“Well, you’ve come this far, and you did discuss all of this with Dr Potter at length last week, and I do believe that you know it’s best for young Ollie here,” Yvonne said, trying to engage the little boy’s attention with a coy smile and a wiggling finger.
But Ollie just curled up on his mother’s lap, pressing into her bosom and staring suspiciously at the nurse. Debra was clearly torn, biting on her lower lip first one side and then the other until she could feel it hurting. She shifted her weight from one leg to another and by doing so seemed to move Ollie further from Yvonne’s reach.
“I am so confused right now. My husband died only three months ago, he had leukaemia you know, and Ollie is all I have,” Debra said in her Bostonian twang, instinctively hugging the little boy tightly.
“You did tell me, Mrs Kowalski, a terrible loss for both of you,” Yvonne empathised, pausing and taking a breath before continuing. “Perhaps, though, you should think that there is even more reason now to protect little Ollie with the MMR vaccine.”
Debra nodded her head, but her body language betrayed her inner uncertainty. Tears had streaked her cheeks like railway tracks and those that had not dried dripped occasionally on to Ollie’s head.
“It’s just that I’m so messed up, you know, I can’t think clearly, what with Harry’s leukaemia and all. I’m so worried about doing harm to little Ollie right now. After everything that Harry went through, you read so much conflicting stuff about vaccines and their complications. I’m terrified of doing something that I cannot undo.”
Yvonne sat quietly, drumming her fingertips together rhythmically in her lap as she considered the frightened American woman sitting before her. She had spent the past fifteen minutes with them and her clinic was now running behind. It was difficult not to feel frustration over the woman’s indecision and she wondered how best to tackle Debra’s intransigence.
“I just can’t help thinking of all those children who have had complications of the MMR – autism and all that – especially now that I’ve lost Harry. I can’t replace Ollie,” Debra continued through bubbling tears.
“To be honest, Mrs Kowalski, as I’m sure Dr Potter told you, Ollie here is at far greater risk if he does not have the MMR vaccination than if he does, far greater risk. Measles is a dangerous disease if you’re a young unvaccinated boy, like little Ollie. People forget that all too easily.”
Yvonne was getting somewhat impatient now and stood up from her swivel chair, enjoying the sudden return of circulation to her legs as she stretched slightly.
Debra took a deep breath and stared out of the small window at patients trying desperately to find parking in the crowded car park behind the surgery. The sun emerged from behind a grey cloud and filled the room with a burst of warmth. Suddenly, she kissed Ollie on the forehead, gave him a tight squeeze, and looked up defiantly as she sniffed away tears.
“Do it now, before I change my mind. I know Ollie’s father wanted him to have it. I’ll do this for Harry.”
With this final act of resolve, Debra suddenly dissolved into tears as the nurse hurriedly primed her tiny syringes with vaccine.
She couldn’t decide whether she was taking control by submitting to this invasion of her precious son’s body, or surrendering to the unknown and the unpredictable. As the tiny bundle of golden curls began to cry with the first injection into his exposed thigh, Debra cradled his head against her breast and kissed him.
“I will look after you so carefully, my love. Mummy will never let anything happen to you. Not anything, I promise.”
The words, heavy with sincerity and emotion, glided off Debra’s motherly tongue sweetly, with an ease that would make them all the harder to forget when remembering became too painful.
FOUR
Jasper stood up and walked over towards the jury. He smiled at them, not frivolously, not whimsically, but just enough to exude some warmth and humanity. A long, highly polished brass rail ran along the length of the jury benches, and Jasper liked to leave his finger prints all over it by the end of a case. Walking up to the jury he wrapped his hands authoritatively around the polished rail. He did this as much to study the faces of the jurors staring back at him expectantly, as he did to hide the tremor which had still not subsided in his left hand.
He had always found that analysing the composition of the jury was a crucial factor in formulating his closing argument. The evidence and facts of the case had to speak for themselves, but this was his opportunity to strike at the jurors’ personal vulnerabilities.
“What exactly is it that you need to consider in this case?” Jasper said eventually, making eye contact with all the young female jurors.
There were quite a few young women in the jury and that was good, as they themselves might be mothers and would identify easily with his client’s position. There were also some older jurors, both men and women, perhaps grandparents, and he always felt that raw, emotive issues with the capacity to shock resonated amongst more mature members of society. There were very few middle aged working people, those who perhaps would not immediately identify with his client or the emotive shock he had planned, the ones who would be cool and objective. These jurors were his major challenge in winning over this jury with his closing argument.
He turned around and walked back to stand in front of his client. She was a round, plump woman with straight blonde hair that cascaded over her shoulders on to her hibiscus purple dress. Her chubby cheeks turned rose pink as she felt the glare of the jury directed at her.
“My client, Miss Courtney Green, has just been through one of life’s most natural and normal experiences by bringing a baby into this world.”
Jasper turned back to the jury and addressed the women.
“I’m sure many of you have been through this yourselves, one of life’s most rewarding and exhilarating experiences. But not only that, it is a life event that brings with it great responsibility and expectation for young mothers, who suddenly have to care for their helpless little babies.”
Jasper turned and glanced over to the first row of the public gallery where, immediately behind Miss Green, he was pleased to see his client’s mother sitting holding the newborn baby, as he had requested. The tics twisted around his left eye and began to drag up his cheek and the corner of his mouth. Jasper rubbed the side of his face in a desperate attempt to suppress the intrusive distortion, or at least to hide it.
“So, put yourself in Miss Green’s position. She was sent home from hospital with such a debilitating injury that rendered her incapable of performing these basic responsibilities and expectations, things we all, and you all, will take for granted.”
Jasper wanted to return to face the jurors but he was concerned that the tics and tremors would become evident and distract them from focusing on his elaborate performance.
“You have heard from the defence counsel that Miss Green had an injury to her left arm as a child, and that she attended physiotherapy as a teenager for pain in that arm. We do not dispute any of that. But consider Miss Green’s situation as it affects her now. Her arm has not troubled her in recent years and was perfectly functional when she went into hospital to deliver her baby.”
“Counsel.”
Jasper stopped, in disbelief that the judge had interrupted his speech. He turned to face the judge.
“Your Honour?”
“Approach please,” The judge said, gesticulating with a bent index finger. “Not you, counsel,” He said to the defence barrister, who too was standing up, waving at him to sit down.
Jasper walked right up to the judge’s bench.
“What is it Your Honour?”
The judge leaned forward discreetly, peering over the top of his gold rimmed bifocals that were perched halfway down his beak-like nose, and lowered his voice as he spoke to Jasper.
“Are you all right, sir?” He casually brushed a finger down the side of his face.
Jasper realised that the judge was questioning the contortions visible on
his face, and perhaps the tremor of his hand. He smiled, though within he was seething with frustration and embarrassment at his infernal condition.
“I am fine, Your Honour. It’s nothing at all, if anything perhaps lack of sleep. I’m barb-wired.”
“What?”
“I’m tired, Your Honour,” Jasper explained.
The judge stared closely but quite impassively at Jasper without displaying any reaction. Jasper wondered for a moment if the judge’s craning nostrils were trying to detect the whiff of alcohol. Jasper tried not to breathe, though he did not know why as he had not been drinking, not yet. All of a sudden the judge sat back in his ornate seat.
“Continue, please.”
Jasper smiled, bowed slightly and retreated to the safety of his bench. The tics continued to tug at his cheek.
“As I was saying, Miss Green was admitted to hospital with a normal arm and now, as a result of repeated and traumatic attempts to establish intravenous drips, some of which were allowed to leak undetected into her arm instead of into the veins, she has a painful inflamed arm.” He paused. “But it doesn’t end there, does it?”
He glanced at his client, reminding her of their cue, and she quickly unfolded her chubby arms to reveal the cumbersome splint and strapping that was wrapped around her forearm. Then she tried to pour water from the small jug in front of her into a glass, struggling with one hand to complete the simple task. She fumbled with the tumbler and Jasper, as planned, stepped forward to help her, eventually pouring water into the glass for her. He took his time, ensuring that everyone was watching. Though she had not spilled a drop, he pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the surface of the bench.
The defence barrister thumped his pencil down on his legal pad and sat back as he folded his arms. He rolled his eyes to the heavens and exhaled loudly.
“Move it along please, counsel,” The judge said patiently, motioning with his hand.
“Yes, Your Honour. Miss Green’s disability has significantly hampered her ability to care for her newborn baby. She has found basic natural functions such as breast feeding, bathing the baby, changing nappies, even cuddling the infant extremely difficult, due to the pain and weakness in that afflicted arm.”
Jasper looked across at the jurors. He certainly had the attention of the young women and most of the older jurors seemed to be moved by her plight. Next, he looked over at the grandmother who was holding the infant, and nodded to her slightly. He wanted the infant to be made visible, he wanted it either to smile or to cry because he needed the jurors to see its mouth open wide.
“Now, any mother would find the inability to provide these basic mothering tasks very distressing, after all, who can be certain exactly how much this will affect the vital mother-infant bonding process. But Miss Green’s little baby needs even more care, for he left hospital with a significant disability to overcome.”
Jasper paused, waiting for the sound of crying as the baby was displayed on the grandmother’s lap, like a stage prop.
“This is my client’s little baby, needing to be cared for by its grandmother … “
With that the infant let out a blood curdling cry and, with mouth wide agape, revealed to the whole jury a massive cleft lip and palate, a deep, dark gouge that snaked back from beneath its nose into the depths of the mouth. To the uninitiated this unfortunate defect is quite disturbing, and the effect on the jury was better than Jasper could have scripted himself, especially all the women, young and old alike, who gasped and stared.
He watched with satisfaction as many jurors sat back in their chairs, their faces betraying their horror, a few covering their mouths with cupped hands. What parent could not be moved by the sight of a poor little infant, so unfortunately disfigured?
The grandmother produced a bottle of formula milk and, as she had rehearsed beforehand with Jasper, tried to pacify the infant with a feed. But, with the eyes of the court watching her every move, milk leaked out from the baby’s mouth and through its nose as it spluttered all over her floral patterned dress. The poor infant appeared to be in great distress. The grandmother stood up, apologised and excused herself, making a very public exit, followed closely by every eye in the courtroom. Miss Green was visibly upset and emotional, covering her face with her splinted arm.
Jasper approached her and quietly reassured and comforted her. He was pleased. It had all gone very well.
Then he turned again to face the emotionally charged and apparently shaken jury. He approached them slowly, hoping that his continuing facial distortions would not interfere with his carefully orchestrated performance.
“Miss Green has her time cut out, members of the jury. Her poor infant is going to need so much extra care in the months and years ahead. She is starting out with a significant disadvantage, as a direct result of this debilitating injury. I will remind you again that many aspects of this injury were avoidable. As you have heard from the evidence presented in this courtroom, there were failures in obtaining senior help to site her intravenous drips, and failures in detecting fluid leaking into her arm.”
He turned again to look at Miss Green, and then back to the jury.
“Members of the jury, I thank you for your time in listening to all the evidence about the unfortunate plight of my client. I am confident that you will make the sensible choice, the right choice and recognise that Miss Green cannot cope with her duties as a mother, as a result of her injury.”
Jasper quickly clasped hands to quell the sudden crescendo of uncontrollable movements in his left arm. He smiled warmly at the jury, but inside he wanted to scream. Enough. Enough.
FIVE
Debra almost dropped her cup of tea upon hearing that fearful little word. The four women sat huddled amiably around a small unstable table beneath the ancient vaulted stonework of Durham Cathedral’s undercroft café, exchanging stories about the school their beloved children attended. Aromas of fresh coffee and cinnamon warmed the friendly atmosphere.
“Well I can’t believe she never complained. I would have if my child had wet his pants in class because he was too afraid to ask the teacher for the toilet!” Catherine announced haughtily, finishing off the last of the chocolate cake in front of her.
“She should not be a pre-prep school teacher, she doesn’t have the soft touch needed with little ones,” Tamara agreed, nodding and glancing around at the other faces for support.
“The children are petrified of her. Petrified!” Angie repeated slowly for effect, her eyes stretched theatrically wide.
“Oh, did you hear there’s an outbreak of measles in the reception class?” Catherine butted in nonchalantly, to a startled reception from everyone assembled.
Debra’s heart began to pound as she felt the blood draining from her face and the cup of tea almost slip from her grasp. Ollie was in reception class.
“Measles?” Debra repeated in faltering disbelief.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Catherine said gleefully, nodding at each of her friends in turn around the table, as though she enjoyed delivering shocking news.
“Who has measles?” Debra questioned, barely able to hear her own voice over the rushing of blood in her ears. Inwardly, she felt as though she was discussing Ebola Virus or some rare and extremely fatal tropical fever.
“I’ve heard that little Seamus has been off with it, you know the boy whose mother runs the coffee shop beside the cinema?” Catherine said.
“The one who doesn’t shave her armpits?” Tamara asked.
“I don’t think they believe in deodorant either,” Angie said, nodding.
The others nodded as they leaned forward, ears pricked for the juicy gossip.
“And Seamus’ sister Zoe has it, the girl with glasses, and I heard that Mr Wright, the student teacher from Australia, caught it as well. He was quite ill, Jackie told me.”
“I read somewhere that you can be very sick from measles,” Tamara said.
The silence at the table was broken only by Angie sipping nois
ily on her tea.
“But how, I mean surely everyone has been vaccinated?” Debra barely managed to speak through her dry mouth.
They all shrugged their shoulders in unison.
“Mine were both vaccinated with the MMR,” Catherine said.
Angie leaned in and began to whisper, as though divulging a sworn secret that could endanger all of them.
“I don’t think Zoe or Seamus were vaccinated, you know.”
Debra’s heart began to pound even faster as she heard things that could mean only one thing: her precious child was in danger.
“But why ever not?” Tamara asked.
“The parents were dead against the MMR.”
“I know the type you mean,” Catherine said, leaning back in her chair and nodding.
“So they could have brought measles into the school then,” Tamara said.
“Has everyone here had their kids vaccinated?” Angie asked.
They all nodded and murmured approvingly.
“So we should all be all right then?” Debra ventured cautiously, seeking confirmation that their children would be safe from the plague. Her eyes were large, filled with apprehension and beginning to look moist.
“You OK, Debs?” Catherine asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Debra was struggling to maintain her composure, trying to contain the fear that something dreadful could happen to her precious little son, the only surviving memory of her husband.
“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Ollie.”
All the women joined in with encouragement and warm touches of reassurance.
“He’ll be fine, Debs, he’s had the vaccine and anyway, it’s only measles, children get it and shrug it off in no time. You don’t need to worry yourself,” Tamara said.
Debra wiped her eyes self consciously, smearing her mascara, and delicately cleared her nose, embarrassed by her show of emotion in front of everyone. All she wanted to do was rush over to the school and remove Ollie from the germ infested environment, to protect him from potential harm, as she had promised to him that she would do.
The Secret Anatomy of Candles Page 2