Doctors in Flight Page 9

  ‘But monitoring your health will be up to you, Mel. You’re trained and capable of doing it, but you’ll need a lot of emotional strength as well so you can judge your body with as much detachment as you would a patient’s.’

  Melanie nods, then straightens in her chair.

  ‘I won’t take any risks, Gregor. But I’d like regular check-ups with you as back-up. Do you still go to Merriwee? That’s not much further for me to travel to than Amberton. Is it OK for me to see you there as well?’

  ‘Good idea. We’ll be there in a fortnight.’ He reads through the notes I’ve made. ‘You’ll be seventeen weeks, then twenty-one when we come back to Amberton. I think by then you and your husband should have decided where you’re going to have those babies because the less travelling you do after that the better. In fact, we might change our schedule to come to Amberton a week earlier, because from twenty weeks you should be near a hospital with specialist care.’

  ‘What about cervical suturing? Isn’t that used to help prevent onset of premature labour in multiple births?’ Mel suggests.

  ‘Or for women with a history of premature delivery,’ GR reminds her. ‘Yes, it’s possible you’ll need that, but I wouldn’t be happy doing it then sending you back to the property. I’d rather, if that has to happen, you’re within easy reach of a hospital.’

  Melanie sighs.

  ‘Why didn’t I think of all this stuff before I fell in love?’ she says, but there’s enough fondness in her smile for me to feel a twinge of envy. Here’s a woman who came to Bilbarra, just as I have, and found true love and happiness.

  ‘Don’t worry about her,’ I hear GR say. ‘She gets lost in her head.’

  Indignant that he’s using Gran’s phrase already, I snort and say, ‘I was thinking that very few people would consider the possibility of having quads before they fall in love.’

  ‘Which, for the survival of the human species, is probably just as well,’ he says, but he smiles as he says it, and I’m not only lost in my head but in my heart as well.

  Thoughts of the mother I never knew send a cold shiver down my spine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THIS new development keeps me quiet for the entire trip home. Because of the drama with Melanie, we’re late leaving Amberton and, apart from explaining why we’re late to Dave and Michael, GR’s also silent.

  No doubt worrying how to monitor Melanie’s health long distance.

  ‘Michael, will you drop Hillary back at the hospital?’ he asks as we all disembark.

  His use of my first name shocks me somewhat and, though I’m pleased, I’m also suspicious. Did Melanie’s remonstrance cause the change? Does she have so much influence over him?

  This is not good thinking! I can’t possibly be jealous of a woman who’s not only happily married but is pregnant with quads by another man.

  I’m mulling over these things as we drive towards town when Michael breaks the silence I now expect from him when we’re travelling.

  ‘He’s going to be late for dinner and Lydia will give him hell.’

  ‘Lydia Dustbin,’ I say automatically, though my antennae are on full alert for more information.

  ‘Lydia Dustbin?’ Michael repeats, clearly at a loss.

  ‘Old knock-knock joke. Didn’t you drive your family nuts with knock-knock jokes? Knock knock, who’s there, Lydia, Lydia who, Lydia Dustbin.’

  Michael doesn’t seem much wiser when I finish explaining, and I can sense his relief when we arrive at the hospital.

  ‘I wouldn’t mention the knock-knock joke to her,’ he says. ‘Lydia takes herself very seriously.’

  ‘Oh!’

  I wait for more information, like why I’m likely to be mentioning anything to her. Is the GR-Lydia relationship so close I’ll see a lot of her? But waiting for more information from Michael is like waiting at the bus stop for a moon rocket.

  I have to ask.

  ‘Who is she? The boss’s girlfriend? Lover?’

  OK, that last is going beyond what’s valid employer-employee questioning, but I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘She’s the local mayor—not that they have mayors out here. They have shire councils, and she’s the chairman.’

  Michael stops and turns, obviously expecting me to get out of the car. No way! I’m not Gran’s granddaughter for nothing.

  ‘And?’ I prompt.

  ‘That’s all,’ Michael says, squirming uncomfortably.

  ‘So the boss is having dinner with her to report on the state of the footpath outside the hospital? Or discuss the quality of the water? Come on, Michael, tell me more!’

  ‘I don’t like gossiping,’ he says, and I look at him in frank disbelief.

  ‘You are a doctor?’ I ask, maybe overdoing the incredulous act a wee bit. ‘You did train and work in a hospital? And you don’t like gossiping? Michael, you can’t survive in a hospital system without gossip. You’d never learn anything if you didn’t indulge, just a little, in the talk of who’s doing what to whom. Besides, I wouldn’t call what we’re discussing gossip—it’s more information-sharing. You know the boss doesn’t like working with women registrars so give me a break here—help me out. Fill me in on who’s who in his life so I don’t make any gross faux pas.’

  Michael looks how I feel when I’m sitting in the waiting room at the dentist—kind of pained, and apprehensive, with a big dose of panic thrown in.

  ‘I really don’t know anything. I’ve only been here a couple of months myself. All I know is Gregor goes to Lydia’s for dinner every Tuesday night.’

  ‘Maybe she’s a friend of his mother’s,’ I say, because although I know GR’s social life is nothing to do with me—or ever likely to be my business—I can’t help feeling overwhelmingly jealous of this woman, in a way I didn’t for an instant feel over Pete’s Claudia.

  It must be because of the revelation I had earlier. Jealousy must be a byproduct of infatuation.

  I’m so busy working out what’s happening to me I miss Michael’s reply, but I did hear the snort of laughter that prefaced it.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I wish my mother had friends that gorgeous. You’ll meet Lydia eventually as she’s often around the hospital, but for your information she’s a tall, elegant, thirtyish brunette with legs that look stunning in a mini. She’s probably the most glamorous shire councillor in the entire country.’

  I’m sorry I asked. I should have known. My legs don’t look bad in a mini—but stunning?

  I growl at Michael and clamber out of his car, then realise the lights aren’t on in the old quarters. Has Gran gone home?

  I go from wondering when she’s leaving to feeling sorry for myself that she’s gone in a heartbeat, but once inside I find a note, which details what she’s organised for my dinner—a microwave oven has appeared in the kitchen area—and where she’s gone.

  ‘To catch up with an old friend,’ the note explains, and I realise that, in between climbing in and out of windows to see Grandad, she would almost certainly have made friends in town. And Gran being the kind of person she is, she’d have kept in touch with them.

  I’m starving so I pull the bowl of pasta she’s prepared out of the fridge and bung it in the microwave, wash my hands while it’s zapping then carry it to the little table. No, I don’t find the tablecloth she’s borrowed from the hospital—I’m a slob and I’m quite happy to eat off bare wood.

  I’m also grumpy and tell myself it’s with Gran for going off and leaving me alone on only her second night in town, but in fact it’s the information Michael shared so reluctantly that’s niggling at me. Lydia Dustbin’s long, sexy legs.

  Actually, he didn’t say sexy, I remind myself, but that doesn’t help.

  I have a shower, then go through my clothes so I’m prepared for another early start in the morning. I find my jeans, freshly laundered by Gran who has a washing fetish, and, providing I avoid any excessive indulgences tonight, I should still be able to fit into them to
morrow.

  Tomorrow? Has GR told me where we go tomorrow?

  I can’t recall any details and though I’ve got a schedule, he usually fills me in on the next day’s programme on the flight back to Bilbarra. Of course, worrying about Melanie could have distracted him.

  And no doubt he was thinking of his dinner date with you know who. I check the schedule—two towns I’ve never heard of—then go to bed, edgy and irritable, though I sleep soundly enough not to hear Gran return whenever she comes in.

  She’s up, of course, when I haul myself out of bed next morning and make my way, grumpier than ever, towards the bathroom.

  Once I’ve had a quick shower, I’m a slightly nicer person, so I ask her how her evening went.

  ‘Oh, fine,’ she says. ‘I’ve made toast. Do you want some?’

  I glance out the louvres, but there’s no vehicle pulling up.

  ‘I guess so,’ I tell her, wondering if Michael’s been given permanent chauffeur duties. It’s surely not possible for GR to be late.

  Michael arrives as I finish the toast.

  ‘Gregor asked me to collect you,’ he says, as I hurry out to the car.

  ‘Yesterday?’

  Michael looks puzzled.

  ‘I didn’t collect you yesterday.’

  I grit my teeth at the literal interpretation, but it’s not worth explaining that what I really wanted to know was when this decision was made. Not that it matters. There was no reason why the boss should be driving me around when he has an underling in Michael who could do it.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to stop at the roadhouse,’ Michael explains as we roar past it. ‘Wednesday’s always a long day, so the boss hates late starts.’

  ‘And what if I hadn’t had breakfast?’ I demand.

  Michael grins.

  ‘Tough buns!’ he says, using a phrase I’d used at him that first day. ‘In that case you’d know how I feel most mornings. Starving, yet afraid to eat.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’d feel better if you did eat something?’

  ‘I’ve tried that. It was so disastrous I won’t be doing it again. I’m OK if I eat when we get to the first hospital. The food has time to settle before the next flight.’

  My stomach squirms as Michael continues to describe his intestinal problems, and I’m sorry I had the toast. But we’re at the airport now, and Dave’s flying us again. At least I think it’s Dave but just say ‘Hi’ in case I’m wrong. GR’s waiting by the plane and, thanks to not stopping on the way, we’re right on time.

  ‘Morning!’ I say, and smile brightly at him.

  He frowns as if trying to remember who I am, then nods absently, still frowning.

  There’s a little bit of my heart that doesn’t like the frown. It’s fretting over it so, of course, I can’t ignore it.

  ‘Something weighty on your mind?’

  He looks startled, then turns to Dave—or maybe Bob—and nods to say we’re ready to go.

  ‘I’ll need you to assist today.’

  This statement is delivered over his shoulder many minutes later when we’re in the air, heading towards Caribunya.

  ‘It’s a hysterectomy, and I’m not certain yet but I think I might have to remove Mrs Jackman’s ovaries as well. The left almost certainly, I’m not so sure about the right.’

  So maybe he did have something weighty on his mind!

  I ask all the right questions, about the patient’s age—thirty-seven—and GR’s diagnosis—endometrial polyps and lesions from an earlier operation.

  Lesions, which are like internal scar tissue, can occur after any surgery, and in the abdomen can cause problems to other organs, in worst-case scenarios strangling the lower intestine.

  ‘That seems unfair, that something to relieve symptoms earlier should cause more problems now,’ I say, but garner no response from GR.

  So we arrive at Caribunya and although this is only my third official day on the job, already the routine seems normal. The drive from airport to town, the first glimpse of the hospital, meeting different nursing staff, occasionally the local hospital superintendent or a local GP.

  I meet Mrs Jackman before Michael does the pre-med, then GR and I both see patients while Michael is checking on allergies and deciding on the best anaesthesia for this particular patient.

  Then we’re off to Theatre and I realise operating with GR is a whole new experience.

  He’s good—very good, in fact—swift, precise, efficient movements that I’d love to emulate. One day, I tell myself. One day, I’ll be the best O and G specialist in Queensland—maybe the world! Women will fly in—

  ‘Just shift that clamp.’

  I bring my mind back to the job, but operating with someone means standing very close to them and, try as I may to blot out the physical manifestations of being close to him, they are too strong to ignore altogether.

  He points out the lesions, which have certainly distorted the beautiful symmetry of Mrs Jackman’s internal organs, and, under orders, I snip and seal and probe and tie, until he’s satisfied he’s eradicated the problem.

  ‘Great job,’ Michael says as GR steps back to allow me to close. ‘You said two hours and you were spot on.’

  I glance up in time to see GR nod in satisfaction, but when he turns to me there’s a frown creasing the only bit of skin I can see—his forehead.

  Once the wound is dressed, Michael and the theatre runner wheel the patient out, the theatre sister gathers up the instruments and bustles off, while I follow GR to the small room where we strip off our Theatre garb, hurling the soiled clothes into the bin. You get used to shared changing rooms early in your training so we’re as unselfconscious about being in the same room in our underwear as kids in kindergarten.

  Until our arms collide mid-throw—well, he’s throwing and I’m pulling on my T-shirt. It’s a very small room for two people to be using—and we both stop. I stop because the unexpected physical contact affects me in the way this man’s been affecting me since the first handshake. I don’t know why he stops until he turns, grips my shoulders, tugs me close and kisses me.

  Hard, hot, angry almost, but, oh, if his hands had zapping power, it’s nothing to what his lips can do. I’m floating somewhere in the air, my body so sensitised I can feel air molecules brushing against my skin.

  I also feel I’m teetering on the edge of an avalanche. One false move and I’ll be swept into oblivion.

  Self-preservation makes me pull away and frown at him, then remember that the best form of defence is attack.

  ‘No wonder you don’t like working with women registrars if you can’t keep your lips to yourself.’

  ‘Damn it, Blue!’ he grumbles, frowning right back at me. ‘It’s got nothing to do with why I prefer not to have women registrars. It’s you. Being anywhere in your vicinity is like having a live wire flipping around in the air. Right from when I first shook hands with you, something sizzled along my nerves. What’s with you?’

  ‘What’s with me? It’s you that’s doing it,’ I tell him, sure my lips must be swollen to twice their usual size, so electric was the kiss. ‘I don’t zap people every time I touch them.’

  ‘No?’ he growls. ‘Well, you’re zapping me and I want it to stop. It’s ridiculous. We don’t know each other—hell, we probably wouldn’t like each other if we did—so this has got to be some strange pheromone reaction, nothing more than a glitch we have to learn to live with.’

  ‘By kissing in the changing room?’ I retort, upset because he used the word I’ve been using in my mind—calling whatever is happening a glitch as if that somehow minimises it. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘I don’t know. It must have been because you touched me. You made me do it.’

  This is a grown man, standing there in his underwear, bleating that it’s my fault?

  ‘I made you do it?’

  OK, so I’m bleating, too, but this isn’t your everyday post-operative situation. This is something so bizarre I don
’t have either the mental or physical strength to cope with it.

  ‘Well, I’ve never done it before,’ he complains, backing away and pulling on his trousers. ‘I’ve never even wanted to do it before, or considered I might ever even think about doing it before, or—’

  ‘I get the picture,’ I tell him, interrupting before the list gets any longer. ‘This was a one-off for you, too.’

  He’s got his shirt on now, and is slipping buttons into buttonholes. I don’t tell him he’s got them wrong. In fact, I enjoy this evidence of his confusion. If I wasn’t wearing a T-shirt I’d be buttoning wrong for sure.

  ‘I’m almost engaged,’ he adds, as if that’s the clincher in the argument. A vivid picture of a dustbin on long, sexy legs pops obligingly into my head, and I bite back a growl of my own.

  But he’s right—it’s an obscure chemical glitch, that’s all, and at least now we’ve talked about it we can get on with ignoring it. As long as he doesn’t kiss me again.

  And I don’t give in to any rampant desire to kiss him!

  Disappointment ripples through me, and I weaken. Maybe just once, I decide, to see if it was as sensational as I thought it was.

  I sneak a quick glance at his face. He’s discovered the buttonhole problem and is concentrating on getting them right, so I check his lips to make sure there are no electrodes in evidence.

  Then I remember my mother and the Argentinian and remind myself that surrendering to hormonal surges is not a good idea.

  But looking at those lips…

  Michael joins us at this stage and, suddenly embarrassed at my state of half-dress—and where my thoughts have taken me—I hurry into my jeans.

  To all outward appearances, GR is handling this much better than I am, though I suppose I look OK on the outside, too. Inside, I’m a mess—fluttery things happening within me when I look at him, shivery things occurring when he speaks, total mental disintegration when he looks at me!

  We move on to Wetherby, up in the air, short flight, touchdown. Michael is as silent as ever, GR discusses changes to next week’s schedule with Dave, and I look at him in profile—GR that is, not Dave—and wonder about the perversity of chemical attraction.