Caring For His Child

by Amy Andrews

  ‘Starving!’

  Fran laughed despite the painful stirring of memories. It was kind of hard to fill little bellies up!

  ‘I had this great kid make me some muffins this morning,’ said Fran. ‘There are two left. Fancy one?’

  Miranda giggled. ‘Blueberry! My favourite.’

  Miranda put out her hand to help Fran up off the floor. Fran hesitated, afraid to touch Miranda in case she didn’t want to stop. But she saw the confusion on Miranda’s face when she didn’t immediately take her up on her offer and gave in. The girl’s hand felt warm but strong and Fran made sure she let go as soon as she was fully upright again.

  Fran made a cup of tea while Miranda ate her muffin, accidentally, and a lot on purpose, spilling crumbs on the floor which Fonzie eagerly cleaned up. They chatted about school and the beach and the nursing home and, of course, her father. Fran found Miranda utterly charming, her red curls so cute, and she knew Miranda was already worming her way into her heart.

  ‘Can I have the other muffin, Fran?’

  ‘Will your father mind? I don’t want to get into trouble for spoiling your tea.’

  Miranda looked sheepish. ‘You’re right,’ she sighed. ‘Better not.’

  Fonzie, who had given up on finding any more crumbs because he’d eaten them all, was lying in front of the fire when he cocked an ear and then barked. David’s car was pulling up next door.

  ‘Daddy!’ said Miranda, running to the front door with Fonzie, opening it and dashing outside before Fran had even got off the chair. She went to the door to check that Miranda had made it safely home.

  ‘Fancy joining us?’ David asked, holding a bulging plastic bag in the air. ‘It’s Chinese.’

  Fran was about to decline. Spending time in Miranda’s company had been bitter-sweet and she’d had more than she could bear today. But Miranda had other ideas.

  ‘Oh, please, Fran. Please, say yes. I’d be so much fun! Fonzie can come, too, can’t he, Daddy?’ She turned to her father with begging eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Look, you did me a favour. I’d like to repay you. Besides, this way I can report to Earl that you’re eating.’

  David grinned at her and she felt the involuntary upward pull of her lips and surprised herself by nearly laughing. He’d taken his tie off and undone his top button and looked casual and nice.

  ‘Please, Fran. Please?’

  How could she resist such a gorgeous girl? ‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll just get changed. We’ll be over in a minute.’

  Fran could hear Miranda’s excited chatter as she shut the door behind her. She changed quickly into some old faded denims that were threadbare at the knees and slung an old red scarf through the belt loops to help keep them anchored to her hips. She pulled on a navy chunky jumper which was warm and gave her some bulk.

  Lastly she pulled her hair out of its plait and finger-combed the waves crinkling it. She had such fine hair it was easily arranged. She looked in the mirror and realised this was the second time in a day she had done so. She’d been so used to not bothering to look, not bothering to dress in a way that she needed to look, that the action surprised her.

  Miranda greeted her at the door and she was ushered inside, Fonzie on her heels.

  ‘Hi,’ said David.

  He, too, had changed, and looked more like the guy she had first met on the beach—jeans and a cream bulky jumper. His dark hair was tousled and she could just see the shadow of stubble on his jaw. Glenda had been right…he had an X-factor that didn’t strike you immediately. A thinking woman’s sex symbol Dolly had said, and perhaps she’d been right, too.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Would you like some wine?’

  He indicated the barstool on the other side of the kitchen bench and she sat down. ‘Ah…’ She hadn’t indulged in alcohol in a long time. Drinking was such a social thing to do and it was just one of the many things that failed to hold her interest these days. ‘Sure.’ she smiled. ‘Why not?’

  Fran looked around her at the cosy cottage and felt the warmth and love that had gone into it and noted the little feminine touches. Pot-pourri in pretty bowls on the window-sills. A vase of bright yellow sunflowers. A sun-catcher crystal that hung from the window in front of the sink that no doubt spun rainbows of light around the room when the rays of the sun hit it in the morning.

  Photos of David and a woman happy and laughing, and the two of them with a baby and older photos of Miranda and David littered every available flat surface. So, this was Miranda’s mother. David’s wife.

  He passed her a glass of deep red wine and the bouquet caressed her senses as she brought it to her lips and sipped it.

  ‘So, you like Chinese, I hope?’

  Fran smiled. Before her life had gone to hell she could have lived on Chinese food most happily. ‘It used to be my favourite.’

  ‘Not any more?’

  ‘Well,’ said Fran, looking down at her body dispassionately, ‘I don’t much enjoy eating these days.’

  David nodded slowly as he dished up the food onto plates. She looked beautiful tonight. Sure, she could definitely do with putting on a pound or two but she looked healthier in just a few days than when he had first seen her on the beach. Oh, the sadness that cloaked her every movement was still there, but she actually looked…more aware of her surroundings. Like she was starting to wake from a long sleep.

  He felt the urge to kiss her rise and knew it wasn’t the right time. Not that it was even a sexual urge. It had more to do with comfort. To let her know that she wasn’t alone and it was OK to lean on someone. Everyone needed that and he didn’t know why but he just felt he was that someone for her.

  Of course, any kiss would rapidly become sexual. There was something about Fran that had nothing to do with his feelings of protection and solidarity. He’d first felt it on the beach. The way a man reacted to a woman he found attractive. Like he had when he’d first met Jenny. An awareness of her as a member of the opposite sex.

  He passed Fran a plate laden with delicious takeaway food and called Miranda. ‘Wash your hands, sweetie,’ he said.

  Miranda did as she was told. ‘Can I watch Neighbours while I eat, Daddy?’ she asked, appearing from the lounge room.

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Please, Daddy?’ she begged.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said, handing her a plate.

  David sat down at the head of the dining table with Fran at his left. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘How did you like your first day?’

  ‘Well, it was eventful.’ She gave a half-laugh and he joined her.

  ‘Yes, nothing like an absconded resident and a stroke to start you off.’

  ‘I have to wonder what tomorrow will throw at me,’ she said and crunched into a spring roll. She realised that, despite her less than great start, she was looking forward to tomorrow and felt vindicated. She’d just needed to force herself to get going again!

  ‘How was the pregnant woman…Penny? Was that her name?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’ He grinned. ‘She’s a bit of a worry wort. They were just Braxton-Hicks’. I stayed with her till they settled.’

  ‘How pregnant is she?’

  ‘Thirty weeks. I have a feeling we’ll be hearing a lot more from our Pen over the next ten weeks,’ he said, and laughed. ‘You know what they say about nurses and doctors making the worst patients.’

  Fran nodded and turned back to her meal, already feeling full. She pushed her food around the plate disinterestedly. A painting behind David’s head caught her attention and she realised that the walls of the dining area were practically an art gallery. There were seascapes hung everywhere.

  ‘Who’s the artist? Are they local?’

  He hesitated. Not because the words to his answer hurt any more but because he knew how other people reacted. ‘My wife painted them,’ he said.

  Fran stopped chewing mid-mouthful. I’m sorry sprang to her lips but she knew how inadequate the words were so
she just nodded.

  ‘Jenny grew up in Ashworth Bay. In fact, she was one of the Ashworths. She loved this area and painting was her joy. Before Mirry anyway.’ He grinned.

  Fran felt jealous. Not of Jenny but how easily David could talk about her. When would her hurt ever get to a point when she could smile and laugh and tell people without it feeling so crippling?

  She cleared her throat of the sudden ball of emotion. ‘Is that her?’ she asked nodding her head towards one of the many photographs.

  He turned and looked at the photo she indicated. Fran watched as he smiled gently at it, his mind obviously remembering the day it had been taken and how happy she’d been. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, looking back at her. ‘She was.’

  Fran didn’t know where the next question came from. It was none of her business and really she hadn’t realised she wanted to know until she asked. ‘What happened?’

  He shut his eyes and sighed and Fran wished she hadn’t asked. ‘I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have asked.’

  He opened his eyes and smiled a sad smile at her. ‘No, it’s OK. It’s just that even after all these years it can still get you, you know? When you least expect it.’

  Fran didn’t know. Oh, she knew his pain, but for her there had been no respite from it yet. She was still in the middle of the maelstrom. The thought that she might one day be where he was now was encouraging.

  ‘Mirry was six months old. Jen was tired a lot. But, then, pregnant women, new mums, breast-feeding mums are usually tired and we put it down to that. Miranda wouldn’t have won any awards for best sleeper. She was a real night owl. Jen didn’t complain, she doted on Mirry and loved being a mother.’ He paused and fiddled with his cutlery.

  Fran listened without moving. She barely even breathed. He had a look of such sweet pleasure on his face as he remembered his wife and she didn’t want to disturb him. Then a frown knitted his brows and his eyes were full of pain as he looked at her and continued.

  ‘I got home one afternoon from work and all I could hear was Mirry, screaming her little lungs out. I knew something was wrong straight away. Jen would never have let Miranda cry like that. But I didn’t really think it was anything too serious, you know? I went into the nursery and Mirry was all red in the face. She had these big fat tears running down her cheeks and she had a really foul nappy.

  ‘I called out to Jen as I picked Miranda up and I realised she’d obviously been crying for a really long time because she was doing that hiccupy crying where their whole rib cage shudders, and even though she stopped crying almost instantly, little sobs were still being wrenched from her.

  ‘I changed her nappy quickly because Jen still hadn’t appeared and I was starting to get a really bad feeling. All I could think was that Jen must have gone out, but she wouldn’t have left the baby. It didn’t make any sense…but it was the only explanation so I went searching, thinking I would find a note or something.’

  He stopped and Fran heard the emotion colouring his voice.

  ‘But I found her instead on the bathroom floor. She was dead. The autopsy said she’d been dead for about six hours. The doctor in me knew she’d been dead too long to help but I had to try…you know?’

  He looked at her with a plea in his eyes and she nodded because she would have done the same thing.

  ‘I called the ambulance, started resus, and all the time Mirry was screaming…but it was no use. They got her to hospital but…if it had been anyone else they would have declared her dead here in the house…’

  At that moment, as he relayed his story and his pain shone in his eyes, Fran felt more connected to him than she’d ever felt to anyone. She reached across and put her hand on top of his, stroking her thumb back and forth against his skin.

  David felt the message communicated by her touch. I’m sorry. It’s awful. What hell you’ve been through. I understand. He placed his other hand on top of hers and smiled at her, grateful for her quiet presence.

  ‘The autopsy revealed she had HOCM. Hypertrophic—’

  ‘Obstructive cardiomyopathy,’ Fran finished for him. A condition that was quite often genetic. Miranda? Was that why she was taking medication?

  ‘She’d been tired because her heart muscle was getting progressively worse until…she had a massive heart attack that day.’

  Fran didn’t have to pry to know that David blamed himself. And she knew how that ate away at you.

  ‘And you blame yourself.’

  He looked miserable and nodded his head, his eyes fixed on their joined hands. ‘Of course. I was her husband. A doctor. I should have been more alert, had her lethargy investigated, but…’

  Fran felt tears well in her eyes and she didn’t bother to dash away the one that rolled down her cheek. ‘You weren’t to know.’

  David looked up at the husky note in her voice and was touched by her display of emotion. He gently wiped the tear away and cupped her cheek for a brief moment. Fran probably didn’t need to hear his depressing tale when she was obviously far from over hers.

  Grief was a long slow road. It had taken him a long time to get to the stage where he could talk about Jenny and not break down. Miranda had wanted to know more and more about her mother and in recent years the deep ache inside had lessened and he’d been able to recall all kinds of memories with a fondness that warmed and gladdened his heart instead of wounding it.

  Fran would get there, too…eventually. He knew how it felt to be in a tunnel so dark there was no light at the end. But one thing he knew for sure—if you walked the road long enough and kept putting one foot in front of the other, you eventually got to the light.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He smiled. ‘Rationally I know that. But in those dark days following her death I blamed myself constantly. Thank God for Mirry. If I hadn’t been forced to focus on someone else’s needs, I don’t know what would have become of me.’

  Fran felt the lump rising in her chest again. He was spot on there. When Daisy had died it had been as if her whole reason for living had suddenly been stripped away. She’d had no one who’d depended on her any more. Yes, there’d been Jeremy but he’d been an adult and she had been too mired down in grief to think of his needs at all.

  She had often wondered over the last couple of years how different things would have been had they had another child. Like David, she would have been forced to keep going, caring for the other child, keeping busy and active and out of the pit of despair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, gently pulling his hand out from under hers, looking at her stricken face. ‘Forgive me, I shouldn’t have gone on. It was a long time ago. Your loss is obviously much fresher.’

  David was being so nice and for the first time she felt the urge to unburden herself a little. ‘No. It’s OK.’ She drew in a deep ragged breath. ‘My divorce became final last month…. My husband…It’s been hard….’

  She wasn’t strong enough to tell him about Daisy. She felt like she’d break down completely if she even uttered her daughter’s name aloud and she just couldn’t go there yet. Talking about Jeremy was hard enough.

  He placed his hand back on top of hers because he realised how hard it had been for her to tell him and she looked so wretched. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’

  Fran looked at him and felt more tears running down her face. She nodded because the lump in her throat was so big she couldn’t even speak. He didn’t know the half of it.

  He cupped her face again and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rest her head against his shoulder. He stroked her hair and she fought a major battle to keep her emotions suppressed. She choked on a few sobs and it was so nice to lean on someone she nearly let herself go.

  But she couldn’t. If she did then she’d cry all night, and it wasn’t the time or place. Miranda was in the other room and although David knew intimately the weight of her grief, she barely knew him at all.

  ‘All I can say is that
it does get better. I promise you, it will.’

  She’d heard those words so many times before from well-meaning people that she tended to not even hear them any more. But David’s quiet assurance was nearly her undoing. At least he could speak with some authority. This was a man who had found his wife dead and his baby screaming eleven years ago. His positivity gave her something to cling to even though she knew her grief was twice as deep, twice as wide, twice as dark as his. She’d lost her husband and her child.

  She pulled away to tell him so. He looked at her earnestly and she didn’t think he’d buy the yes-but-my-grief-is-worse-than-yours argument. Death was death and grief was grief and no one person’s was any worse than anyone else’s. It all hurt and it all sucked and it was all so unfair. She wasn’t going to diminish his by saying at least he still had Miranda.

  David waited for her to say what she wanted to say. She looked about to say something important but he watched as she changed her mind and smiled and thanked him instead.

  ‘You know you can talk to me. Any time. Day or night.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It hurts too much.’

  He nodded because he knew the truth of her words. ‘It won’t always.’

  ‘Promise?’ she whispered. Fran just couldn’t see that this pain was ever going to pass.

  He smiled and put his bent elbow on the table, waggling his little finger at her. ‘Pinkie promise.’

  Fran stared at him for a few moments, the action stirring memories.

  ‘Mirry swears by them,’ he said, and waggled it, along with his eyebrows, again.

  So had Daisy. It had been their little ritual when Daisy had sought any kind of reassurance. A pinkie promise in the eyes of a ten-year-old girl had been equal to, if not greater than, a vow written in blood.

  He waggled it again and she gave him a grudging smile and linked her pinkie with his. ‘Pinkie promise,’ she murmured back.

  They let their fingers linger for a few moments longer than they should have and Fran felt warm all over. She’d been so used to feeling cold all the time it was bliss to feel a momentary heat.