by Amy Andrews
MedSurg had set up in an old whitewashed convent that harked back a couple of hundred years to colonial times. Kelly used this building for the medical side of the mission and across the dirt a long, rickety concrete path connected it to the old orphanage building, which was where the surgical side was housed. Gill’s territory.
The area had once been a thriving community—now it was just a few buildings in the middle of nowhere on the periphery of a war zone. The buildings had been used until the recent civil unrest as a medical facility. The nearest towns were at least one hundred kilometres in any direction, the nearest hospital at least two hundred and fifty kilometres away.
The old orphanage now used as the surgical block was a double-storey building with wide, open verandahs that wrapped around the entire building to take advantage of any breeze that might be wafting by. Two downstairs rooms had been converted to operating theatres with basic tables, anaesthetic machines, monitors and overhead lights, and smaller side rooms each housed ancient instrument sterilisers and served as storage rooms.
Another of the bigger rooms was set up as the HDU/recovery area and there were various smaller rooms used for their triage meetings and as a communal kitchen and lounge area.
Upstairs were the living quarters, which, although were small, had French-style doors that opened onto the verandahs. Not that it was actually that safe to be sitting out there a lot of the time, but the tantalising luxury was there if anyone had the nerve.
By the time the rest of the team arrived, Harriet and Siobhan had everything under control. Siobhan was scrubbing up when Gill strode into the theatre. ‘Everything good to go?’ he asked a masked Harriet.
Gill forgot the urgency for a fleeting moment. Harriet in her mask, her features completely hidden from his gaze, was mystically beautiful. The deep brown depths of her eyes were emphasised tenfold, and he felt like he was falling into a warmed vat of deep rich chocolate and drowning.
Her luxurious hair was also hidden within the confines of the most unglamorous headwear on the planet, but he still couldn’t disguise his fascination with it. He knew that beneath the almost see-through blue fabric it was up in a ponytail and, despite her complaints about hat hair when she removed it between cases, it always made him forget to breathe.
‘Yup.’ Harriet nodded briskly and busied herself with opening the sterile packs, ignoring the brooding presence of her husband. She daren’t look at him. She could feel the intensity of his gaze like he had X-ray vision. What was he thinking? Was he reconsidering his position? Or just trying to visualise her naked? Suddenly the mask felt claustrophobic and she was grateful when he left.
Siobhan entered a few moments later, her arms held slightly aloft and bent at the elbow, water dripping from them occasionally. She picked up the sterile towel that sat folded on top of the sterile gown that Harriet had opened for her and placed on a stainless-steel trolley.
Siobhan dried her hands and arms thoroughly on the cloth and then picked up the gown, climbing into it with an efficient sterile technique and turning so Harriet could tie it at the neck. Next she moved to the size-six gloves Harriet had also opened and in a couple of smooth movements had gloved up. Siobhan set about sorting out the tray of instruments on her sterile draped table and she and Harriet conducted a count of the swabs, towels and instruments most likely to be used during the procedure. Harriet scribbled the numbers on the count sheet so they knew how many extra bits and pieces had to be kept track of.
Then Gill entered the room in the same fashion as Siobhan and after he’d dried his hands he gowned, and Harriet had to get up close to tie his gown for him. She lingered for a moment too long and could tell by the stiffness of his shoulders that he was more than aware of it. He smelt so good and it was hard to believe she would never see him operate again after today.
The patient came in then, accompanied by Katya and Joan, and it was all hands on deck. Joan and Helmut anaesthetised him and Katya left to scrub in as well. Harriet was the circulating nurse—euphemism for gopher. Anything any of the sterile people needed, she fetched. The three nurses took it in turns, rotating from scrubbing to circulating, and the system worked well.
Finally everything was ready. The suction was working, the diathermy was in order and an earthing plate had been stuck to the patient’s thigh. The patient was draped and the surgical area prepped with Betadine. Joan signalled she was happy with their patient’s condition and for Gill to commence.
As he removed the staples he had placed less than twelve hours ago, Harriet placed an Ella Fitzgerald CD in the portable player and switched it to background. It was Gill’s favourite, his grandfather’s influence, and he loved to listen to her dulcet tones as he operated. She knew it helped him relax into the job at hand and, well, she’d suffered worse surgeons’ tastes in her many years as an operating nurse.
One particular surgeon she had worked for had insisted on listening to arcane, obscure Gregorian chants, and by the time the theatre list had ended, she’d always been at screaming point.
Gill quickly opened the abdominal wound. ‘Retractor,’ he said, and Siobhan placed it in his hand. He inserted the heavy metal contraption into the wound and turned the cogs, watching as it slowly cranked open, taking the skin and layers of adipose tissue with it, pushing them back to either side to give a clear view of the abdominal cavity.
‘OK, folks,’ he said, ‘let’s find us a hole.’
Gill knew this could take five minutes or two hours. Finding a little tear was sometimes like trying to find a needle in a haystack. He decided to try a short-cut first.
‘Saline.’
Gill tipped the sterile bowl full of warmed sterile saline gently into the abdominal cavity, submerging the bowel, and waited. After a minute a small bubble squirmed to the surface and popped. As he’d suspected, he’d missed something. Now he just had to find it! And hope that one bubble meant only one hole!
It was probably on a posterior side somewhere. He’d have to start from the top and work his way down. Siobhan used a sucker to remove the fluid and Gill began the painstaking process of checking every centimetre of the intestine. It felt warm in his gloved hands and sort of rippled. It was all gooey and squishy, like a bowl of warm jelly, but looked and felt like a string of sausages.
He heard Harriet humming to ‘Cry me a River’ and glanced up. She always did that. Even scrubbed, she would hum along to Ella, completely unaware she was doing it. He’d missed that this last year, watching Harriet move around a theatre, humming quietly to herself. Or standing next to him, rubbing shoulders, passing him instruments as she hummed away. He’d had it back for a blissful two months and she was going to snatch it all away again.
His eyes flicked back to what he was doing. He really needed to concentrate, damn it! He was too aware of her. Today in particular. Today, the day he’d signed pieces of paper that would put them asunder for ever—it was most distracting! He was excruciatingly aware of her every move around the theatre. Opening things, writing things, murmuring something to Helmut and humming along to Ella.
‘Could you adjust the light, Harry?’ he asked. Why, he didn’t know. The light position was just fine. But then she moved closer and reached up so the fabric of her scrubs pulled taut across her chest and he could smell her perfume, and he was very glad he had asked.
She’d moved it a millimetre when he said, ‘That’s fine.’
Harriet glanced at him, a puzzled look in her eyes—she’d barely moved the wretched thing! Only his eyes were visible to her gaze and she raised her eyebrows at him. Their gazes locked and she saw a flicker of desire brighten the grey. She rolled her eyes at him and stepped back.
After another twenty minutes of looking, he finally located a small nick on the posterior wall of the ascending colon not far from the appendix.
‘Bingo,’ he murmured. ‘Suture.’
Gill over sewed the minor tear, and then gave the entire area a good lavage with warmed saline to wash out any debris that might have
found its way into the abdominal cavity through the small hole. Fortunately the patient already had triple antibiotics on board to cover infection. Siobhan suctioned the saline out again as Gill reinserted a new drain through the old tract.
Harriet and Siobhan finished their final count and were satisfied they had everything back that they’d started with. Gill went ahead and closed the abdomen. She watched, fascinated, as she always did. His fingers were quick but careful and watching him sew up was like watching someone experienced at embroidering or needlepoint. It was a true skill and he was a master.
The phone rang. ‘Theatre. Harriet speaking.’
‘Good morning. This is Genevieve from MSAA communications centre. We have an urgent message for Dr Remy. Is he around?’
Harriet clutched the phone, a sixth sense making her uneasy. It had to be bad for comms to be passing on a message. ‘He’s closing an abdomen at the moment. I’m his wife—you can leave it with me.’
Thank God for the mask! Harriet could feel herself blush as Gill looked up abruptly from his work. It was a bit rich, making a claim on a marriage that she had in effect just ended. His eyes held a slightly mocking expression.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Comms. Urgent message for you.’
‘Tell them to give it to…my wife.’
Harriet didn’t miss the derision, although she was sure the others hadn’t picked up on it. ‘Did you hear that?’ Harriet asked Genevieve.
‘Yes. OK. We have a phone call from his father. Henri Remy has had a massive heart attack and is in a critical but stable condition in Coronary Care.’
Harriet closed her eyes briefly and swallowed hard. No. Not Henri. Gill was exceptionally close to his grandfather. Hell, so was she. It was hard to believe that a man who had a heart the size of Henri’s would ever succumb to human frailties. Decorated by his country for showing extreme bravery in the face of the enemy in occupied France during the war, he was Gill’s hero. The news would hit him hard.
‘What?’ Gill asked as he watched Harriet slowly replace the receiver and look at him with anguish in her eyes. His hand, complete with stitch holder, was poised above the partially closed abdomen.
‘It’s Henri,’ she said, pronouncing it with the correct French inflection.
‘Is he dead?’ he asked bluntly.
Harriet flinched at Gill’s directness but noticed his vice-like grip on the instrument in his hand and wanted to go to him. Scrubbed or not. Sterile or not. ‘No.’ She shook her head and tried to expel the tremor from her voice. ‘MI. He’s critical.’
Their gazes locked again and they shared a brief moment of solidarity. She saw the disbelief and shock and watched as he blinked rapidly a few times.
Gill nodded and held Harriet’s gaze a bit longer. Then he gave himself a mental shake and closed the wound.
CHAPTER SIX
1200 HOURS
HARRIET sat opposite Gill in the lounge. He had pulled his hat off and was running a hand back and forth through his rumpled hair as he had an animated discussion in French with his father. He was sitting on the edge of the chair, bent forward at the waist, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed.
She was sitting in a similar fashion, their knees almost touching. She fought a battle and lost over touching him. The sensible side of her, which was trying to step back, resisted, but the emotional side caved in. He was still her husband and even if he wasn’t, which was soon to be the case, he was a significant part of her life and he had just received bad news. The urge to comfort him was strong. As she would have wanted to comfort anyone in this situation.
She placed her hand on his knee and he glanced at her as he continued his conversation, giving her a grim smile. He stopped worrying his hair and covered her hand with his. He stroked her fingers and then curled his into hers, linking them together.
Gill replaced the phone and they both sat there quietly for a few minutes, Gill still holding her hand, his thumb caressing back and forth across her knuckles.
‘They’re very worried about him,’ he said finally. ‘He’s arrested twice and keeps having runs of VT.’
‘Oh, Gill, I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. He looked awful. She’d never seen him look his age before, but right at this moment he looked every one of his forty years. His forehead was creased with concern and he looked pale and haggard, like he’d been operating for twenty-four hours straight.
‘He’s eighty-eight. I guess we keep forgetting that. He’s always been so larger than life.’
She nodded because suddenly she felt too emotional to speak. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes as she imagined Henri, big, strong Henri, lying helpless in a hospital bed.
Gill looked at her and saw the tears shining in her eyes. He wanted to say, Hey come on, he’ll be OK—but he couldn’t when he wasn’t sure if his grandfather would pull through this at all. Things didn’t look good.
‘Harry,’ he said, his voice conveying what he couldn’t say. He felt kind of lost and he so wanted to feel her in his arms, lean on her a little. Seek a little comfort in a place that he knew better and liked better than almost anywhere. He held out his arms and sighed gratefully when she didn’t argue or hesitate. Just fell to the floor, pushing herself between his legs, and hugged him for all she was worth.
It felt so good, being like this. Everything seemed right with the world from this perspective. It didn’t matter that outside these walls a stupid civil war raged or that his grandfather was probably going to die. Harriet obliterated it all. Wrapped up in her embrace, everything was OK.
But the embrace couldn’t last for ever and Harriet let him go. She sat back on her haunches, his knees level with her shoulders. He looked down into her delectable face, etched with worry.
‘At least it happened today,’ she said, searching for something positive. She knew that Gill, despite his deep affection and loyalty towards his grandfather, would have been very uncomfortable leaving them mid-mission. It was part of that humanitarian streak and work ethic his grandfather had instilled in him. ‘Everything is already arranged for your departure tomorrow. Or are you leaving immediately?’
‘No. There’s only today to get through. I may as well see the mission out. It probably couldn’t be arranged much before tomorrow anyway.’
Harriet swallowed before she said what she was about to say. It was a possibility she didn’t want to think about but it had to be said. ‘What if he…?’
‘Dies before I get home?’ He watched as Harriet nodded miserably. She said what he’d been thinking, but he knew it hadn’t been an easy thing for her to raise.
‘By the sound of it, that’s a distinct possibility. But given how far from home we are there’s not much I can do about that.’
They both reflected for a few moments on the gloomy statement. Of course, Henri was going to die eventually. He was an old man but the vitality of the Remy patriarch had lulled them all into a false sense of security.
Harriet absently ran her hands along Gill’s thighs. She’d barely seen him for a year but two months back in his life and his bed and she’d slipped easily into old intimacies. What was the expression—old habits died hard?
‘Do you remember the first time I met Henri?’ she asked.
Gill heard the husky quality of her voice and it grabbed his heart strings and pulled tight. He smiled at the memory. ‘Of course. You were an instant hit.’
He had said to her, ‘Today is your lucky day. Not only are you with my handsome grandson but I am cooking for you a French delicacy—escargots!’
‘Oh, goody,’ she’d said, and had clapped her hands. ‘I’ve always wanted to try snails.’
‘It was Grandfather’s litmus paper for relationships. Well…my relationships anyway. You were the only girl who didn’t screw up her nose at the thought of snails.’
‘Silly girls,’ she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘The way he cooks them in that delicate creamy sauce, man, they’re good. Actually, I was just r
elived he hadn’t said frogs’ legs.’
Gill laughed, and it felt good to talk about happier times. ‘Do you know what he said to me that afternoon, before we left?’
Harriet smiled and shook her head. ‘No. What?’
‘He said, “Guillaume, if you don’t marry that girl, I will.”’
Harriet laughed, and Gill joined her. She saw the worry ease a little and she was grateful that she could take his mind off it a little. Actually, marrying Gill had been almost like being married to Henri. They were very alike, and Harriet only had to look into Henri’s face, lined with wisdom and experience, to know how Gill was going to age.
Gracefully. With a full head of distinguished grey hair and a lasting firmness and tone to his body that belied his age. Gill’s smile would get saucier and his wit even sharper. And he would still speak French to her and she would still swoon. And he would cook her the most magnificent escargots to his grandfather’s secret family recipe.
She shook herself. No. Not her. Someone else would have that right. She didn’t doubt he would be snapped up in a hurry. He was a great catch…as long as a baby wasn’t on the agenda. And that was fine. He deserved to find happiness again. She wished it for him, she really did. Just as she wished it for herself. Just as she knew that only a baby would make her truly happy again.
His thumb found her wedding ring and he rubbed it back and forth as he stared at it on her slim finger. It had been his grandmother’s. ‘You’re still wearing it,’ he said.
‘I’m still married.’ She shrugged. One year ago she’d separated from him but physical separation was much easier than mental separation. Things like wedding rings and giving up Remy as her name and missing his toiletries next to hers in the bathroom cabinet were much harder to come to terms with.