The Healing Knife

by S. L. Russell

  “What, doing the crossword in French?” Jasper suggested.

  “You can’t do the crossword in French,” Michael said, “but I’m sure you can think of something. Right – what have you got?”

  The rest of that day was devoted to food preparation, and I kept out of the way. I made myself useful sweeping, dusting, and pulling up a few weeds. The Boutins were expected at seven, and by then the house was fragrant with appetite-whetting cooking smells. Jasper had made a starter involving shellfish and home-made mayonnaise, and a simple strawberry mousse. Michael was responsible for the main course, a mix of fish, plus wild rice and roasted peppers, green beans, and a sauce which obviously contained a lot of garlic. An array of aperitifs and appetizers stood ready on a tray, the table was laid, and wine was cooling.

  At six o’clock I went upstairs for a shower. I was in my bedroom, more or less dry, my hair standing up in spikes where I’d towelled it, when I heard the phone ring. My door was open, and I heard Michael answer it. Almost immediately the tone of his voice changed. I heard him say something to Jasper; it was clear that something was wrong. I threw on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans and ran downstairs, to be met by a white-faced Jasper. Michael was still on the phone, listening, interjecting tensely in French.

  “Oh, Rachel!” Jasper said, his eyes wide as saucers. “It’s really bad – it’s Gérard – he’s –”

  I didn’t wait for him to finish. Some instinct took over, and I ran for the back door, stopping only to pick up a pair of Jasper’s dirty trainers which he’d left lying there. I hared across the still-wet grass, hopping from foot to foot as I stuffed my feet into the shoes, which luckily were far too big and easy to put on. I cleared the stile, ran across the Boutins’ lawn, and shoved open their back door. The door to their dining room was ajar, and I could hear wailing from Marie-Claude. Following the sound I came to a shocking tableau: Marie-Claude gabbling into the phone, gesticulating with her free hand while tears ran down her chubby face, and on the floor, face down, his legs tangled up in the legs of their dining chairs, Gérard, unmoving.

  I pushed two chairs out of the way, and with a grunt of effort managed to grab handfuls of blue cotton shirt and roll Gérard onto his back. His eyes were closed, his chest still, and his lips under the great white moustache were blue. I had no conscious thought in my mind, just instinct and training and memory from a long time ago: the first months of medical school. I knelt beside his barrel chest and started CPR, twice per second, counting.

  When I reached thirty I stopped, leaned forward, pinched his fleshy nose, and sealed my mouth around his, breathing out into his inert lungs. Releasing him, I took another deep breath and repeated. His chest rose and fell. Then I resumed the CPR, steady and strong, willing his heart to revive. As I worked I visualized his stilled heart, imagining it responding. I barely noticed the arrival of Michael and Jasper, hearing but not hearing Michael’s barked orders to Jasper, then Michael’s voice on the phone speaking in rapid French. I focused all my will on Gérard’s great chest, pumping, breathing. Pumping, breathing. I heard the phone go down, and then Michael’s voice, quietly, urgently praying. In my mind I echoed him: Amen.

  I kept on going: pumping, breathing. My arms were stiff and aching, my chest raw. Sweat was running down my face and back. I don’t know how long I worked; time seemed immaterial. I heard Michael moving to the window and heard him call out, but as if from a great distance: “The ambulance is here.” And at that moment I felt a shudder pass through Gérard. Something stirred under my relentless hands, and to my unbounded relief he gave a huge cough as his lungs filled. His eyes were still closed, but he was breathing unaided. I leaned down, putting my ear to his chest, and heard the sweetest sound I could have wished for: a stone heart once more become flesh.

  I sat back on my heels, wiping my face with my forearm. “He’s back.”

  Michael squatted down beside me and squeezed my shoulder. “Thank God.” He turned to Marie-Claude, hovering hysterically behind us. “It’s OK,” he said, and got up to embrace her, gently ushering her into the kitchen to make way for the medics.

  After some minutes the paramedics manhandled Gérard onto a trolley and wheeled him to the ambulance.

  “I’ll go in the ambulance with Marie-Claude, but I’ll need you, Rachel, to bring us home at some point. The best thing you two can do is stay put and eat some dinner – it’s going to be a long night for all of us. I’ll call when I know more.” He frowned slightly, obviously thinking. “We could do with your cardiac expertise,” he said quietly, “but I don’t want to leave Jasper on his own, and it’s best if a French speaker goes to the hospital. Most of the doctors there will speak English, but we can’t count on it.”

  He spoke to Marie-Claude then, and she nodded, heaved herself up, and left the room, returning with her jacket and handbag and with shoes on her feet.

  “We’ll go out to the ambulance, and I’ll speak to the paramedics,” Michael said.

  I got up and staggered slightly, suddenly aware that my head was pounding and I was feeling dazed.

  Michael took hold of my arm as I passed him. “Whatever else happens,” he said softly, “you saved a man’s life tonight.”

  “Maybe it was your prayers that did it,” I said.

  “Maybe it was both.”

  I nodded and smiled weakly, then let Jasper take me home.

  It was a long night. Jasper put together platefuls of food and insisted I ate. I didn’t want it, but felt better afterwards. I was shivering with cold, and Jasper sat me down on the sofa and wrapped a blanket round my shoulders.

  “What do you think happened to Gérard?” he asked, plumping himself down beside me.

  “Cardiac arrest.”

  “Could you tell that as soon as you saw him?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t breathing. He was a bit blue. He wasn’t conscious.”

  “You’ve seen it before.”

  “Well, yeah. But usually I get to deal with the aftermath.”

  He blew out his breath. “What causes it?”

  “It’s to do with the heart’s electrical system.” I yawned. “Sorry. It’s when there’s an abnormal rhythm. If you don’t get to the patient very quickly they’ll die. Heard of VF? Ventricular Fibrillation?”

  “Sort of.”

  “The electrical activity becomes so all over the place that the heart can’t pump. It quivers – fibrillates – instead. No blood’s pumped, so the brain and organs are starved of oxygen.”

  “And then they die?”

  “Unless help comes very fast, yes.”

  “Did Gérard have a heart attack?”

  I shrugged. “Something caused him to arrest – I don’t know exactly what. It could have been a heart attack, but not necessarily. We won’t know till the hospital’s run some tests.”

  He hunched forward. “Will he be OK?”

  “He’s alive, Jasper. That’s a good start. The hospital gets to look after him from now on.”

  “When can he come home?”

  “So many questions! When they think he’s well enough. But he’ll be in hospital for a week or two.”

  Jasper settled himself more comfortably. “You know what, Rachel,” he said sleepily, “we were a good team tonight: you, me, and Dad.”

  “Hm. I’m just thankful your dad could talk to them and explain the situation. I’m sure my French wouldn’t be up to it.”

  “Mine wouldn’t either.”

  We both dozed. An hour or so later I came to, and now I was too hot under the blanket. Without disturbing Jasper I threw it off, went into the kitchen, and did the washing up. I made some coffee, thinking that when Michael rang I needed to be reasonably alert.

  The hours dragged. I let Dulcie out, and watched her, shining a torch on her as she rooted around. I brought her back in and she went to sleep with what sounded like a disgruntled sigh. I tried to read, but the print wouldn’t stay still.

  It was almost midnight when the phone rang. I must have been d
ozing because its shrill sound made me jerk and I felt my heart lurch. Jasper opened his bleary eyes. “Whassup?”

  I struggled to my feet and answered the phone. It was Michael. “Can you come and get us? If Jasper’s asleep, wake him up – you’ll need him to tell you where to go.”

  “Right. How’s Gérard?”

  “As far as we know, he’s all right. Sedated. We’ll know more over the next couple of days.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  Michael and Marie-Claude were waiting for us in the hospital’s reception area. Marie-Claude was asleep, her head on Michael’s shoulder. Michael gently shook Marie-Claude awake, and when she saw me she lumbered to her feet and threw her arms round me, weeping and talking incomprehensibly.

  “She’s just saying thank you,” Michael said quietly. “Let’s get her home.”

  Marie-Claude sat in the back with Jasper and Michael took the front passenger seat. The roads were deserted.

  “Did they find anything?” I asked as I drove carefully down the winding lanes.

  “Nothing definitive,” Michael said. “But he’ll need to make some big changes: lose weight, drink less – a lot less.” He looked at me sideways. “I’m sorry it took so long. They had casualties from a road accident come in while we were there. You must be exhausted.”

  “We’re all weary. Is Marie-Claude all right?”

  He nodded. “She rang her sister-in-law, Gérard’s sister, from the hospital; Angeline’s going to drive up and be with her for the time being. She should get here late tomorrow. Meanwhile I’ll take Marie-Claude to see Gérard in the morning.” He smiled. “She thinks you’re a heroine, incidentally.”

  “Anyone would have done the same.”

  He shook his head. “Most people would want to help, but they don’t usually know what to do. You did, and you acted quickly. I’m proud of you, Rachel.”

  I shrugged. “Thank you. But I’m a doctor, even on holiday – as are you.”

  Marie-Claude insisted she was all right to go home by herself. We delivered her to her door, returning her keys, and Michael promised to call in the morning and arrange to take her to the hospital once she had rung to see how Gérard was. Michael ate some of the meal he’d so carefully prepared the day before. Then, without much more talking, we all went to bed.

  When Michael came back from taking Marie-Claude to the hospital the following morning, he had little fresh news to tell us. Gérard was conscious and awake, but seemed – not surprisingly – a little shell-shocked. Tests were still being run and the results analysed.

  “Depending on how long the heart was out of action,” Michael said, “there could be some cognitive impairment. I’m sure Marie-Claude rang as soon as he collapsed, but it was a few minutes before we got to him. It’s still a bit early to tell. They’ve found a leaky valve,” he continued, “but would that account for cardiac arrest?”

  I shook my head. “Not normally, no. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  The next few days were dominated by Gérard’s condition, which continued slowly to improve. On Friday Marie-Claude was taken to the hospital by her sister-in-law, a bustling lady built very like her brother, if on a slightly smaller scale. Angeline seemed a pragmatic sort of person, a good antidote for Marie-Claude, who was inclined to have the vapours and collapse weeping. On Saturday Gérard was well enough for us all – Michael, Jasper, and me – to visit, and we’d been told he’d specifically asked to see the three of us.

  We found him propped up in ICU, sprouting wires and drips but looking remarkably hale for one who’d effectively died a few days before. He grasped Michael and Jasper by the hand, and embraced me warmly. “Ma chère Rachelle,” he said in his gruff tones, “vous m’avez vraiment sauver la vie. Mon pauvre coeur vous remercie.”

  “Je suis bien heureuse de vous voir en si bon état,” I replied carefully, “very happy indeed.”

  He held on to my hand while he spoke to Michael at some length. At one point he looked at me and said something I didn’t catch, laughing his rumbling laugh into his moustache, and then he waved his free hand and said something I didn’t get at all, but finally we said goodbye and left him to rest.

  “What do you think, Dad? Does he look OK?” Jasper wanted to know as we pulled out of the hospital car park.

  “Ask Rachel – she’s the heart specialist.”

  “It’s odd that they haven’t found out yet why it happened,” I mused. “If he had a heart attack there’d be clear signs. But yes, he looks pretty good, considering.”

  “What was he saying to you, Dad? Just then, before we left?”

  Michael swerved to avoid an elderly cyclist who’d wobbled into the middle of the road. “Good grief,” he muttered, “that was close.” He straightened the car up. “What, when he was waving his arm about? I thought he was going to dislodge his drip. Oh, he was saying he thought we were a good team.”

  Jasper smirked. “Just what I said, wasn’t it, Rachel?”

  “Among other things,” Michael added, giving Jasper a warning look, “that are probably best left unsaid.”

  I’m sure I wasn’t alone in hoping that things would quiet down for the remainder of our stay. First Dulcie going missing, now Gérard taken ill – after days of anxiety we were all feeling weary. We went to church on Sunday and I noticed, with some amusement, how people there treated the three of us – four, if you counted the dog – as a kind of family unit, rather than seeing me as an individual, a colleague, and a guest. I supposed it might be something to do with St Luke’s being not just the centre of worship but also the focus of social life for a congregation made up chiefly of expatriates. Looking at the list of activities planned for September I noted – as well as services and study groups – outings, fund-raisers, walks, meals, library opening times, and a host of advertisements, from tree felling to washing machine repair. I knew that they weren’t a ghetto – the majority made an effort to integrate and speak French and take part in local affairs – but even so they were a little community within the wider one. The chats over coffee demonstrated the breadth and depth of their commitment to one another, such that I too, even though only a visitor, was gathered up under the family umbrella. There was a time when this notion would have met with scornful indignation from me; the fact that I looked on it with equanimity, even a cautious welcome now, showed how far I had come. Was it possible that under my carefully constructed persona lurked a proper human being? Was this perhaps the benign influence that Michael had referred to, all those weeks ago in England?

  After lunch we lolled in the garden, lazily discussing what we might do for the next week. Michael and Jasper had another fortnight in France before Jasper had to return to the UK to prepare for school. I hadn’t decided when to go back and I didn’t want to think about it. There was still time.

  An unfamiliar sound came from indoors. “Isn’t that your phone, Rachel?” Jasper said.

  “I guess it is,” I said. “I’ve forgotten what it sounds like! I don’t think it’s rung once since you two got here.” I heaved myself out of the chair and went in search of my phone, but by the time I located it whoever it was had rung off. I put it in my pocket and went back outside.

  “Someone trying to sell you something?” Michael said. “A new driveway, perhaps? A sofa?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I said. “I didn’t find my phone in time. It was under a pile of laundry. They’ll probably ring back if it’s important.”

  I forgot about it; but fifteen minutes later it rang again. A vaguely familiar voice said, “Ms Keyte? It’s Patricia Nettlefield here – the manager of your mother’s accommodation. We have met, but it was a while ago.” I remembered her: a tall, well-dressed woman in her fifties. The sun was warm, but I felt a chill run up my arms. “Your mother is ill,” she said. “Quite seriously so, I’m afraid. I tried your landline, but there was no answer.”

  “I’m not in the UK at the moment. What’s wrong with my mother? She seemed well when I saw her last.�
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  “It was most unfortunate. She went into the garden, just to take the air and admire the flowers, and she stumbled and scratched her leg on a rose. One of the other residents was with her – that’s how we know.”

  “When was this?”

  “On Tuesday. But on Thursday she complained of feeling unwell, so we called the doctor, and it turns out she’s developed cellulitis. Her leg is in a bad way: swollen and badly infected.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Oh, she’s in hospital. They’re worried, of course, in case septicaemia sets in.” No. Not again. “They want to save the leg if they can, but I hope you see there may be very serious decisions to be made. I wouldn’t have disturbed you for anything minor – we can usually cope – but I think, in the circumstances, we need you, Ms Keyte.”

  I took a deep breath; for a moment everything I could see had gone out of focus. “Thank you, Mrs Nettlefield. If you don’t mind I’ll call you back in half an hour. I have your number.” I ended the call and dropped my phone into my lap. I looked up: Michael and Jasper were both staring at me, aghast.

  “What’s wrong with your mum, Rachel?” Jasper whispered.

  I rehashed what Mrs. Nettlefield had told me, and heard Michael groan softly. He would have made the connection with Craig Rawlins. “It looks like I will have to go home. It has to be me, I’m afraid – as far as I know my brother’s still in New Zealand.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then Michael said quietly, “Would you like me to organize the ferry?” He looked suddenly haggard. “You can take the western crossing – it’s longer, but it’ll get you straight into Porton.”

  “Yes, please.” I got up from the chair, and a wave of misery hit me, so intense I almost gasped. There was no time to analyse it. I would have to pack my things straight away. I swallowed. “It’s Sunday – are the lines open?”

  Michael stood up. “Yes, until this evening. The only trouble is there’s often only one crossing, and it may be full. I’ll try them now.” As he passed me he laid a hand briefly on my arm. “I’m very sorry your mother’s ill.”