A Drop in the Ocean

by Jenni Ogden

  In the morning, the morning of the day we were returning to the real world, we were quiet as we packed up. Tom wanted to take the dinghy out over the flats by one o’clock in order to make it safely over the reef flats at Turtle Island before the tide was too far out. We squeezed in one last snorkel before we left, and this time, with Tom at my side, I dove down into the depths and came up, heart pumping, and blew the water brazenly out of my snorkel.

  Dear Fran,

  It’s a while since I wrote, and ages since I got a letter from you. I think about you a lot, and miss your smiley face. I am loving it here, and can hardly recall, or even imagine anymore, what it was like living in Boston and working in that cold lab day after day. Last week I went to another little island with Tom, the man who does the turtle research. I told you how I’d been snorkeling over the reef flats, but now I have been out over the reef edge into the deep ocean, and even diving down. It is wonderful, Fran, and so freeing. I think I’ve almost got the best of the fear I’ve had of the sea ever since Dad disappeared when he was diving. I don’t ever want to leave. What will I do when my year comes to an end? Only eight more months to go.

  Love, Anna.

  TEN

  Tom has gone, leaving an empty place in my heart.

  A month earlier I would not have believed I had it in me to think such a purple thought. He’d soon be back, which made that thought even more melodramatic. It was March, and the turtle-nesting season was winding down, giving Tom the opportunity to spend some time with his parents. It had been a mass exodus. Pat had gone as well to see her grandchildren in Melbourne, and Bill and Violet had taken their kids off-island for their twice-annual grandparent bonding session. So with Bill away, Tom had left the data entry up to me—I felt ridiculously proud of this. It also gave me an excuse to loll about every day in his house, sitting at his computer. One night, after Ben and I had finished the turtle patrol—only twelve turtles up that night—I came back to Tom’s place and lay on his bed. My dreams there were always of higher quality than the dreams I dreamed in my own bed.

  We’d made love—how decadent that sounded, vibrating around my mind—a few times since that first time. Four, to be precise. It was nothing like I remembered, although I suppose the likelihood of accurately recalling a sensory memory after twenty-two years is not high. I knew his body so well now, but so little about him. Looking around his house, there was almost nothing personal to see. A few books, a pile of CDs, a change of clothes, and a black-and-white photo in a simple wooden frame. When I first picked it up I thought it was of Tom with a wife and two children. Tom caught on pretty quickly when it clattered onto his bedside table.

  “That’s me when I was a kid,” he said, his voice carefully casual.

  I picked it up again. The man was still the spitting image of Tom, but now I could see some subtle differences—the way identical twins become different as you get to know them. The pretty woman standing close to him had the look of a flower child, a hippie. Her dress was loose and flowing and her long black hair looked as if it had lost a flower. The Tom look-alike, Tom’s dad I assumed, looked less dated, except perhaps for his rather long hair, and the two kids looked no different from today’s kids: shorts and T-shirts and cheeky grins.

  “I was about ten when that was taken, and Hilary must have been seven. She’s married with two kids now. Lives in Melbourne. My parents still live in the house we grew up in, in Sydney.” His face went still. “Dad’s got dementia. Mum won’t be able to look after him at home much longer.”

  I touched his arm but he shook his head. “Talking doesn’t help.”

  I had managed to discover that Tom had had a vasectomy. He told me because he ran out of condoms; said he only used them to protect against STDs, and that he was pretty sure he was as clean as a whistle. That makes two of us, I said. Clean as the proverbial whistle. For some reason we found these revelations hysterically funny. Love is a strange beast.

  Was I really contemplating being in love?

  I asked him why and when, and he said he’d got the cut when he was twenty-five because the world was already overcrowded. I muttered my agreement. Not everyone had to have kids. I could imagine Tom carefully thinking it all through, and then just doing it.

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO MY CABIN, IT WAS MID-MORNING. On my table was a note from Basil.

  Cyclone warning. It probably won’t come to anything but batten down the hatches just in case.

  Holy cow, let’s hope it doesn’t come to anything. The island was only about three meters above sea level at its highest point. I looked up at the sky. The usual bright blue, and the trees dancing a little in the breeze.

  I walked down the side track that led to Basil’s house and found him battening down his hatches. He was hammering a piece of ply over a window. Two of the others were already covered up.

  “This looks serious,” I said as he climbed down from his ladder.

  “It’s impossible to tell if it will stay on track for this part of the coast, but if it does hit us it could do a lot of damage. Best to be on the safe side.”

  “How do you know about it? Does everyone else on the island know too?”

  “They will by now. I got a radio message this morning. Heron Island and Lady Elliot are being evacuated, just in case.”

  “Well they have tourists on them. I suppose they can’t take any risks.” Moth wings fluttered in my throat.

  “That’s about it. We haven’t got the same resources here. Jack’s not due over until next week and the other boats we could scrape together aren’t big enough to risk starting back to the mainland now. In any case, there are only a few people here so we should be able to ride it out. That’s why I’m fixing up my place; it’s the sturdiest house on the island. We can all squash in if necessary.”

  “I’m not sure how I could fix up my cabin. What do I do about those sliding glass doors? They take up the entire front.”

  “I’ll come over after I’ve finished here and nail some battens across them. That will help a bit. Otherwise if it looks grim, come over here.”

  “When will we know? If it’s going to hit us, I mean.”

  “Have you got a radio? Listen to that; it will keep you updated. We’ll get plenty of warning.”

  I soon learned that Cyclone Hamish had been developing since the fourth of March, and was tracking down the Great Barrier Reef from Cape York. Today was the eighth of March, and as Basil had said, Heron and Lady Elliot Islands, not far south of us, were being evacuated. I checked the campground. Thank goodness the busy season was over; most of the students had left the previous weekend, reluctantly returning to a new university year. There were two tents left: Kirsty’s and one other that belonged to two young scuba divers from New Zealand. The occupants were nowhere to be seen.

  I walked over to Diane and Ben’s cabin. Their windows were already covered, and the deck and surrounding grass were cleared of all the junk usually dumped on them. Kirsty was there too, sitting on the deck, and I found myself snapping at her. “You should be getting your tent down, not sitting around here.”

  “Keep your hair on, Anna,” Ben said. “I’m going over there to do that as soon as I’ve finished here. Kirsty can’t do it in her condition.”

  “Sorry, of course not. Sorry, Kirsty. I must be a bit uptight. I’ve been in Boston when we’ve had hurricanes, but it’s a bit scarier being stuck on a lump of coral in the middle of the ocean.”

  Kirsty hauled her bulk out of the chair and groaned. She looked enormous. I hadn’t realized how far on she was.

  “Are you all right? You should have left the island weeks ago by the look of you. When are you due?”

  “Not for another five weeks, so calm down. I’m leaving next week when Jack comes back.”

  “Where are you going to sleep tonight? You can’t stay in your tent.”

  “Obviously not. I’m staying here with Diane and Ben. What about you? Will you be okay alone over there?”

  “Of course. I don’t kn
ow. I’ll wait and see, I suppose. Basil seems to think we should all go to his house if it gets really nasty.”

  IT WAS GETTING NASTIER BY THE MINUTE. THAT morning I’d never heard of Hamish—shows how totally cut off I’d been from the world—and twelve hours later I was cowering on the top bunk, surrounded by my pitiful collection of things: computer, passport, books, first aid kit, Jeff’s radio, my anorak, my boots, a large plastic bottle of water, head torch, gas lamp, two candles and a lighter, some cheese and a block of dark peppermint chocolate. It was hot and humid with the doors and windows tight shut. In fact, it was the first time I’d ever shut the sliding doors across the front of the cabin.

  My migration to the top bunk was in case of flooding. Fifteen years earlier the island had suffered badly from a cyclone, and all the houses had flooded in the torrential rains, backed up by an exceptionally high tide and gale-force winds. It took years, apparently, for the vegetation and noddy tern numbers to recover. Not that it was going to happen this time, but better to be safe than sorry.

  Basil came by—blew by would be more accurate—before dark to check on me. Apparently the cyclone had veered away from its beeline for us, and all we would get was the edge of it. That meant torrential rain and gale-force winds. Basil had the two New Zealanders from my campground with him; they were bunking down in his house that night. I declined his repeat invitation to join them. Especially now that I knew Hamish—such a gentle name—was not going to annihilate us.

  But I was wavering. I wasn’t sure the cabin would hold up if it got much worse: it was rocking and rolling with every howl of the wind. Even thinking was becoming impossible over the thunder of the rain. Perhaps I should make a dash for Basil’s place. It was now or never. If I didn’t do it soon I’d drown on the way.

  Sliding off the bunk, I pulled on my anorak and boots. There was an almighty crash, and I waited a moment before turning on my headlamp and gingerly sliding the door open. I was almost blown over by the force of the wind as soon as I stepped out on the deck, and I grabbed one of the posts that held up the roof. Then I saw a light wavering its way towards me. It must be Basil to the rescue. I was ready to hug him. But it was Ben who loomed out of the gloom. He was shouting in my ear.

  “It’s Kirsty. She’s in labor. You need to come.”

  “Oh, my god.” Please no, please no. I could hear the mantra repeating in my head.

  “Have you got any medical stuff?” Ben yelled.

  “What sort of medical stuff?”

  “Medical supplies, forceps. I don’t know. You’re the doctor.”

  “Shit.” I forced my way back through the door and retrieved my first aid kit from the top bunk. A fat lot of use that would be.

  Within seconds of leaving the comparative shelter of the deck I was soaked through. I may as well not have bothered with my anorak; it was useless. Never had I seen such rain. It was as if a dam had burst in the sky. Leaves and branches were whipping past us and sand lashed my bare legs and face. I scurried after Ben as he made his way along the beach. I peered towards the sea, certain I would see massive waves pounding the shore, about to engulf us. But I could see nothing through the rain curtain. Finally we got to Ben’s cabin and fell through the door into the bright light.

  “Thank god,” said Diane. She looked crazy, her curly dark hair standing on end. I followed her into the adjoining room. Kirsty was squatting on the floor, gripping the side of the double bed. She was panting and clearly into a contraction. I could see her pale buttocks protruding below her pink-and-white-striped nightshirt. I shucked off my anorak and dropped down beside her, my heart contracting every bit as much as her enormous belly.

  “We’ve boiled water and got all the towels and sheets we could find. I tried to get her to lie on the mattress but she wouldn’t; she wanted to squat.” Diane’s voice was shaking.

  The bed had been pushed against the wall, leaving about two meters of floor space free. There was a sheet spread over the floor.

  Kirsty groaned.

  “How far apart are the contractions?” I asked, hoping someone would answer.

  “I’ve been timing them. They’re about four minutes apart,” Diane said.

  “How long has she been in labor? Why did you wait so long before you came for me?”

  “She didn’t realize it was real labor until her contractions started coming quickly.”

  Kirsty’s body relaxed and she collapsed back on her bottom and looked around at me. Diane squatted beside her and began to rub the small of her back.

  “It was around dinnertime—about six o’clock—when I had the first contraction,” Kirsty said, still breathing hard. “I thought it was one of those practice ones I’d read about. The baby’s not due for weeks yet.” She let out a shuddering sigh. “I didn’t want to worry Diane and Ben so I told them I was going next door to Violet’s to lie down. I was going to sleep over there because there’s no room here.”

  Diane rubbed her back harder. “Never mind. It’s all right now.”

  “I think I even got a bit of sleep but then the contractions woke me and they were a lot more painful. I was too scared to move, or go outside in that rain and wind. God knows how I got over here.”

  She grabbed my hand as another contraction took her over. “Shit, shit, shit,” she screamed.

  “Kirsty, I’m going to wash my hands and then I’ll need you to lie on your back on the bed for a minute so I can see how dilated you are,” I said as soon as the contraction was over. I snuck a look at my watch. It was close to midnight. She’d been in labor for six hours.

  In the main room next to the bedroom, Ben had every saucepan on the stove. On the table was a pile of towels. I grabbed one and wiped my face, arms, and legs, and scrubbed my soaking hair. “Can you get me a bowl with hot water in it so I can scrub my hands? It’s bottled water you’re boiling, I hope, not the noddy-shit variety.”

  Ben looked at me. “That’s meant to be a joke, I assume. Here you go. Do you want this carbolic soap? It stinks but I use it to get the fishy smells off my hands.”

  “Thanks. Do you have anything I can use for a lubricant? Vaseline? K-Y Jelly?”

  “Both.”

  “Gosh, you are well prepared.”

  “Not for this, unfortunately. The Vaseline stops our wet-suits rubbing and the K-Y Jelly—well, I’ll leave that to your imagination. Diane’s also got some baby oil she uses on her legs.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any sterile gloves hanging around as well?”

  “No, sorry. Tom has some at his place. Do you want me to hike over there and get them?”

  “What on earth does he have gloves for?”

  “He uses them when he’s examining the gut contents of the turtles; he has to push a tube down them. And he does post-mortems on dead ones and he uses the gloves then.”

  “Right. Well perhaps once we see how long Kirsty is going to take, if you can get over there safely in this bloody cyclone you could get the gloves. But wait a bit. We might need you here.” I was scrubbing my hands and arms furiously with the tar-smelling soap, using what looked like a clean nailbrush.

  Kirsty was lying on her side on the bed when I went back in, her face screwed up in agony as another contraction ripped through her. When it was over I helped her roll onto her back. She winced when her eyes were assaulted by the bright overhead light as it swung wildly above her with every fresh howl of the wind.

  “Can we light a gas lamp in here and turn the light off?” I asked Diane. She disappeared for a second and two minutes later Ben brought in the lighted lamp and vanished rapidly back out the door.

  When Kirsty’s legs were splayed wide, I aimed the beam of my headlamp between them, and with one hand pressing gently, low on her belly, I inserted a lubricated finger. The last time I had done this was as an intern, over twenty-five years ago, when I was on a three-week rotation in Obstetrics. Even then I’d observed only a handful of births and had been permitted to feel the cervix and feel how much it was d
ilated in only two of them. Dear god, I hoped I’d been paying attention. I felt a shiver of relief as my finger remembered what it was supposed to find. The cervix was about four centimeters dilated. It was all coming back to me. Ten centimeters and the baby’s head should be engaged.

  Before I could remove my finger Kirsty went into another contraction and I felt the powerful uterine muscle squeeze under my hand on her belly and travel down to my captured finger. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I had liked this part of doctoring. It was the dealing with the human emotions that I couldn’t handle.

  Diane and I helped Kirsty back onto the floor. I thought she might cope better in the doggy position. With pillows cushioning her knees and hands, she knelt there, her buttocks pointed towards me, and her enormous belly tight as a drum and almost touching the ground. Diane made up an ice pack from the bag of ice they had in their freezer and placed it on the back of her hot neck. It seemed to help.

  For endless hours Diane and I hyperventilated along with Kirsty as she panted and groaned and wailed through contraction after contraction, ever stronger and closer together. Every six or so contractions she changed position and squatted, holding on to the edge of the bed. In between contractions Diane massaged her shoulders and back and I massaged her perineum with baby oil. I had the scissors from my medical kit boiling in the kitchen, but no way did I want to have to do an episiotomy. I silently thanked the midwife who, all those years ago, had taught me how to soften and gently stretch the perineum so it would be less likely to tear when the baby’s head was delivered.

  Just after four in the morning Kirsty’s water broke, gushing over my legs and shorts as I sat behind her kneeling body, my own legs splayed on either side of her. I inserted three fingers into her vagina and felt the baby’s hard skull pressing against the fully dilated cervix. My heart was pounding in my chest.