Doctor Perry

by Kirsten McKenzie

  Spitting into a handkerchief, tiny droplets of blood appeared on the stark white fabric. This was it, she’d left it too long and now she would die. Her eyes welled up, and the congestion worsened in her sinuses until she couldn’t catch her breath. The years of clean living were no defence to the pneumonia attacking her lungs. Coughing and wheezing, she struggled to get enough oxygen, and clawing at her throat Sarah collapsed to the floor.

  Sarah’s fellow patients jumped out of their chairs, and Molly all but leapt over the reception counter after pressing the emergency call button. She didn’t have the skills to do anything other than push the patients out of the way, making room for Doctor Perry.

  Summoned by the panic button, Doctor Perry appeared in the waiting room, striding to Sarah’s side. His calm demeanour doing more to help Sarah’s panic subside than anything else. Doctor Perry smoothed her hair back and loosened the shirt from around her neck. The cool air soothed her ragged throat, and the doctor counted her breaths in and out, in and out, until she found her breathing back to normal.

  “That’s it, concentrate on taking slow breaths, slow them right down, that’s right, breathe with me, in and out. In and out. Don’t worry about anything else, breathe in and out. I’m the doctor here, you can trust me.” Doctor Perry cooed to Sarah like a mother settling a newborn.

  Sarah’s breathing evened out but even the other patients could hear the rattling coming from her chest.

  “Molly, help me get, ah-”

  “Sarah Miller,” Molly said.

  “Yes, help me get Miss Miller into the consulting room, then you must reschedule these appointments, with my apologies.”

  Molly rescued Sarah’s form from the form, before helping the doctor move Sarah into the consulting room and onto the hospital bed in the corner to the room.

  “Here’s her enrolment form. She hasn’t filled in the next of kin details. Should I ring for an ambulance?”

  “No thank you. I’ll sort it from here. I’ll need those appointments rescheduled now.”

  Annoyance fled across Molly’s before she walked out of the surgery, slamming the door harder than normal behind her.

  “Are you feeling better Miss Miller?” Doctor Perry asked, wheeling his chair over to the bed, he read over Sarah’s enrolment form. The form was a wealth of information, most of which a normal doctor didn’t need, but these questions were a necessary part of Doctor Perry’s business. The next of kin question in particular.

  Sarah stared at the doctor, her eyes wide.

  “Miss Miller, you realise that you are ill, yes?”

  Sarah nodded, a tiny movement given the pain in her throat.

  “You haven’t filled out the next of kin questions, and I need to ring your next of kin because I you’re looking at a lengthy hospital stay. Do you understand what I am saying?” Doctor Perry kept the searching eagerness out of his voice. He tried not to get excited. She probably just forgot to fill in that section. The most important section of the whole form.

  “There’s no one,” Sarah whispered, the words barbs in her throat, and her heart.

  Doctor Perry smiled a sad smile, “There’s always someone. An aunt or a girlfriend?”

  “There’s no one any more. No one to call.”

  The doctor sniffed as he made his own shorthand notes in the margin, running his eyes down the page until he came to the section on medical insurance. Again, empty.

  “And your medical insurance provider? You haven’t filled that in either.”

  Sarah shook her head and closed her eyes at the futility of her life.

  “Ah, that makes it more difficult doesn’t it. Never mind, we will sort something out, even if we have to send you back home and manage your recovery with house calls. That’s a more affordable option given the circumstances. But first I’ll have a proper listen to that chest.”

  Sarah closed her eyes as Doctor Perry pressed his stethoscope to her chest, rolled her to her side and listened to her back and palpated her stomach. He checked her eyes, her ears, her throat, her glands, and the whole time she wanted to scream at the man that the infection in her lungs was a symptom of her broken heart and nothing would fix it.

  32

  Doctor Perry drove Sarah Miller home. It turned out she’d taken a taxi to the surgery that afternoon, so as a gesture of goodwill, and with more than a small measure of curiosity, the good doctor drove his newest patient home.

  Home wasn’t a romantic bohemian garret room, instead an old apartment block suffering from neglect and a transient population. Doctor Perry shrugged off a flash of concern about the safety of his car. There were no obvious undesirables hanging around, but he locked the saloon as he helped Sarah into the building.

  “The elevator works,” Sarah said, the corners of her mouth turning up as she pointed to the elevator doors. Someone had graffitied the doors and although the offending words had been scrubbed off; like the damage to Sarah’s lungs, the shadowy swear words remained.

  The numbers above the doors counted down from seven. Seven, six, five, four, three, two, and without hitting one, the doors opened. An oily stench fell out of the elevator. Doctor Perry had expected worse, much worse.

  “Which floor, Miss Miller?”

  “Six,” Sarah rasped.

  Doctor Perry pulled his sleeve over his finger before pressing the button for the sixth floor. You never knew what germs abounded on elevator buttons.

  The elevator doors opened reluctantly as if sand oiled their runners. Doctor Perry escorted Sarah along the corridor, the linoleum squeaking under their shoes — the doctor’s leather brogues and Sarah’s vegan leather sandals ordered direct from the Netherlands, until they came to door 613, which differentiated itself from the other apartments with a large PETA sticker on the cream-coloured door.

  Sarah’s hands shook so badly that Doctor Perry eased the keyring from her fingers and slid the key in himself. Sarah faltered at the threshold so Doctor Perry half carried, half dragged her to the couch dominating the room. A mountain of pillows covered with sequins threatened to engulf her and the doctor flung them to the floor, keeping the least decorative one to place under Sarah’s head.

  Doctor Perry watched Sarah shrink into the couch, her eyes closing. Her coughing had subsided although the rasping from her chest was audible in the quiet apartment.

  Satisfied Sarah Miller was comfortable, he checked out the room. Exotic trinkets adorned every shelf — a Cuban baseball, a Tibetan ceremonial bell, a jewelled box from the Middle East, an assortment of polished wooden statues; dust collectors all.

  Tiny snores emanated from the couch, allowing Doctor Perry the freedom to explore. Apart from the trinkets and the art on the walls, the apartment was impersonal and devoid of photographs. Doctor Perry ran his fingers along the spines of the books in the bookcase - travel guides, autobiographies, dog-eared Agatha Christie paperbacks, and a full set of the Harry Potter books. Ah, on the bottom shelf. Sarah’s photo albums.

  Doctor Perry lifted the albums from the shelf, and settled himself at the small dining table noting that there were only two chairs, not big on entertaining then. Home visits were so important in his line of work. Vitally important…

  The first album held a series of familiar shots — children’s birthday parties, outings to the beach and awkwardly posed adults with beer bottles or wine glasses. Cookie-cutter images from a middle-class family. The photos thinned out as he flicked through the pages and the children got older, the parties smaller. One girl emerged as a younger version of the woman sleeping. The older people from the earlier photos disappeared, and then the father figure vanished from the photos altogether. A dozen teenaged photos of Sarah and her friends filled the back of the second album, complete with graduation photos. Moving to the last album, he thought three albums seemed sparse given Sarah’s age, but there could be valid reasons there were so few albums — a family break up, a fire, theft.

  The third album told a contrasting tale, with the woman in these pho
tos different from the one on the couch. The album version of Sarah glowed with joy standing beside a striking taller man in every photo. Skiing, sailing, hiking; they lived for the outdoors. There was even a photograph of them holding a gleaming tennis trophy. That was the first half of the album, the second half told an inconsistent story. There were still the outdoor shots, but most of the photographs were of the man on his own, posed on the beach, on a camel, and not beside Sarah.

  If the photos of Sarah showed a woman in love, the photos at the end told a different story from her boyfriend’s point of view. The light in his eyes dimmer, his smile smaller. In the last shot, he held out a hand out towards the camera, pushing the camera away. Half a dozen scenic shots followed and then nothing. Empty slots.

  Doctor Perry replaced the albums and continued his inspection of Sarah’s apartment. A tidy kitchenette, its cupboards well stocked, and in the sink one glass, one mug, one plate and one knife. The dishwasher held the same - clean, but needed emptying. The refrigerator a cornucopia of veganism — leafy vegetables filled the chiller bin. Containers of nuts and seeds lined the shelves, and the milk was of the almond variety. Doctor Perry sniffed the container, recoiling at the sour scent.

  Pushing the door open to the only bedroom, he stepped into a room decked out like a Bedouin tent. Incense and perfumed oils filled the room and Doctor Perry gagged at the competing scents. How anyone could sleep in that miasma was beyond him. He tugged the curtains open revealing a bed, a dressing table, and an Ikea wardrobe rack. Underneath the window sat Sarah’s art desk, her equipment arrayed at the top of the desk. Rainbow-coloured paints filled every shelf of the unit which served as a room divider, breaking up the workspace from the bedroom.

  Leaning over the workbench Doctor Perry’s breath caught. In front of him lay a fine sketch of the tall man from the photo album but a sketch of happier times. Drawn with an easy smile, his eyes laughing out from the canvas, the likeness uncanny. The sketch was the only masculine thing in the house and well satisfied, Doctor Perry moved on. He’d found no sign of men’s toiletries, or shoes, or shirts, or any sign that Sarah Miller had any relationship or family in her life. The temptation to dose her with his tonic overwhelmed him and he returned to the lounge to watch the sleeping woman.

  He cracked his fingers as he considered his options. First, he had a full house at home, second, he had other patients close to receiving their final treatment — and clients lined up to receive those patients. And although he had a list of clients waiting for the fresh stock only he could provide, he didn’t have many on his waiting list as he’d reduced his workload to prepare for leaving town.

  Doctor Perry prided himself on making quick decisions based on the evidence. He had a head for numbers and incredible recall, but he dithered over this decision. If he was being honest with himself the sticking point for this decision was Myra. There was something happening under the surface, something he couldn’t see. He’d been in this business long enough to heed his own sixth sense, which was why he moved often, and traded in wives. He had no real affection for Myra, she was a tool — something kept in the garage on the workbench, useful when required, but redundant at other times. Doctor Perry again considered adding her to his growing stock reserves; she was healthy, he’d made sure of that. Damn, there were too many variables at this stage in the game.

  He decided. Sarah Miller would be a valuable addition to his stock list. She was a good looking woman, but in no fit state to go anywhere. He needed her healthy, so he’d schedule the required house visits and dose her slowly, his preferred method. He’d shuffle the transfers around for some patients on his list, bring a couple forward, but that wouldn’t be an issue. Doctor Perry always delivered. He was a doctor and everyone trusts their doctor.

  33

  “She’s disruptive, not a good fit. God knows why I accepted her application,” Tracey huffed into her cellphone, with her back to the wall, watching the door. This was not a phone call she wanted someone to listen to. The answer on the other end not what she expected.

  “She’s upsetting the other residents. No, I can’t have a word with her, I want her gone. I want you to come now and deal with her. No one will miss her if she goes today. The longer she’s here, the more trouble she’ll be and I’ll have a riot on my hands. When that happens… that’s when the county officials get involved… How? You know how it works, they hear things. Not all the staff here are trustworthy. No one is, you taught me that. Now tell me you’ll be here soon to remove the problem?” Tracey swivelled back to the computer, tapping with her free hand pulling up the file for the newest resident at the Rose Haven Retirement Resort - Sulia Patel. She parroted the information into the phone, her voice curt and to the point until she was interrupted.

  “What do you mean you won’t take her because she’s Indian? What on earth does that matter?… So it’s because she’s female then? Because she’s Indian and female? That makes no sense… how the hell do I know why she’s blind, I don’t have her full medical records here, she’s blind… surely you can still use her? Ask, because I’m telling you now, if you don’t sort this out, I won’t play this game any more. It’s too risky. If you can’t find someone to take her, then you can, you know… sort her out the other way. Her eyes won’t be any good to anyone else, but the rest of her might, so fix it for me.”

  After ending the call, Tracey Chappell slumped to her desk, massaging her temples with manicured fingers — the dark red polish looking like rivulets of blood seeping out of her skull as her fingers moved through her bleached blonde hair.

  “Miss Chappell?”

  The voice sent Tracey’s fingers hurtling to slam the laptop shut, she hadn’t heard her door open. She spun round, heart in her mouth, to face whoever was there, relaxing a fraction when she saw Tala in the doorway.

  “Sorry, is now a good time to go over the medical schedule?”

  Every week, Tracey and Tala, the head nurse, discussed the scheduled doctors visits, hospital appointments and medication requirements for the week ahead. How Tracey had forgotten was a worry, but what was even more of a concern was whether Tala had overheard her conversation.

  “What’s on the list?” Tracey blustered.

  Ever efficient, Tala spread out her notes and without referring to them she reeled off the residents who had regular check ups scheduled, followed by the people who needed appointments with specialists or had new health concerns and needed a care plan. She charged patients for appointments but preferred keeping medical appointments to a bare minimum and in-house. Far more time efficient, and it kept nosy outsiders out of the Rose Haven. Having a facility full of healthy people was more cost effective than caring for sick people, and Tracey couldn’t stand wasting money on the old and infirm. She couldn’t abide the elderly. If aged care wasn’t so lucrative, she’d be happy never having to smell colostomy bags and soggy vegetables again.

  “Why do they have to see a psychiatrist?” Tracey asked, pointing to a separate list of three people, her eyes as wide as the Botox would allow.

  “They’re veterans, and it’s a new recommendation from the Health Department. I’ve checked, and they all expressed an interest in talking through-”

  “What utter rubbish. We’re not facilitating that. Henry Marchant can’t even walk to the dining room unaided. He’s coped this long without talking about whatever imaginary problems he has. Make them sit together at dinner and they can talk among themselves.” Tracey drew a line through the appointments with her pen. The cost of the gas to take them to see a shrink was unacceptable, and she smiled as she calculated the saving she’d made. The van looked good outside the Rose Haven. Made it that much more appealing to potential healthy residents. The last thing she wanted was the van being absent for unnecessary reasons.

  “And what’s this one?” Tracey said, stabbing at Sulia’s name.

  “She has a regular appointment with her eye specialist, once a month according to her admissions paperwork. It’s part of an on
going insurance payout, so there’s no cost to the Rose Haven…”

  For the second time that day, Tracey regretted letting the partially sighted woman move in. She refused to facilitate things to suit the woman; she wouldn’t be there long. From the file, regular appointments with the optometrist or ophthalmologist or whatever the bloody eye doctor called himself wouldn’t save the woman’s sight, so it was prudent to drop any unnecessary appointments, which would just become a drain on her staffing resources, a cost she’d have to account for. She kept those thoughts to herself though as Tala was likely to protest, not much, but Tracey didn’t want to draw any more attention to her dissatisfaction with the woman being a resident at the Rose Haven Retirement Resort.

  “And Elijah Cone, you’ve got him down to see Doctor Perry?”

  “Benson made two separate notes detailing Mister Cone’s arthritis, but after what happened with Polish Rob, his appointment needs rescheduling.”

  Tracey massaged her head again. The death of the Polish man was unfortunate and messy but easy to tidy away. Their vetting should never have allowed an alcoholic into the Rose Haven. At least his untimely death had freed up another room, so with a slight price change, her profit margins would increase. The Pole had a paupers funeral, care of the local coroner, so she had incurred no costs there, a small mercy.

  Cone’s worsening arthritis needed to be addressed. He was another one she should have turned away. She wasn’t interested in sports, so when he’d first applied to the Rose Haven, his high profile reputation was unknown to her. The staff had been quick to educate her though. Hard to dispose of a celebrity.

  “Is he incapable of caring for himself, do you think?” the pitch of her voice rising like a child wheedling an answer out of a parent.

  If Tala caught the question in Tracey’s voice, she didn’t answer, retreating to that peculiar medical void where health practitioners retreated to when they didn’t want to impart uncomfortable information.