by Cate Kennedy
Joe walked through the crowd and took the lift to the fourth floor. He followed a blue line around several corners until he reached the Radiology Clinic. The room was full, mostly with men around his age. He filled out the necessary paperwork at the desk and found a spare seat on the end of a vinyl bench opposite an elderly couple. The man was wearing a pair of grey pants and a blue-checked flannelette shirt under a handmade woollen vest, dressed as if he’d strolled out of his suburban vegetable patch.
The women seated next to him had a pair of rosary beads draped from her hands. Speaking loudly to each other their conversation shifted from Italian to English and something in between. The man smiled, leaned across to his wife and whispered something in her ear. She rested her head on his shoulder and softly laughed. When the man’s name was called the woman helped him to his feet and guided him to a cubicle where a be-speckled and balding doctor was waiting. She opened the palm of her hand and gently massaged the centre of her husband’s back.
Joe sat in the waiting room for close to another hour before his name was finally called:
‘Mr Joseph Roberts to room four.’
Joe nervously walked across the room and knocked at the door.
‘Come in.’
He was surprised to hear a woman’s voice. The doctor was a slim tall woman with dark hair tied into a bun. She shook his hand—‘Joseph, I’m Dr McGee’—and asked him to take a seat. She placed a second chair alongside his and sat down quite close to Joe. He could smell her perfume, a mild scent of citrus. She quickly flicked through the sheets in his file.
‘So the urinary bleed you experienced three weeks ago. Can you tell me something about it, Joseph?’ she asked, in a thick Scottish accent.
Joe shifted in his chair.
‘Well…I got up one morning and went to the toilet and it was…well…I was bleeding when…’
His voice trailed off.
‘Had you been to the toilet during the night? For a wee?’
‘Well…not that I can remember. No.’
‘Are you sure?’
Joe wasn’t sure at all sure.
‘Yes. I’m sure.’
‘Good. Tell me about the colour of your urine?’
‘The colour? It was, you know, like blood. It was red.’
‘Yes, Joseph. But we need to consider how much blood there was. A description of the colour may help us. So, if your urine were a wine would you describe it as claret? A dark red? Or would it be a rose? A lighter colour? Pink perhaps?’
Joseph thought for a moment, capturing again the fear that gripped him when he’d looked into the while toilet bowl and saw that he was pissing blood.
‘It was dark. Like you said. A claret.’
She tapped him on the knee and smiled.
‘Good. And have you had a bleed since then, the night you came into Casualty.’
‘Yes. Once. Two days later.’
‘And any pain when you have to wee?’
‘No. I’ve had no pain.’
Each time the doctor asked a question she moved a little closer to Joe, which made him feel nervous. It had been a long time since he’d been so close to any woman, let alone one so young and beautiful. He involuntarily massaged his potbelly stomach.
She stood up and moved across to an examination table covered in a white sheet.
‘In cases such as yours, and in consideration of your age, we’ll need to give you a series of tests over the next few weeks, commencing today with a scan, which will give us a good look at your kidneys in particular. We need to find out what caused the bleed. Each test we do will help with our diagnosis, largely through a process of elimination. But firstly, I need to examine you.’
She patted the table with her hand.
‘Strip down to your underwear and sit up here for me.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I need you to take your clothing off, Joseph. I need to examine you.’
Reluctantly, Joe dropped his pants around his ankles.
‘And your top, please.’
Joe stripped to his underwear and lay down on the table. While the doctor checked his blood pressure, heart rate and general health Joe concentrated on a poster on the wall by the end of the bed, outlining the benefits of annual cholesterol tests. The doctor had her stethoscope pressed against the left side of Joe’s chest when she noticed the small circular scar on his side, between his two lower ribs. She looked closer at the scar and ran her fingers over a raised area of disfigured skin.
‘What caused this, Joseph? Would it be a .38 or a .45?’
Joe said nothing and continued looking ahead. She gently prodded the scar with a gloved fingertip.
‘You were shot here. Some time ago. I’d guess it was a .38?’
‘Yeah. A .38.’
Joe could not curb his curiosity. ‘How can you tell the size of the bullet?’
‘I spent two years with Medicins Sans Frontiers, Doctors Without Borders. Have you heard of them?’
‘No.’
‘I was mostly in Africa.’
‘They’ve got .38’s over there?’
‘They’ve got everything from crossbows, machetes, to World War Two military surplus and heat-seeking shoulder missiles sold out of Iraq. And yes, the odd .38.’
She walked over to her desk and returned with a pencil-shaped silver torch. She shone it on the scar.
‘So how long ago did you get this wound?’
‘Oh, years back.’
She looked at Joe, unimpressed.
‘That tells me nothing, Joseph. How many years ago was it?’
Joe did some quick sums in his head. ‘About thirty years back. Thirty-one to be exact.’
‘The bullet, was it removed cleanly?’ She again prodded the space between his ribs. ‘And there were no bullet or bone fragments to deal with? No post-operative infection?’
‘No. I had no problems with it. Afterwards.’
‘Well, I think we should request your case notes on this anyway. I want to be sure there is no relationship between this injury and your current condition. It would be unlikely, but a bone or metal chip moving around your body could show up years later, anywhere in the body, and cause problems. Where were you treated for this?’
Joe had to think in a hurry. It would be difficult explaining that the bullet was taken out by the vet at the old White City dog track.
‘It was at the Prince Henry’s on St Kilda Road. They knocked it down, the hospital, years ago. I don’t think there’d be any records.’
‘How’d it happen, getting shot?’
‘An accident.’
She placed her hand on his stomach, gently kneading a jagged two-inch scar. Joe closed his eyes, savouring the touch.
‘As this scar here? The same accident?’
Joe looked a little shamefaced. ‘No. That was from another accident. A couple of years earlier.’
She crossed her arms and frowned at him, not believing a word he’d said.
‘Well, fortunately the scan should show up any problems associated with old war wounds.’
She studied the tip of her gloved finger while explaining a little more of what would occur over the coming weeks.
‘After we’re finished here you’ll have the scan, just down the corridor. And then, if we find no problem with your kidneys, we’ll follow up with a cystoscopy in a couple of weeks. That’s for bladder cancer.’
She noticed the slight twitch in his face.
‘Don’t worry too much. That’s an unlikely diagnosis. As with any urinary bleed, we examine the bladder to rule out cancer, not rule it in.’
She raised a long index finger and smiled sympathetically at Joe.
‘But test number one, unfortunately, is on your prostate.’
When Dr McGee had finished examining him Joe was moved to another room where a nurse handed him a hospital gown and a large brown paper bag. He was directed to a cubicle where he changed out of his clothes into the gown. He took his place on a bench with other me
n also wearing nothing but white gowns and nursing paper bags containing their clothes.
Within a few minutes a nurse holding open a door called his name. As he shuffled across to her he tried holding the back of his gown together, reaching a hand behind his back. He couldn’t avoid showing his arse off. The room was dominated by a mass of electrical instruments, monitors and screens and wires running across the floor. Four or five people stood in the room wearing blue surgical uniforms. Joe was guided to a table and asked to lie down by a woman with steel-wool curls poking out of her surgical cap. She winked at Joe.
‘How are you, handsome? I’m here to hold your hand. If you like that we’ll go dancing on our second date. And don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with you.’
She placed a tourniquet on Joe’s left arm. He felt something cold on his lower arm. She winked again, ‘…but this might hurt a smidge,’ and inserted a needle into a vein.
Joe looked up at the theatre light above the bed as the medical staff chatted amongst themselves. One of them was talking about the opera he’d been to the night before. The others were more interested in complaining about the price of the tickets than what he thought of the show. A doctor who had been reading the notes in Joe’s file came over and placed a hand on his chest.
‘Hello Joseph. Let me explain what’s happening this morning. We have just inserted a catheter in your arm and we’re about to inject you with a substance that will help us get a decent picture of your kidneys and your plumbing. You’ll most likely experience an odd taste in your mouth, like you are biting on steel. And a few seconds later you may experience a sensation that you’re wetting yourself.’
He lightly tapped Joe’s chest as he spoke.
‘But don’t panic. It’s only a sensation.’
Joe wasn’t panicking at all. He felt like a small boy in the arms of his father.
It was exactly as the doctor said. Joe did feel like he was biting on steel, although he had nothing in his mouth. And a few minutes later he was convinced he’d pissed himself. The nurse holding his hand reassured him, ‘It’s all right, Joseph. It’s a trick played on you by the drugs.’
After the scan Joe was sent back to the cubicle to dress and told to return the Radiology waiting room and collect a letter outlining his next appointment. He followed the wrong line on the floor and found himself in another room, decorated in bright colours. It was full of children sitting with parents, mostly mothers. Joe searched the room. Several of the children were pale and thin and some had lost the hair on their head. A young boy, who looked to be no older than five or six, looked up from the set of blocks he was playing with on the floor and smiled. Joe reached for the door handle and backed out into the corridor.
He found his way back to the waiting area. It was empty. He took a seat at one of the benches. His head dropped and his heavy eyelids began to close when his name was called for the third time that day. He struggled to his feet and walked to the counter. Joe opened his wallet, expected he would have to show his medical card. The nurse looked into Joe’s weary eyes.
‘You look tired, love. It’s a good idea to bring someone along with you.’
She handed Joe a pen and pointed to a line on the admission sheet.
‘You haven’t filled this bit out. Next of kin.’
‘I don’t have any.’
The nurse looked down at Joseph’s wallet, at a long faded photograph of a woman and two young children, a boy and a girl.
‘Is there nobody we can contact?’ she asked, her eyes resting on the image.
‘There’s no one.’ Joe answered, refusing to look down.
He took a window seat on the way home, looking out at the rain lashing the carriage. He wasn’t thinking straight and got off a stop early. By the time he realised what he’d done the train doors had slammed shut. He left the platform and headed along the bike track beside the rail line. By the time he got back to the flat he was soaked to the skin. He threw his jacket on the kitchen bench and rushed to the bathroom. He’d not eaten since the night before. All he managed to vomit into the toilet bowl was bile, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth and spit running down his cheek. He washed his face and hands in the sink and cleaned his teeth.
He sat at the kitchen bench nursing two painkillers and a glass of water. Looking around the silent room he felt a tear form in the corner of one eye. Smelling something unfamiliar he sniffed the air. He got to his feet and followed the scent into the kitchen and opened a cupboard door under the sink. The smell was stronger, like something rotten. Joe pulled out the rubbish bin. There was a dead mouse behind it, lying on its side. He scooped it up, threw it in the bin, pulled the plastic garbage bag from the bin and tied it together. He scrubbed his hands in the sink, picked up the bag and headed downstairs to the wheelie bins.
Joe lifted the lid on his bin and threw the bag in. As he was walking away he heard a sound, the clinking of bottles. Leaning over the row of bins he saw a body huddled under a blanket, and a face looking up at him like a swaddled baby. It was the girl from the railway station.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Please don’t call anyone. I’ll go.’
She stood up and wrapped the blanket around her. Whatever drug she’d been on that morning had worn off.
‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong here,’ she tried explaining to Joe, who could not take his eyes off her face. ‘I was cold. Sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ Joe whispered. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, as if she hadn’t heard what he’d said. ‘I’m going.’
She brushed by Joe and headed along a pathway to the street. Joe ran after her.
‘Wait,’ he pleaded.
THE UNBROKEN TRAJECTORY OF FALLING
Eggshells
LOIS MURPHY
Sometimes in the winter, down this way, it is difficult to recognise the break between sea and sky; a weak pastel light fuses them into a minty peace. From her kitchen Natalie has a limited view of the sea, a blinking patch through the gums at the edge of the fence, but she knows from the light that today will be icy and indistinct. She loves this effect, this neutral merging, the wind’s ripple the only gesture of life. She tries to breathe the fluidity, her back to last night’s dishes.
In the shambles of the kitchen her ideals are lost. The children swear at each other; she does not bother to stop them. She threads from the window through the remains of breakfast to the coffee, pours another cup, lukewarm and bitter.
The clouds lift and a dull steeliness sears through the fusion.
They are late. She thrusts her feet into thick socks and boots, her arms into a jumper. Russ is already on his leash, Sarah struggling to hold him back. Natalie pulls the door behind her and gulps a shock of cold air. Scott has started walking; already he has climbed the driveway and is out of sight. By the time Natalie and Sarah have clumped to the top of the drive he is halfway along the road. He allows his mother only the pretence of walking with him. He scuffs his feet and his shoulders sag, but still his legs move quickly, the distance between them increases.
They plod in silence, panting mist into the icy air. Natalie’s ears are frozen; she has forgotten her hat again. Sarah’s hair hangs in tendrils from her beanie, chipped nail polish a flash of lurid colour on her skinny fingers. She brings them to her mouth and blows deeply. In the distance the surf roars, and Natalie’s head is full of her heartbeat after the steep driveway climb. The pounding gush of blood makes her frozen ears ache.
At the corner of the school she turns away from her children’s receding backs. When she reaches Wattle Lane she releases Russ from his lead. He canters quickly ahead, his tongue lolling for the sea scent. By the time she emerges from the track onto the sand he is some distance along the beach, frolicking at the edge of the water, his coat golden against the shore. Natalie pulls her hands from her pockets and swings them loosely, working her shoulders. The tide is out, the waves lap calmly at her feet as she follows the dog along the beach.
<
br /> The horizon holds only one ship, loaded so heavily with containers that its hull is barely visible. It labours silently, almost immobile from this distance. She shields her eyes and squints against the glare, aware of the black dog that has emerged from the dunes and galloped up to Russ. The two dogs tussle happily, their noses in the air, before Russ takes off at full pelt, the black dog loping behind.
Natalie loiters, watching the dogs disappear around the curve of the shore, listening to the ricochet of their paws on the wet sand, before she suddenly turns to the track from where the black dog had emerged. The scrubby bushes seem to hum as she strides through them.
The door is ajar. She kicks aside the sandy collection of gumboots and sneakers discarded around it. Her breathing feels tight and her stomach flutters with dread. She is never sure. He sits at the kitchen table; a chipped mug steams coffee into the air. But a second mug waits beside him. By the sink his dishes are washed and neatly stacked, the benches wiped. Wordlessly, he pours for her.
Natalie kicks off her boots and wrenches her jumper over her head. Ignoring the coffee, she circles the table and straddles him on his chair. He looks at her without expression. She presses her hands against his chest. He remains motionless momentarily, then sweeps aside his coffee cup, circles his arms around her hips, and pulls her into a hard fierce kiss. Their teeth scrape and her elbows protrude over his shoulders, like stunted wings. Without a word he lifts her, still straddling him, and carries her along the dim hallway.
It is primal rather than passionate, their sex, needy and gasping; hands that grab and push. His rhythm is determined, she bucks against his thrusts, wanting it to end and never stop. Within her the pain, and he groans, catches his breath. She loves this groan, it is his only show of surrender. He collapses onto the bed beside her and fights to control his breathing. Her heart pounds against her ribs as she stretches luxuriously, still joined to him at the groin. She always feels lithe after sex, sinewy and renewed, like a mermaid. He shifts and she feels him slide from her. Outside the prefab walls a breeze is starting, the ti-tree scrapes lightly against the house. He reaches beside the bed for a box of tissues, hands her some and begins to clean himself up.