it is,” and tilted forwards to peck me on the lips, which wasn’t enough, not by a long way, but I understood her reasons. “I’ll be standing outside the entrance.”
She wasn’t, instead she was there in the camper, which I guessed was another one of her surprises.
I jumped in the passenger side and slammed the door. “You still have this?”
She revved the engine and wiggled her eyebrows. “It doesn’t get used much these days but what
can I say? I love it, oh…” and she leaned sideways to kiss me properly and I capitulated in earnest, throwing my arms around her shoulders and pulling her so tightly into me that I feared for my lips longevity.
I hesitated to pull away, “Arwen, take us home.”
She did and I knew she wouldn’t care about the size of my place as I switched on the light and she dragged her trolley bag across the threshold. “Very cute, I see you’ve taken up yoga … and astronomy?” This was in reference to the telescope that was set up by the window. For some reason, gazing at the stars brought me peace.
“They’re both great de-stressors.” I held on to the back of the sofa, still totally giddy and in a state of disbelief.
She pottered around the room as I stood and watched in silence, enjoying one of those rare moments in life. Her eyes passed over the medical books, the flowers and the collage on the wall that consisted of a few dozen photos of the two of us all over Europe. She glanced at the bathroom door then the one bedroom before her eyes settled back on me at the couch I’d probably be sleeping on tonight.
“Sorry,” I patted the cushion, “please make yourself at home. Are you hungry? I have beef broth or we could order in a pizza?”
“Broth is fine.”
“Or Chinese?”
“I’m happy with broth.”
“Indian?”
She smiled warmly, “Freya, I’d love to try some of your broth.”
“Ok,” I found myself rushing for the fridge before dropping a spoon, then a knife, but I managed to convey the pot to the table without losing any. “We have bread as well.”
She was rustling through her bag, such a mess, and pulled out a bottle of wine, “I have…”
“Oh, is that a Giordano?” I’d recognise the label anywhere and I dashed for the corkscrew and two glasses.
“It’s a gift from Dayna and Alessia.” She came to the table and opened the bottle whilst, with a shaky hand, I plunged the ladle into the pot and dribbled no small quantity over the tablecloth en route to the bowls.