The Surgeon's Proposal

by Lilian Darcy

  And Annabelle had inherited Duncan.

  Vic hadn’t been independent and self-reliant. She’d been lost. She hadn’t had a clue what she’d wanted, or what she’d been doing, and if other people hadn’t been there to help, her life had fallen apart.

  ‘Mummy staying?’ Duncan asked her, still snuggled, uncharacteristically, on her lap as they sat at the play-dough table.

  She realised that he thought playgroup was like child-care, and he was expecting—and dreading—her departure. She felt a rush of love, and hugged him tightly. ‘Yes, I’m staying,’ she told him. ‘I’m always going to stay with you at playgroup.’

  ‘Mummy always stay at playgroup,’ he said happily. He dropped the play dough at once and ran off outside to explore.

  His departure left her free to wonder what any of that stuff about Vic had to do with Dylan’s accusations, until she got caught up in conversation with the other parents and carers while they had coffee. One of the mothers looked familiar, and after a bit of speculating and memory-jogging, they finally realised that Gina was the younger sister of one of Annabelle’s old school-mates.

  ‘Laurie will want to know all about what you’re doing now,’ she said, and Annabelle ended up telling everyone much more than she’d expected to about Duncan’s difficult start and her own current determination to put his needs first in her life.

  ‘You’re crazy, trying to make that schedule work!’ one of the women said. ‘You’ll kill yourself!’

  But everyone else was supportive. They talked about sleep disruption with a new baby, and their own decisions about child-care and conflicts regarding working versus staying at home. It felt good. Duncan came up to her frequently—for a hug when he hurt himself, for a push on the swing, for dispute resolution when he and another boy both wanted to ride the same tricycle.

  Gina said to Annabelle quietly a little later, ‘I don’t agree with Ella that you’re going to kill yourself, but you do look tired. Joshie and Duncan seem to be playing nicely together. If you ever want to drop him over for a few hours while you grab a sleep or get some errands done, feel free. We all tend to help each other out that way. This afternoon, if you want to.’

  This afternoon, when Dylan had his MRI.

  Annabelle hesitated at first. Dylan had been pretty rude, and pretty dampening, about her assumption that she had something of value to give. Why should she show up to hold his hand?

  Because no one else would.

  He had no family here, and she was sure he’d told as few people as possible about his back pain. He certainly wasn’t the kind of man who’d trouble a male friend for support. The mates he’d gone sailing with a few weeks ago would probably be the last people to hear about the problem with his back.

  Perhaps we both find it harder to take support than to give it, she thought.

  On the face of it, an MRI was a simple, noninvasive test, but she knew one nurse who’d sworn she’d rather ‘get eaten by a crocodile’ than go through one again.

  ‘Actually, Gina…’ Annabelle said, and they fixed it up in a couple of minutes.

  She would drop Duncan at Gina’s at three-ish, and pick him up again on the way to Mum’s at around five. Time for some shopping, some cleaning, a short nap…or a stop at the imaging clinic to see Dylan.

  ‘How did you go?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘It was fine,’ the young woman said cheerfully. ‘It’s a cool machine.’

  She leaned on the desk, looking in her backpack for her purse. She wore a black top and skin tight black trousers that rode low on her hips, she had hair the shade of blue food colouring and a very high metal content on various tender parts of her anatomy. On her, the look worked. So did the cheerfulness and the insouciance.

  Dylan would have purchased some of it from her, if that were possible. He wondered why she had needed the scan. Something gynaecological? If she was concerned about the result, she wasn’t letting it show.

  ‘Dr Calford?’ said the technician, appearing in the doorway which led away from the waiting room.

  It is ridiculous to feel so nervous!

  At the moment, it was the scan itself, but underlying this and strongly colouring Dylan’s emotional state was his knowledge that the result could shatter his life. He felt very alone in the face of that knowledge.

  It’s going to be fine. Cool. Just like the young woman with blue hair had said.

  It wasn’t.

  He hated everything about it. Hated wearing the hospital gown. Hated the antiseptic white of the MRI scanner, inside and out. He hated going in head first, and he hated its tight fit. Heaven only knew how a man with shoulders any broader than his would have squeezed through. He hated the mesh-like cage at his face. He hated the constant white light, and the fact that he wasn’t supposed to move a muscle.

  Most of all, he hated the noise. Yes, it really was like athletic shoes going round and round in a tumble dryer—a dryer that was tumbling around Dylan himself. As his body was fed slowly, sl-o-owly through the long tube and he ached with the effort of lying still, it felt like time itself had slowed to a standstill.

  When he finally emerged, he knew he must be as white as the machine. He felt ill, drained of adrenalin, deafened and off-balance. Getting dressed was such an effort that the technician knocked on the door after a few minutes to see if he was still breathing. She found him sitting there with his shoes in his hand and his head between his knees.

  ‘Are you all right, Dr Calford?’

  ‘Getting there.’

  ‘Yes, it does bother some people.’

  Some people, it didn’t. The next patient, a frail-looking man of about sixty-five, who seemed completely at ease in his lemon yellow floral hospital gown, poked his head around the door and chuckled at Dylan.

  ‘Doesn’t worry me a bit,’ he claimed. ‘I had one a couple of years ago. Planning to fall asleep in there this time.’

  Dylan raised his head and the room tilted and blurred. ‘Good for you,’ he said.

  The man shuffled off, still chuckling.

  ‘Do you have someone waiting for you?’ the technician asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re driving yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Better wait a while,’ she said. ‘Have a cuppa. One of the reception staff will be very happy to make one for you.’

  ‘Might do that,’ he agreed. He felt dizzy, as if he himself had been one of the athletic shoes tumbling in the dryer.

  Determined not to give in to it, he put his shoes on and walked out to the waiting room. He knew he probably looked like a drunken man—one who was convinced against all evidence that he was walking a straight line. He didn’t care.

  And then he saw Annabelle.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DYLAN was scowling at her, Annabelle noted at once.

  Or was he just fighting to see straight?

  She almost scowled back, not sure now why she had come. She was sure he wouldn’t welcome her, even if he fell into the group of people who found MRIs to be difficult. His face told her she was right on both counts. It had been difficult, and he didn’t want her. His expression had set hard, and he wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, speaking through a narrow slit in his lips.

  ‘Hi.’ She was almost as prickly as he was. ‘Looks like I should get you a cup of tea or something. I can drive you home, too, if you like.’

  ‘I’ll be fine in a minute. The tech said I could ask at the desk for some tea.’

  ‘I’ll ask. Or there’s a café next level down if you want brewed coffee and don’t mind a styrofoam cup.’

  ‘Whatever. Tea, but I don’t care where it comes from.’

  She hesitated, then decided to ask at the desk. Styrofoam cups were horrible. She touched Dylan’s shoulder, then looked for a sign from him that it was OK to do more. Hug him. Sit down beside him and stroke his thigh for a moment, or lay her head against his chest. But he didn’t give her any such sig
n. Just sat there, doing a very good impression of a man who was feeling perfectly all right.

  ‘When do you get the—?’ she began.

  He cut in without letting her finish. ‘Oberlin—Paul Oberlin, the radiologist—is going to courier the pictures over to Kemp McAllister as soon as he’s done his report. If I know Kemp, he’ll completely ignore the report anyway, and analyse the images himself. He should phone me by the end of the day.’

  ‘I’ll get you that tea.’

  He didn’t thank her until she put the hot mug in his hand, and even then it was only a grunted word. ‘You didn’t need to come,’ he added.

  ‘I wanted to. But I can’t stay long. One of the playgroup mums has Duncan, and I’m not sure how it’s going to work out. It’s the first time he’s played there. May I…uh…phone you tomorrow morning, to hear what Paul Oberlin and Kemp McAllister have said?’

  He looked at her properly at last, and growled, ‘Of course you can, Annabelle. It’s not going to stay a secret for much longer, in any case, whatever it is.’

  ‘OK, then.’

  She sat down beside him, but didn’t touch him the way she wanted to. The space between their bodies felt thick and uncomfortable, and they didn’t even talk until he asked, ‘How’s Duncan?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve had a great time together this week.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘So I’ve been told! I’m expecting to look tired for a while. New parents manage it. Plenty of people manage it.’

  ‘Don’t let it get to breaking point. You’re only human.’

  ‘I know that, Dylan.’

  They looked at each other helplessly for a second or two, then both turned away, unable to bridge the gap. She left a few minutes later.

  ‘Listen, Dylan,’ Kemp said on the phone, ‘I know you’ll want to see these for yourself—’

  ‘Yes, but I also want the bottom line right now, if you can give it to me.’

  His stomach was flipping like a fish on dry land, and he hoped it wasn’t obvious in his voice. The phone call had come later than he’d expected. The specialist had got caught up in other matters. It was after eight in the evening, and Dylan had spent the past two hours sweating and watching the clock.

  ‘OK, yes, I thought that’s what you’d say. Bottom line is that, yes, something showed up. A tumour. From the evidence on the scan, it’s not obviously malignant, just a benign nerve tumour a little over a centimetre in diameter, but, of course, we won’t know for certain until we’ve taken it out and had a good look at it. Now, the bad news is—’

  Dylan swore. ‘That was the good news?’

  ‘Well, yes. The thing that concerns me is its position, so close to the nerves. You’ve got to get it removed, but you may end up with nerve deficits in your legs as a result.’

  Nerve deficits in his legs. A polite, technical way of saying that he wouldn’t be able to walk properly, or stand for long periods. He wouldn’t be able to do his job. You couldn’t perform surgery if you couldn’t stand.

  ‘If we get Graham Barlow to operate…’ Dylan suggested, starting to sweat.

  ‘Yes, that’s who I’d recommend. From the way your symptoms have developed, it’s growing relatively fast, so we should move forward on the surgery as soon as possible. I’ve already spoken to Graham, and he can fit you in next Friday. Does that give you enough time to clear your schedule?’

  ‘It’ll have to. I don’t want to wait on this.’

  ‘Obviously, it’s awful for you.’

  ‘I’ll get through it. Thanks, Kemp.’

  ‘Get in touch if you have questions. Anything you want to talk about.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Dylan said again.

  He didn’t phone anyone after he’d finished talking to Kemp. Not his parents, or his sister, or his friends. Distantly, he realised that it might be a good idea, but somehow he couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to have to tell the whole story, or hear the emotional, appalled responses he’d get when he outlined the two worst-case scenarios—malignancy and damaged nerves.

  The only person he really wanted to phone was Annabelle. Not to tell her, but to ask her whether he could come round.

  Can I bury myself in your body and anaesthetise myself in your arms? Can I take nourishment from the smell of your hair and the sound of your voice? Can I sit beside you in utter silence and feel your care?

  He even thought it very likely that she wouldn’t turn him away from her bed tonight. She would sense his need, and that would be enough.

  Enough for her. Not enough for him.

  Annabelle hoped Dylan would phone that night, but he didn’t. She went to work at eleven, leaving Mum already asleep in her tiny third bedroom, but she knew Dylan wasn’t on call tonight.

  Things were fairly quiet until around three in the morning, when they had to call in a cardiothoracic surgeon to perform an emergency coronary artery bypass, and she got away promptly at seven.

  Dylan had told her yesterday that ‘of course’ she could phone him that morning, but she didn’t want to disturb him early. If he’d had a bad night…In the end, she waited until eleven and by then he’d gone out. She didn’t leave a message on his machine.

  Several more tries over the course of the day got the same result, and she began to wonder if he was screening his calls. It was eight in the evening before she finally reached him, when Duncan was already in bed and Mum was watching her evening television shows.

  He knew what she wanted to ask him, and launched into his account straight away. His wooden tone only served to outline his words in darker colours, and she couldn’t hold back a stricken cry when he told her the worst possibilities.

  ‘Have you talked to your parents about this?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Your sister? Your friends?’

  ‘No. I’ll tell Alex, of course. He’ll need to know. I’ve been trying to get hold of him, but he hasn’t returned my calls yet.’

  ‘Have you told Sarah?’

  He laughed at this. ‘No!’

  ‘At some point—’

  ‘I’ll tell people after the surgery. When I know. Why tie anyone else in knots with worry when there’s nothing they can do? Why have everyone at the hospital buzzing with speculation? My parents would probably fly out—’

  ‘Of course! You should give them that option,’ she urged him. ‘Don’t make their decisions for them.’

  He sighed. ‘Listen, it’s my decision, not theirs. I want to see them. When I know how well I can walk, and whether I’m going to live.’ Oh, dear God! ‘That’s when I want to see them. Until then—’

  ‘You’ve only got me,’ she said softly, her voice catching in her throat.

  ‘Yeah, and you’d get out of my face if you had any sense!’

  ‘Well, maybe I haven’t any sense where you’re concerned.’

  Dylan made a disgusted sound. ‘Leave it, Annabelle. I mean that. Leave me alone. Ask yourself why you’re only interested now that I’m facing this, now that I’m needy and not so strong.’

  ‘You’re still strong, Dylan!’

  He ignored her. ‘Is it safer for you that way? Does it fit with the way you see yourself? Because it doesn’t fit with what I want! As you said to me a few weeks ago in a different context, I’m not your charity.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, her voice tight. ‘You’re not. That’s not what this is about.’

  He laughed again—the same cynical, dismissive sound she’d heard just now when she’d asked if he’d told Sarah. This link with his ex-wife was, Annabelle knew, anything but flattering. When she put down the phone a minute later, she felt totally shut out of his life.

  And she knew fully, for the first time, that she was in love with him.

  That was the difference. That was the key. This wasn’t about her instinct—too well developed, at times; perhaps he was right about that—to respond to the needs of others and deny what she needed for herself. This was pure selfishness. She loved him, and she wa
nted to be with him, share this with him, whatever the outcome was. Except that he seemed to be telling her that it was too late.

  ‘How are your shifts now? Busy?’ Barb Thompson asked Annabelle.

  The two of them had overlapped briefly in the theatre suite. It was Monday morning, and Annabelle was finishing work while Barb was just starting.

  ‘Usually pretty busy,’ she answered. ‘Sometimes we get a good break. But the pace is hectic, since they’re all emergency procedures.’

  ‘Enjoying it, though?’

  ‘Yes, actually. More than I’d expected to. I was really only focusing on the hours. The drama can be satisfying, and when we get a good outcome against the odds it really feels good.’

  Good enough to carry her through several tiring days with Duncan, slotted in between her shifts. But only just good enough. She yawned. Now she had three nights in a row in which to get some deep, solid sleep—if she wasn’t thinking too much about Dylan.

  His own surgery was this coming Friday, but he hadn’t wanted her support.

  ‘I just looked at today’s list,’ Barb said. ‘We’ve got Jason Gregory’s knee reconstruction first up.’

  ‘Is Dylan operating?’ Annabelle had to ask.

  ‘No, and I was a little surprised about that,’ Barb answered. ‘Apparently, he’s off for the next two weeks. No one seems to know why. Sturgess…that is, Alex…is doing it. In fact, he’s already here, somewhere about.’

  ‘It’s a difficult operation,’ Annabelle said, as neutrally as she could. She knew, of course, why Alex was doing it, but if Dylan didn’t want anyone to know what was going on until after his own surgery, she had to respect that.

  Barb went back to making her preparations for the morning’s list, and Annabelle began to remove her disposable shoe covers, then paused. She could hear Alex’s voice, talking to someone on the phone as he waited until the patient was brought down and it was time to scrub.

  She didn’t need to talk to Alex about the surgery. Jason Gregory was just another patient.