Going Under

by Sonia Henry

  ‘Have you done this before?’ the patient asks me, looking suspicious. I swallow a laugh. How can I tell him the truth? That I’ve put in thousands of cannulas and the reason why my hand’s trembling is because the man in the room opposite is my former boss who nearly died the day after we kissed, Casablanca-style, under a streetlamp outside my house?

  ‘A few.’ The cannula goes in smoothly, almost to my distress. Now I’ll have no excuse to stay. I hover at the door, stalling. ‘Do you need anything else?’ I ask desperately.

  ‘Yes,’ the patient snaps, irritated. ‘I need to go to sleep.’

  I step into the corridor. I can just leave, I tell myself. That isn’t unreasonable. Maybe Dr Prince doesn’t want visitors, especially me. Plus, it is two o’clock in the morning. Perhaps I could just give him a wave, call out, ‘Hope you get better soon’, and make a quick exit.

  Then I notice that his door’s closed. Well, that makes things easier. I can just leave and he’ll never see me walking away.

  I’m still hovering outside the door, feeling foolish, when the nurse appears.

  ‘Thanks for doing that,’ she says.

  ‘No problem,’ I say, trying to conceal my interest in Dr Prince’s room. Nurses are the gatekeepers to patients, particularly patients who work as surgeons in the hospital. There’s no way she would allow me to see him.

  ‘Ah, I just better jot something in the patient’s chart,’ I lie, gesturing to the room I’ve exited.

  The nurse shrugs and continues up the corridor.

  When she’s gone, I step over to Dr Prince’s door and take a deep breath. I tap on the door lightly and give it a little push. It swings open and I poke my head into the room.

  Dr Prince is still standing up, preoccupied with his IV pole. When he sees me, he looks surprised, but not horrified. He doesn’t look angry, just a bit … startled.

  I don’t blame him. I’m feeling pretty startled myself.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I say quickly. ‘Ah, I saw you before and I just wanted to, ah, see if you need any medication charted before I go—like sleeping tablets or painkillers or … something.’

  I’m pleased with this sentence. Now he can politely decline, I can leave, and we can both go back to struggling through the rest of the night, and the rest of our separate lives.

  ‘Or, you know, champagne,’ I say, laughing. I immediately regret it. What’s wrong with me? What kind of a joke is that? The last time he and I drank champagne together he ended up here. God, I’m such an idiot.

  ‘No, I think I’m all right,’ he says.

  It’s strange to see him wearing a blue patient gown, like, well, a real patient.

  He is a real patient, I remind myself. Being a doctor doesn’t preclude you from being a patient. Moron.

  He doesn’t look so different from when I saw him last—just a bit tired.

  I’m about to make my excuses and leave when he says, ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  ‘Um …’ I don’t know what to say. ‘Ah, okay.’

  He shuffles around the small room and sits down on the bed.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit on your bed too?’ I ask timidly.

  He motions me over. I sit down next to him. I’ve fantasised about the two of us in bed together after dark, but this isn’t exactly the scenario I had in mind.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t say hi before. I felt kind of awkward and I didn’t want to … bother you.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I’d see you again.’

  I turn my head to face him. ‘I’ve been really worried about you,’ I say.

  He looks surprised, and touched.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask.

  He laughs. ‘How do you think? Kitty, I’m so fucking over this.’

  I see the expression in his eyes and I know what it means because I’ve seen it before, many times. I’ve seen it when jabbing people’s veins to put in cannulas or take bloods. I’ve seen it in the emergency department palpating someone’s abdomen. I’ve seen it in the anaesthetic bay before a person is sedated. I’ve seen it in Estelle that night in the ward in Wingabby when the baby died, and I’ve seen it in myself when I look in the mirror.

  It’s the bone-aching weariness that I’ve only ever seen inside a hospital, and in the eyes of two groups of people: patients and doctors. He’s flipped a coin and, impossibly, it’s landed on both sides.

  ‘I bet.’

  Our eyes meet.

  ‘You look tanned,’ he says. ‘Have you been away?’

  ‘It’s fake,’ I confess.

  He grins. I blush.

  ‘I might go away, though,’ I tell him. ‘I’m thinking France. Maybe next year, when I have some money.’

  ‘Have you been before?’

  I nod. ‘I love the south especially. The food, the people, the wine …’ For a moment I’m lost in memories.

  ‘I should have spent more time in Europe,’ Dr Prince says almost wistfully.

  Being stuck in a hospital bed allows plenty of time for brutal reflection. The impossible question reverberates around my head: what is it that we recall when we are dying? Would it be the last operation we couldn’t complete, the tumour we didn’t get to excise? Or would it be a beach we never walked along in the south of France, the wine we didn’t drink, the love we didn’t make?

  The people we didn’t make love with?

  Perspective: the most bitter pill of all to swallow.

  The thing between us—whatever you want to call it—hovers in the air. Our eyes, which are just eyes and have no special significance, meet, and I swear just for a second neurosurgical research means nothing and the door blows open and I stare directly into the man’s soul.

  ‘My wife really likes the south of France,’ he says suddenly, looking down at the bedsheet.

  I nod.

  He looks up and, oddly, the door stays open, the shutters up. He doesn’t have to say anything, but I get it. It’s why I like him so much, I realise. There are always rumours in hospitals; people having sex with other people, affairs, bad behaviour, sleaze, lust. But sitting there on his hospital bed, as we both silently acknowledge the painful truth that we have simply just missed each other in time, I realise that what draws me to Dr Jack Prince is his decency. And our wonderful connection, forged against all odds, remains intact inside a place neither of us will ever visit. He goes back to his wife, and I go back to my life.

  But we will meet in the rose garden, that metaphorical place where what never happened is as true as what did. And our story will forever be imprinted on the pages of the life of Kitty Holliday, the writer.

  The thought, as foolish as it may be, comforts me. I wonder if he realises the impact he has had on me, quite apart from our mutual attraction. Any senior consultant who shows an interest in the wellbeing of their struggling juniors and is kind to them can make an enormous difference. Perhaps if someone had cared about the Smiling Assassin, things would have turned out differently for her.

  My pager goes off. I ignore it and stay there, next to him on that bed. We talk about sickness, about my plans for the future, about the hospital and about the other doctors. He starts to look exhausted, so I move to get up. As I do, to my surprise he pulls me towards him. He holds me tightly, as if he never wants to let go, and I place my lips on his cheek and let them linger on the warmth of his skin. We lie there, gripping each other, for several minutes.

  ‘I’d hug you tighter, but I’m in pain,’ he says as we break apart, and we both laugh softly.

  I get up and leave the room, shutting the door behind me. I walk the long road back to the public hospital and into the doctors’ room. There I gaze out the window overlooking the houses below, where people are sleeping peacefully in their beds, only their dreams as distractions. I see the roof of my own house, two short blocks away. I see another me, dreaming through my sleep, and I let myself ask the unaskable question, the one that most doctors bury because they’ve already given or lost too much by the time th
ey’re desperate enough to ask it. Was it a mistake, choosing to be a doctor? In another life, could I have done something different, something better, something that made me better? I thought when I finally finished medical school that everything would fall into place. Let the healing commence, Dr Holliday.

  Is this what you really want? I ask myself. Is this the person you really want to be?

  I finally understand who is on the other side of the looking-glass. I’d always thought there must be some glorious other self or alternate universe. Now I understand that’s not it at all. There’s no one particularly special on the other side of the mirror. It’s just plain old human Kitty. Forget the prestige and the intellect and the grand future plans and the absolute power of the surgeon. Forget all of that. On the flipside of the mirror I am no one, but I am everyone. I love my mum and dad, and I cry in sad movies. I worry about losing weight and I feel the sting of unreciprocated love. On the public side, the side my patients see, the side I present to my colleagues, the esteemed Dr Katarina Holliday, I wonder now if it’s all just a bit of an act. On one side of the looking-glass there’s rather unextraordinary me, on the other side a consummate performer. Maybe it’s the same for all doctors. Maybe we are all just actors, pretending to be doctors, inside a theatre with a curtain that never falls.

  I stand there with my chin on my clenched fist and watch the darkness of the night for a long time.

  forty-nine

  For the next week I do nothing but go to work, then go home. I also start exercising and I even cut down on the wine. After everything that has happened, I need to clear my head.

  As I’m arriving home one evening, I run into Max, exiting the front yard with a toiletries bag in hand.

  He looks as miserable as I’ve been feeling. It’s strange to recall that the last time I saw him we were laughing our pants off in the cafeteria over #accidentalboobgate. Vascular surgery is a far cry from his summer respiratory term, and he’s stressed.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Work’s been fucking bad the last two weeks. Sorry I haven’t been around—I couldn’t handle the thought of cooking so I’m back at Mum’s.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure him. ‘I’ve had a lot of shit going on too. It sucks.’

  He opens his mouth as if to speak, then pauses.

  ‘What’s up?’ I prompt him.

  ‘Did you hear about … ?’ He stops.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s pretty terrible.’

  He has a funny look on his face.

  ‘Are you sure you’re—?’ I start.

  He interrupts me. ‘Apparently they’ve sent her to the psych ward. I heard that yesterday.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  We lapse into silence.

  Psychiatry is all about electricity. Little pathways in the mind that are burnt-out or need rewiring. Inside the psych unit is where we rewire them. More dopamine here, less dopamine there. A current through this part, but not that part. Fix those little electrical pathways, the ones that allow people to smile. Maybe they’ll smile again, maybe they won’t.

  The place where the Smiling Assassin lies now. Probably not smiling.

  What is it, I wonder, that causes us to tip over the edge? All it takes is one trauma, one bad trip, one too many stresses, an illness, a death, or—and this is what’s scariest—nothing at all to send someone tumbling into the void.

  I think about Fabien, skiing down that fantastic mountain. That’s the very opposite of the abyss—the wonderful peaks of the Swiss Alps, a paradise where things like shock therapy and shackles are far, far away. Fabien always told me that he doesn’t care where he is or what he does, so long as he is happy.

  What is happiness, anyway? It’s just some electricity and some dopamine, I think viciously. You can get that shit in a pill and an electrode. All it really takes is a prescription and a broken spirit.

  I hear my voice speaking, lifting me out of the rabbit hole I’ve found myself falling into.

  ‘Listen, Max, if there’s something you want to talk about …’

  He gives me a sharp look. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, anything. You seem a bit flat.’

  ‘So do you,’ he points out. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

  I’m so close to opening my mouth I can see the words floating into the air. Yes, I shout, yes! I heard the Smiling Assassin giving the Joker a blow job in the theatre change rooms even though she didn’t want to, and now she’s tried to kill herself and I feel like if I’d told someone I could have stopped her. I’m a pathetic coward and I don’t know how to fix it.

  ‘Not really,’ I say, hating myself. ‘You know, just work getting me down.’

  He nods. ‘Me too.’

  We sigh simultaneously.

  ‘Don’t forget I’m going on annual leave next week,’ he reminds me, looking happier for an instant.

  ‘That’s right—Europe!’

  He grins. ‘I can’t wait. I’m gone for a month.’

  ‘Make sure you get regular STI checks!’

  ‘Maybe you can take me to the airport,’ Max says, his grin broadening as he walks towards the gate.

  ‘If you’re lucky!’

  He waves as he disappears up North Avenue. I wish I was going to Europe with him. I want to be sitting in a little bar with Max in Greece, drinking cocktails and talking about the hospital as if it was just a vague, distant memory.

  Reality, I think to myself as I unlock the door, is seriously overrated.

  fifty

  One week later I’m called into the operating theatre to assist with the last case of the list, a head trauma. I’d been hoping to leave work at a respectable hour to go and meet Max before his flight, but the Joker is trying to ruin my day again. He knows that calling someone in late means they’ll be stuck in theatre well into the evening. ‘Just ask for overtime,’ he says, knowing very well that I can’t.

  The good news is that Dr Prince has been discharged and is deemed fit to operate again after one month. I haven’t seen him since our 2 am rendezvous on his bed at the private hospital, but I think that’s a good way to end things. It’s important to know when it’s time to leave the party.

  ‘You’re late,’ is the first thing the Joker says to me as I walk to the sink to start scrubbing in.

  ‘You called me pretty late.’ I refuse to look at him.

  He makes me sick. I turn on the tap with my elbow, ignoring the fact he is standing next to me.

  ‘You’re not going to get very far in surgery with that kind of attitude,’ he says, starting the tedious process of washing his hands.

  ‘I don’t think I want to get very far in surgery anymore, thanks.’

  I must have finally reached the end of my tether to be so overtly rude. I’d normally be too intimidated. I know I should tread carefully, but I’m feeling reckless. A lot has happened over the course of the year, and it’s hardened me.

  He looks at me, but I continue to avoid eye contact. Picking up the nailbrush, I focus all my attention on getting the grime out from under my thumbnail.

  ‘You’d never make it anyway,’ he says. ‘You don’t have the right temperament.’

  I don’t have the right temperament?

  I turn off the tap with such force it makes a clanging sound; I actually think I might have broken it. I don’t care. I turn to face him, red swarming everywhere. I reach over and turn off his tap too so there’s no noise and it’s just the two of us.

  ‘Hey! What the fuck are you doing? You’re going to need to rescrub!’ He leans forward to turn the tap back on.

  I reach out and block his arm with my hand. ‘Listen to me,’ I say quietly, and I’m so angry I can feel my pulse rate shooting up. ‘I know what you did. I know you were making her give you blow jobs after hours, you disgusting pig.’

  All I can see is the red; it’s everywhere. In front of my eyes, in my ears, roaring through my body.

  �
��I heard you, you idiot,’ I hiss. ‘I heard everything. I know why she took all that valium. It’s because of you. She was too scared to tell you to fuck off, and because you were abusing her all that time she’s now lying in the fucking psych ward. You evil man. You fucking horrible man.’

  He moves his mouth slightly, sort of like a smile. ‘Prove it,’ he says calmly.

  ‘I’ll get her to back me up,’ I say. ‘She’s got nothing to lose now. You’ll pay for this. I’ll be a credible witness and you’re going to get deregistered—or at the very least sacked!’

  He moves his mouth again, and I see he really is smiling. I feel a bit uneasy. He’s clearly totally unhinged.

  ‘You’re very self-righteous for someone who isn’t exactly a saint,’ he says.

  I look at him.

  ‘There’s a certain favourite consultant of yours who just got out of hospital and who wouldn’t be too pleased to know that his little intern has been telling everyone that they’re having an affair.’

  I feel bile rise up in my throat. I turn back to the sink and take a breath.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I whisper, feeling my face getting hot.

  He laughs. ‘I’m sure the hospital executive would be very interested to hear that one of its most senior members of staff has been carrying on with his intern. Who knows how long you’ve been at it for? Did you think he’d help you get onto the training program?’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who has friends in the admin office,’ he says. ‘Maybe they’re better friends with me than they are with you. You’re an intern. I’m a surgeon. Who do you think they’re going to believe?’

  Nicole. My stomach twists. I was right about her all along. She caught me in a weak moment and I, as per usual, wasn’t able to keep my big mouth shut. She was probably so jealous to hear that I’d been hanging out with Wolfgang that she decided to screw me over.

  ‘So I’d think twice before I go and make any big statements,’ the Joker says casually, as he turns the tap back on to finish scrubbing in. ‘It’s not only your career that you’d be ruining, but his too—and so soon after he nearly died. But, you know, we can’t have this sort of thing going on, so I’d be doing the right thing for any other innocent interns he might want to take advantage of. Really, when you think about it, I have no choice but to tell the executive everything.’ He tilts his head. ‘I always wondered why he liked you so much and gave you so much support,’ he muses. ‘I mean, it made no sense to be that nice to someone who’s so hopeless at surgery.’