by Sonia Henry
‘Let’s open it,’ Dr Prince—Jack—suggests.
I wonder if this is such a good idea. I’ve been doing so well. I might be drunk, but I’m in control of most of my faculties. I haven’t taken off any clothes or said anything sexually inappropriate (that I remember), nor have I vomited. I’m doing a fine job. The aquavit might change that, however.
Of course, everyone else thinks it’s a top idea and suddenly Winnie is producing plastic shot glasses we bought for our house party a few months ago.
We spend the next hour shooting strong Scandinavian schnapps and yelling ‘Skol!’ at regular intervals.
‘You know there’s something about this house,’ Jack is saying to Winnie.
She looks across at me and raises her eyebrows.
I swear I feel number 19 smirk, if houses can even do that.
‘Really, Jack,’ she says, her English accent, a hangover from her time in the UK, more pronounced than ever after a few wines, ‘whatever could you mean?’
‘These old terraces behind the hospital,’ he says, catching my eye, ‘they were all owned originally by the church.’
Now this possibly explains a few things.
‘So, this place would have definitely at some point housed a few of the sisters, back in the early days of the old hospital.’
‘Well, Kitty here is such a good Catholic girl,’ Wolfgang chimes in, grinning at me.
It all makes sense. After decades of enforced purity, number 19 is as repressed as I am! I’m as controlled by the hospital as the house was by the convent!
‘Let’s skol to this naughty little house,’ Wolfgang says, raising his glass. Everyone obliges with enthusiasm. SKOL!
I’ve stood next to these men in the operating theatre. I’ve watched them remain almost scarily calm under the most extraordinary amount of pressure. Men like this are so rare, I think. And they’re not thanked enough for the incredible, indescribable things that they do every single day. And here they are, throwing back schnapps with two young women who’ve assembled a table from Fantastic Furniture. I’ve experienced a lot of surreal moments in my life, but as I down another aquavit I think that this really might take the cake.
‘I have to head home,’ Jack says, putting down his glass. ‘I’m on call for the emergency list tomorrow afternoon, then it’ll be straight on the plane for the conference. Don’t forget we’re all going sailing next week!’
After a bottle of wine, he invited us all out on his yacht when he, Wolfgang and Tomas get back from their conference in Fiji.
I offer to walk him out, trying not to trip over my high heels.
We talk about sailing as we walk through the front garden and out to the street.
‘So, what do you even wear sailing?’ I keep asking, drunkenly fixating on the fact I own no suitable clothes.
As we stand beside his car, the hospital looms over us. I hardly notice. For once, the hospital is the furthest thing from my mind.
‘Should you really be driving home?’ I ask him. ‘I mean, we’ve had quite a bit to drink.’
‘I’ll take the back streets,’ he assures me, which for some reason I think is a completely reasonable solution.
‘Okay,’ I say.
We stand there under the streetlight, looking at each other.
‘Thanks for tonight,’ he says. ‘It was really something.’
‘Oh, thanks for coming,’ I reply brightly. I’m not quite sure what’s happening between us. I convinced myself halfway through the dinner that my fantasies about me and Dr Jack Prince are ridiculous. He’s too important, too old, too married, too wealthy, and way too out of my league. I’m lucky just to be kind of friends with him. That’s enough, I tell myself. It is definitely enough.
The silence lingers and neither of us moves to break it.
Then all of a sudden, friends isn’t enough.
I reach forward and rest my hand on his cheek, just for a moment. Just to check that he’s there, that I’m there, that we’re real.
‘Katarina …’ he says.
I wait, hardly breathing.
‘I feel such a strong attraction for you. It has made it very difficult at work. This effect you have on me when we’re near each other, on the rounds, in theatre … I felt like I didn’t know how to behave at times, I couldn’t understand where these feelings were coming from, I didn’t want to be …’ He pauses. ‘I can’t help it,’ he tells me simply. ‘I lose myself around you.’
I lose myself around you.
Usually, we’re protected from each other. There are invisible boundaries everywhere: in the operating theatre, on the wards, in the hierarchy of the medical profession. As doctors, we always tell our patients to resist their urges. Stub out that cigarette, don’t eat the slice of mudcake, cork the bottle of wine. Resist temptation.
Until now.
I can’t remember who leans in first, perhaps because we both lean in at the same time.
When his lips meet mine something deep inside me comes to life, something that’s been carefully suppressed for a long time. I push my tongue inside his mouth and he wraps his arms around my waist, his hands running over my body: surgeon’s hands. Our lips together are perfect. I vanish completely into the kiss. He tastes like wine and ash and all things good and bad, and I never want it to end. It’s the kind of kiss that dreams are made of.
When we break apart the magic is still hovering in the air between us. I want to lie next to him, and to see what he feels like after we make love. I want him to touch me gently, with all of the power he exudes in the operating theatre and a tiny bit of the pain. I want him to play with my hair against a pillow and I want to show him how much pleasure we can make together.
Much like a futile last-ditch intervention for someone who is about to die, it’s all too much, and not enough. It never has been, and it never will be.
I stand there under the streetlight, the shadow of that damn hospital above us, and I let him step away from me. Don’t go, I want to scream. I am filled with a wild, irrational desire to shove my hand inside my chest and pull out my heart, with the blood running down my fingers. Don’t leave me, don’t leave this, don’t let this moment become just a memory! The crack in the universe is closing, and I am helpless to stop it. The words of T.S. Eliot return to me.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage we did not take
‘Safe drive home,’ I offer lamely.
So quiet. So controlled. The door is closed and we are back in the operating theatre once more.
Towards the door we never opened,
Into the rose-garden.
He drives away, one of the world’s top surgeons, after a few bottles of booze, some strong aquavit, and the world’s most potent kiss.
As I walk back into the house, nearly tripping over my front step, I can’t fight the funny feeling that the nuns, even though they’re shaking their heads, have deep down, just a little bit, enjoyed the show.
forty-two
The next evening, I’m lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, feeling the inevitable sense of anticlimax that always follows after something incredibly exciting has happened. Where to from here? Jack and I texted a bit this morning, but it was all pretty G-rated. The fact he’s texting me at all is unusual, though, so maybe …
Maybe what, Dr Holliday? I ask myself sternly. An affair? Destruction of both our personal lives? Which would no doubt lead to the worst outcome of all: nothing. The loss of our friendship, if you could even call it that, and then never seeing each other again.
I sigh. Self-control only ever seems like a good idea sober and in hindsight. It’s hard to live in the moment and wisely at the same time.
I have just resolved to put the whole thing from my mind when I hear my phone ringing. I pick it up from the bedside table and look at the caller ID. Wolfgang. I’m surprised he’s calling. They should all be in Fiji by now, about to start their conference in paradise.
‘Tjena!’ I say into the phone
.
‘How have you recovered from the feast?’ he asks me.
I laugh. ‘Almost,’ I say. ‘That aquavit is—’
‘Kitty,’ Wolfgang interrupts, ‘I have to tell you something.’
He sounds serious, and I wonder what’s coming next. A lecture maybe, about my appalling behaviour. How much does he know about what happened between me and Dr Prince? I didn’t tell him, did I? With a sinking feeling, I realise I might well have, in my drunken state.
‘It’s about Jack,’ he continues.
Uh-oh. I knew it …
‘What about him?’ I say.
‘He had some chest pain this afternoon, just after we landed. It got very bad.’
Suddenly my bedroom becomes very small, the air very thin.
‘It’s okay,’ he says quickly, clearly sensing my distress. ‘He had a heart attack, but he is still alive. He’s in intensive care at Holy Innocents. They flew him there because it’s the closest cardiothoracic trauma centre.’
The seconds tick away. The sound of nothing bounces around my head.
‘He had a heart attack?’ I repeat stupidly. Oh my God, I’m thinking. I’ve given the guy a heart attack.
Waves of nausea start to roll over me. Dr Prince came for dinner, kissed me, and then had a fucking heart attack? That wasn’t meant to happen! That is not how the story is supposed to end!
‘Is he all right?’ I ask finally.
‘He is okay. He had surgery—a CABG. He is being transferred to the ward in a few days.’
Coronary artery bypass graft: open-heart surgery. ‘I see,’ I say. I feel my lips moving but I can’t really hear the words I speak. My head starts to pound. I put my finger on my temple, trying to calm myself.
‘Listen, I don’t know who is meant to know,’ Wolfgang says, sounding worried. ‘I was just saying to Tomas that we had to tell you, but maybe don’t message him yet or tell anybody.’
‘Okay.’
He’s right. The last thing a surgeon wants is for people to know that they’re sick. People would already be talking, but it’s good to minimise damages. Surgery’s cut-throat enough; you don’t want it getting around that you’re physically incapacitated and can’t operate. Plus, his wife will be by the bedside, which makes me feel very awkward. God.
We finish the call, and I walk over to my window and gaze out at the lights of the hospital.
I see Dr Prince standing beside me under the fluorescent lights of operating theatre six.
I see him standing beneath a streetlight, leaning towards me …
Then I see him lying in a hospital bed, completely, unexpectedly, human, all the power and control he normally wields handed to somebody else.
Dr Jack Prince has become the most unacceptable thing of all to any doctor—he’s become a patient.
forty-three
Twenty minutes later I’m sinking low-carb beers with Estelle at the pub on the corner. Usually it’s fun to watch the poor suckers who have to work that night walking past us, giving us evil looks as they drag themselves towards the hospital, although I don’t know how much pleasure I’ll derive from anything tonight.
It’s good to finally catch up with Estelle, though. What with me working crazy hours in emergency and her now being on her surgical term, we’ve hardly seen each other in the past few weeks, just when we need each other most.
‘How are you feeling about everything?’ I ask.
Estelle looks at me, and laughs. ‘Which part of my disastrous life are you referring to specifically?’
I shrug. ‘You know, the inquest. Or anything. Our shared reliance on alcohol?’
I don’t want to sound too serious, but I am worried about Estelle. I’ve been texting her daily to see how she’s coping and I know she’s struggling.
‘Well, the inquest is in two months,’ she says, staring into her wineglass. ‘I spoke to the lawyer, and he said I’ll just have to wait it out. He seems to think I probably won’t lose my registration, but it’ll be stressful. I’ll have to appear in court to answer the coroner’s questions.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say.
Estelle smiles sadly. ‘Thanks, mate. But I don’t think I want anyone there. I don’t even really want to talk about it, to be honest. It’s not like I’m trying to be brave, it’s just with the hours on surgery and this hanging over my head, if I don’t compartmentalise the fuck out of everything I think I’ll go under, know what I mean?’
Doctors, I am realising, have to be extremely good at compartmentalisation. I’m not that great at it. My brain is like a big airy house with no doors between the rooms. Other doctors, I think, picturing the Smiling Assassin, seem to have brains with millions of little locked panic rooms, and staircases and dungeons and attics. Although, recent events considered, it’s probably time for me to get good at compartmentalisation quick smart.
‘Yeah, I understand that,’ I say.
‘Anyway, tell me what the fuck is going on with you. What happened with the dinner party?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Dr Prince had a heart attack today and is in intensive care. He nearly died twenty-four hours after kissing me.’
Estelle is so startled she starts to laugh uncontrollably. ‘I know it’s not funny,’ she keeps repeating, gasping for air. ‘Don’t think I’m laughing at him being sick, I’m not, I’m not. But, Kitty, you actually have the kiss of death!’ She is still in hysterics.
‘Yes, thanks for that.’ I can’t help grinning a bit. It’s so good to see Estelle laughing. ‘But I mean—a heart attack? I just can’t believe it. I mean, can you fucking believe it?’
Estelle, still giggling, assures me that no, she can’t fucking believe it.
‘You’ve given your boss a heart attack,’ she says, abruptly turning serious. ‘I’ve killed a patient, and you’ve nearly killed your boss.’ She reaches for the bottle of wine. ‘It’s not really how I saw our first year as doctors panning out,’ she continues. ‘I mean, I always knew it was going to be bad, but I can honestly say that I didn’t predict this.’ She fills her glass, then drains it. ‘Do you have any benzos at your place?’ she asks me, looking desperate.
I’m tempted—Max is on night shift and we all know where his secret stash is—but we do have to go to work the next day. ‘All out, mate,’ I say, feeling bad for both of us, Estelle especially.
She’s putting up a good front, aided by the fact she’s so beautiful it’s hard to see that underneath there’s something wrong. But we’ve been through a lot together, and if anyone can sense that things are awry, I can. I make a vow to myself that no matter how hectic our schedules, we will do a weekly in-person check-in. I will not just text, I decide. Her wellbeing is too important. I will force her to come over or meet her for a coffee or go to her place.
‘Another bottle of the same, thanks,’ I say to the waitress as she comes by.
‘I’ll get you some water too,’ she says, giving us a look.
‘Don’t need water.’ Estelle looks affronted as she enunciates her words carefully in an effort to appear sober.
‘You do realise you’ve got a problem with alcohol,’ a voice says behind me.
I turn around to see the Godfather, still in his scrubs, clearly having just finished work. I feel drunkenly relieved. I can deal with the Godfather.
‘You’re going to pour me one, right?’ he says, instantly sitting down and stretching out his legs. ‘I’ve earned it.’
‘There’s another bottle coming,’ I say, catching the eye of the waitress, who’s staring at the Godfather.
‘I think the waitress wants to have sex with you, mate,’ Estelle whispers, trying to be subtle but failing. It works, in any case, as she heads off to replenish our dwindling supply.
‘Give her my number,’ the Godfather says. ‘She’s cute.’
The Godfather’s had the shift from hell, he tells us. ‘Everyone tonight is just really high on ice,’ he says. ‘Man, we had to shackle at least three people to the bed. It was p
retty fucked up.’
Ice is scary, even for the Godfather, who has been exposed to so many recreational drugs that he’s like a walking illegal pharmacy.
‘Speaking of,’ he adds casually, ‘do you guys want some charlie?’
Estelle’s face brightens. ‘Ye—’
‘No!’ I say firmly. ‘Come on, guys! It’s Sunday.’
Estelle gives me a filthy look. ‘I’m Dr Katarina Holliday and I’m such a good doctor,’ she mutters in a high-pitched imitation of my voice.
‘Right, sorry, sorry,’ the Godfather says, looking sheepish. ‘Yeah, so, anyway, just as I was leaving, right—’ he takes a huge sip of my wine ‘—apparently some registrar came in.’
‘As a patient?’ Estelle says.
‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘She’d taken like fifty valium and half a bottle of gin. Apparently she wanted to, you know …’ He pauses. ‘You know, she wanted to kill herself.’
We all look at each other.
‘Who was it?’ Estelle asks finally.
The Godfather shakes his head. ‘Don’t know. She was brought in just as I was leaving, and when the boss realised what was going on he immediately cleared everyone away. I only know she works at Holy Innocents because one of the nurses started crying. I think she’s one of the cardiology registrars, someone was saying.’
I feel an odd twinge of relief. Not one of the surgeons then.
The waitress arrives with the extra glass and bottle, smiling at the Godfather.
‘Thanks, darling,’ he says, flashing her a grin.
‘Finish the story?’ Estelle urges, shooting him a disgusted glance.
‘Well, that’s pretty much it.’ He gives the waitress’s backside a considered stare as she walks away. ‘Or she might have been someone who used to work here or something, but people definitely looked like they knew her.’
Dr George, the man who cared for Winnie’s mother, taps on the glass behind my mind’s eye. I try to block him out, but I can’t help feeling vaguely unsettled.
Admin sends us weekly emails telling us how great everything is in the hospital and how resilient we all are. We spend our days at work, our nights dreaming about work, sharing our beds with imaginary corpses, and our years trying to force ourselves through training programs to finally get somewhere. It’s like trying to run up an escalator that’s going down. You just keep on going until eventually you can’t run anymore and have to step off. Or you jump off.