Christmas at Jimmie's Children's Unit Read online

  ‘He’s been on a ventricular assist device,’ the perfusionist explained when Clare had been shown to the theatre and introduced to the man she’d only known as a voice on the phone. ‘But as no heart has become available—rare blood group so it’s going to be hard to find one—we’re going to take out the old device and put in a more modern version of it, one we think will make him more comfortable.’

  Having worked with teams putting these devices that helped the heart beat into adult patients in Chicago, Clare was only too happy to assist, but things went horribly wrong when the old pump was disconnected and it was discovered that the man’s blood vessels were so damaged attaching a new device would be difficult.

  ‘Heart surgeons can do anything!’ the lead surgeon announced with more bravado in his voice than he must have been feeling.

  Clare watched the monitors on the heart-lung machine, in sole charge now as the other perfusionist worked with the surgeons to find viable blood vessels in the man’s chest.

  ‘Maybe an external pump,’ one of the surgeons suggested, but the lead man shook his head.

  ‘The whole idea of doing the op was to give the man better quality of life. Is tying him to a hospital bed for however long it takes to find a heart a better quality of life? No, we’ll do this. We might have to put in stents from good tissue in the blood vessels, and connect the stents to the LVAD.’

  Clare checked the clotting factor of the man’s blood, and the oxygenation, checked all the pumps were working, worrying about air bubbles now the man’s chest had been open for so long. Then, eight hours after they’d begun, the job was done. She’d been spelled from time to time, forcing herself to eat and drinking coffee by the gallon, but now that the man was in the hands of the regular perfusionist and the anaesthetist, the weariness of the long hours in Theatre all but overwhelmed her.

  ‘We’ve plenty of duty rooms you can crash in,’ one of the nurses, perhaps sensing her exhaustion, offered.

  ‘I think I might do that,’ Clare told her. ‘I don’t think I could face the trains at this time of night.’

  The nurse summoned an aide who led Clare along strange corridors, eventually opening the door of a typical on-duty room.

  ‘There are toiletries in a sealed package in the cupboard—not much choice, male or female—and some theatre pyjamas if you want something to sleep in. Help yourself to tea or coffee or anything you might find in the refrigerator, but check the use-by date on any sandwiches. Who knows when the fridge was last stocked up.’

  Food was the last thing on Clare’s mind. She collapsed into bed, only to be called at four. They were taking the patient back to Theatre and, as the first perfusionist had been with him all night, could Clare assist?

  ‘I’ve let Jimmie’s know you’re still here,’ the head theatre sister told her when she joined the team in the theatre once again. ‘Thank heavens you opted to stay the night.’

  The team worked swiftly, knowing the man’s life was already at risk. This second operation in twenty-four hours put strain on his entire body, not just his failing heart.

  The surgeons spoke quietly, suggesting options, discussing and dismissing them while they removed the device they’d inserted the previous day.

  ‘Maybe an external pump is the only answer,’ one said.

  ‘We still have to connect it to his heart, and to do that we have to connect it to blood vessels, and that’s our problem—finding a couple that can take the pressure.’

  But eventually they did it, although Clare stayed around until midafternoon, afraid if a blood vessel began to leak they’d have to open the man’s chest again.

  ‘All good!’ the lead surgeon finally declared. He turned to Clare. ‘You can go back to your babies now,’ he said, ‘but thanks for the hand and thank Alex for lending you to us. I know how tight your team is, so lending someone out is a strain on everyone.’

  Clare was feeling too weary to do more than nod acceptance of the man’s kind words. She changed into her civvies, pleased she’d washed out her undies and they’d dried while she slept, and caught the train back to the city, dozing as they crossed the bridge, changing trains, then finally arriving at the station just across the road from the rear of Jimmie’s grounds.

  It was only as she stared at the place that was fast becoming so familiar to her that she remembered it was Tuesday—rehearsal day for the pantomime.

  Feeling certain that Oliver intended dropping out and not sure if anyone else from the cardiac team would turn up, she muttered the age-old words—the show must go on—and made her way to the canteen in the second tower.

  Fate was apparently still in its capricious mood for the first person she saw was Oliver. In fact, she probably saw a lot of people before him but he was certainly the first to stand out in the crowd.

  Tables had been pushed back and an area representing a stage marked out on the floor. Dr Droopy was clutching a bundle of paper, and Clare realised with some surprise that they had moved as far as scripts.

  Oliver had seen her come in and now he made his way, unobtrusively he hoped, towards her. He didn’t know why, given how angry he’d been to find she’d disappeared on him again. Not having seen her all day at the hospital, he’d knocked on her door last evening. No reply.

  His immediate reaction had been fury. Damn the woman! He understood why she’d avoided him the previous week, but once she’d decided to tell him things, surely she shouldn’t have been hiding herself away again? His anger had burned through the night, so he’d felt foolish—even ashamed of himself—when Alex had explained Clare was on loan to another hospital.

  He didn’t doubt that the tension he’d been feeling since he’d seen her scarred breasts had fired the anger, which, in retrospect, was more against whoever had hurt Clare than against Clare herself.

  So with all this turmoil messing his head, he finally came to stand beside her in the small throng of people Dr Droopy was already calling to order.

  ‘I’ve decided against the separate performances but still want people from all of the wards to do guest appearances there. Even if it’s just a wander through the wards in costume a couple of times, it will make all the children feel included. The main performance now will be much bigger and grander and I’ve some preliminary scripts here for you to take.’

  There was general muttering among the cast, but Oliver’s attention was on Clare, who looked pale and tired.

  ‘Rough op?’ he asked, resolutely refraining from putting his arm around her and giving her a hug.

  She offered him a weak smile.

  ‘Two of them, both rough, and there’s no telling if the poor patient is out of the woods yet.’

  ‘We can only do so much,’ Oliver was telling her when Dr Droopy stopped in front of them.

  ‘You’re the cardiac lot, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘That’s us,’ Oliver responded, wondering what had happened to the other four Becky had mentioned.

  ‘Good,’ Dr Droopy told them, then he consulted his list. ‘Clare Jackson, right?’ he said to Clare, who nodded.

  ‘I want you for Snow White.’

  ‘Snow White isn’t in Cinderella,’ Clare objected.

  ‘It’s panto,’ Dr Droopy reminded her. ‘I thought as we were only doing the one performance—though probably two or three times—I’d put a lot of other nursery characters into it. With the ball scene we can have whoever we want there.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Clare told him. ‘The little kids these days seem to know the name of every princess ever written. My daughter certainly did.’

  ‘How old is she?’ Dr Droopy demanded.

  ‘Snow White?’ Clare was frowning at him now.

  ‘No, your daughter! I’m after mice. Could she be a mouse?’

  Clare hesitated but Oliver stepped in.

  ‘I’m sure she’d love it,’ he said, then he turned to Clare. ‘She’ll be on holidays soon, so will be able to come to rehearsals.’

  Clare gave him a look that s
uggested there’d be further discussion on the subject later, but she didn’t object. In fact, she offered Emily’s name to the pantomime director.

  ‘And you,’ Dr Droopy continued, turning to Oliver, ‘will be the fairy godmother. I thought I might get someone really ugly to begin with but we can do wonders with make-up.’

  Oliver began to protest but as Clare was laughing and it seemed so long since he’d heard that delightful sound, he shut up.

  The other clowns passed scripts around, and a rough read-through began, but Oliver’s attention was more on Clare than the familiar words being read out in different voices—on Clare and the hurt she had suffered, presumably at the hands of her ex-husband.

  He knew enough to understand the physical scars were probably the least of her worries, that the emotional scars would be the ones that took longer to heal—might never, in some cases, heal.

  But what could he do?

  How far into her space would she let him intrude?

  ‘You look exhausted. I’ll get a cab to take us home?’ he said as the rehearsal broke up.

  ‘A cab home? It’s just down the road, Oliver. I’m not made of glass!’

  True enough but Clare did feel fragile. That was the natural outcome of a combination of little sleep and the emotional outpourings of Sunday evening. But the feelings of acute embarrassment she was now conscious of in Oliver’s company were worse than any tiredness.

  Shouldn’t she have simply told him she’d never marry again? Couldn’t she at least have kept him at arms length? But to show him the scars, to reveal herself that way, not so much physically—although, oh, boy, did she ever do that—but emotionally as well? Had she been crazy?

  They left the building together, Clare careful to walk far enough away from him they didn’t accidentally brush against each other.

  ‘Come and eat with me,’ Oliver suggested as they went up the stairs to their flats. ‘I’d actually intended asking you yesterday and bought some chicken pieces. I do a mean Moroccan chicken.’

  Clare tried to smile. The idea of Oliver cooking—not just a grilled steak and chips but from a recipe—was enough to make anyone who’d known him smile. But she’d lost her smiles somewhere and the best she could manage was a shake of her head.

  ‘You will come,’ he told her. ‘You will sit down, have a glass of wine, leaf through a newspaper or watch something mindless on the television while I cook, then eat and go home. No talk, no pressure, Clare—I promise you.’

  She heard the sincerity in his voice and, when she looked up, saw it mirrored in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t deserve you should even speak to me,’ she whispered, and the softness in his eyes vanished as anger blazed in its place.

  ‘You will never say that again!’ he said, icy words slicing through the sultry summer air. ‘You are deserving of so much more than me, deserving of the best of everything. You are beautiful and kind and good. You’re an excellent technician with a top-class reputation. You are a woman our daughter will always be proud to call her mother, and one she can aspire to be like.’

  Clare stared at him, then felt her throat thicken, but she refused to cry again. Swallowing the lump that threatened to choke her, she said a simple, ‘Thank you,’ then sank down into Oliver’s armchair and stared into space.

  Oliver’s words replayed themselves in her head and she knew they were a gift she could never repay. Knew also that they might spell the beginning of an ending for the past. Oh, she’d got beyond her marriage break-up, forged a career and made a life for herself and her daughter, but deep inside she knew she’d never grown emotionally, never healed the scars that weren’t visible.

  Could she heal with Oliver’s help?

  Not when he’d promised not to pressure her.

  When he’d promised not to touch her…

  Tired as she was, she stood and walked towards where he was chopping things in the kitchen.

  ‘Can you put it all away and order pizza later?’ she asked him.

  He looked up, so obviously puzzled that now she had to smile.

  ‘Why?’

  She came around the bench to stand beside him, and reached up to kiss him on the lips.

  ‘I want you to take me to bed.’

  He put down the knife but otherwise didn’t react, silence stretching tautly between them.

  ‘You’re exhausted. You haven’t thought this through,’ he told her, brushing his fingers against her cheek. ‘Sex is the last thing you need.’

  ‘Yes to the first, but no to the second and third. I’ve done nothing but think about it ever since we met again. I’ve thought about whether I could go through with it, whether I’d let you down, whether you’d be so repulsed you wouldn’t want me.’ She hesitated, then continued, ‘Please, Oliver, I really want to do this, but if you find my…my scars…off-putting, then just say no and I’ll never pester you again.’

  Oliver couldn’t speak, so he wrapped his arms around her and held her close, smelling hair shampoo and garlic from the recipe, his mind churning at a million miles an hour.

  What was she really asking?

  Why now?

  She was tired and vulnerable; could she handle it?

  His body thought it was a great idea, but then his body was so obsessed with her it had thought cooking dinner for her was a reason to tighten.

  His brain was still throwing up questions when she pushed away from him, far enough to look into his eyes.

  ‘I’m not asking you to do this as a kind of medicine—you know, a cure of some kind. I’m asking because if we’re to even contemplate a future together we have to know if I can do it. Do you understand that?’

  That’s when he saw the fear and knew the effort it was costing her to make this suggestion, to give herself to him.

  ‘I understand you are offering me a gift beyond price,’ he said, his voice rasping out of a thickened throat. ‘You are offering me total trust, my darling woman, and that is so special I feel unworthy.’

  He lifted her into his arms as easily as he might lift Emily, the gift she’d given him instilling power as well. In his bedroom he set her down gently on the bed, then knelt beside her, leaning down to kiss her lips, her eyelids, her brow and temples, then her lips again. His hand moved to her shirt, unbuttoning it, his fingers running across her chest, her belly—gently, softly, barely brushing her skin.

  Still kissing her, he undid the snap on her jeans and slid the zip down, his hand delving further now, fingers tangling in the curls, seeking the moist lips beneath them.

  They moved on the bed, adjusting to each other, he shedding his trousers and shirt, while Clare tugged off her jeans and top. He didn’t touch her breasts, although later he would—later he would have to, to show her without words how beautiful she still was.

  For now it was enough to feed their arousal with lips and fingers, exploring and remembering, Clare’s hips lifting in encouragement as his fingers slid inside her. She stilled, and held him tightly, and he felt her muscles spasm once, again, and then relax. A sound that was little more than a whimper whispered from her lips, then she guided him into the slick depths and they moved together, remembered rhythms raising the excitement until Oliver could bear no more and spent himself inside her, her sigh of quiet delight suggesting she’d also enjoyed release.

  They broke apart and she curled into him, but he knew they weren’t finished. Holding her against his body, he undid the clasp on her bra. At first she stiffened, then, although he could feel reluctance in her muscles, she allowed him to remove it.

  Now he knelt above her again, straddling her but keeping his weight off her body. He turned on the bedside light and dimmed it to its lowest setting. With his eyes on hers, he bent his head, and kissed first one breast, then the other.

  She lay motionless beneath him but he could feel her…if not fear, then trepidation. With infinite tenderness he let his lips follow the lines of the scars; he kissed

  the tiny puckers, and lapped around her pea
king nipples, forcing himself to relax, reminding himself that this was now and this was for Clare and she didn’t need more anger in her life.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, taking one nipple gently into his mouth, teasing at it with his tongue.

  She stiffened, then relaxed, beginning to move, to use her hands against his skin, exciting him again, as if to tell him she was now enjoying his attentions.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked as her fingers coaxed excitement from his body.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured, and this time as he plunged inside her the cry of release was loud and heartfelt, her muscles clasping and releasing, draining him completely.

  Chapter Ten

  THEY lay together, still joined, and haltingly the words came out.

  ‘He was so good, so supportive, the whole time Em was in hospital, then he told me he’d bought a farm of his own. We’d have our own place—Em could grow up in the country as I had.’

  She paused and Oliver rubbed his hands across her back, massaging the muscles he could feel tensing beneath her skin.

  ‘I don’t need to know,’ he said.

  ‘I need to tell,’ she whispered.

  ‘He said, let’s sell your car and buy a newer dualcab ute, safer for the baby than my old ute or your old car. Mum had bought a baby capsule and we used it in my car to take her home. It was close to Christmas and he’d decorated the house with tinsel. I cried to think he’d done that just for me. Later—maybe just a day or two, I can’t remember now—he took my car to town to buy the new ute. Ordered it, he said, but coming up to Christmas it might take a while.’

  She paused and snuggled closer, and Oliver found his arms tightening around her.

  ‘The house on the farm was old, but I didn’t care. I planned to do it up, bit by bit. He liked it tidy, liked things neat, so I was happy to have things to do. It was isolated, you see, but with Em to care for and the house, it didn’t seem to matter.’