In At the Deep End Page 25

  38

  ‘Harry?’

  Kat must be calling from a satellite phone. Her ship left for New Zealand two days ago.

  I speak through a yawn. ‘It’s four in the morning. You okay?’

  ‘It’s Per. He’s been airlifted off the Hudson. Bacterial pneumonia. The hospital he’s at is called …’

  While she’s searching for the name I jump out of bed and drag on a pair of tracksuit pants. ‘What?’

  ‘Royal North Shore. Can you see that he’s okay? He’s got a thing about hospitals.’

  I buzz at the locked door of the hospital’s emergency ward. A few minutes later, a nurse appears.

  ‘I’m Harriet Scott. Can I see Per Amundsen? The front desk said he’d be here.’

  ‘Immediate family members only,’ she says, smoothing her short brown hair. ‘You’ll be able to visit once we’ve admitted him to the respiratory ward. Visiting hours start at 11 am.’

  ‘His family are in Norway. Katrina Fisher spoke to someone here, then she called me and asked me to come straight away.’

  ‘This isn’t something to do with one of your television shows, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that.’

  Her gaze runs over my football shirt, tracksuit pants and thongs. She must decide I’m telling the truth because she gestures that I follow her.

  ‘We can’t keep Commander Amundsen in his bed. He wants to discharge himself. I suppose it can’t hurt for you to see him.’

  Per is sitting on the edge of a chair at the nurses’ station, slumped over a desk. One long arm is stretched out on the surface and there’s a cannula in the back of his hand. His head is resting on his bicep. He’s filling in a form.

  I take a few deep breaths before I speak. ‘Per?’

  He stills, then he turns his face towards me. His skin is flushed and his eyes are heavy. His voice is a raspy wheeze. ‘Trøbbel.’

  ‘Yeah, like you can talk.’ I put my hand on his shoulder. He’s burning hot. The nurse’s eyes meet mine. She’s hovering protectively, reaching for his wrist to take his pulse.

  ‘His temperature was thirty-nine an hour ago,’ she says. ‘It was higher when he came in.’

  When I ate my breakfast on the deck and watched Per swim laps of the beach, I’d hold my breath when he disappeared beneath the waves. Sometimes I got light-headed. That’s how I feel now.

  I clear my throat. ‘What’s his oxygen level?’ I say.

  The nurse frowns like I’m being a busybody. ‘It was down to eighty-five at one point, but we’ve brought it up to ninety-three.’ She shakes her head when she releases his hand. ‘His pulse is over a hundred, his heart rate’s erratic.’

  He raises his head when I squat at his side. He blinks, and lifts his hand to rub his jaw. His stubble is dark—it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him unshaven. His eyes are unfocused. How he thinks he’s going to walk out of the hospital on his own is anybody’s guess.

  ‘Per,’ I say, ‘the nurse has filled me in. Discharging yourself is against your doctor’s advice. The nursing staff are concerned about you too. They want to admit you to the respiratory ward.’

  He shakes his head, struggling to breathe. ‘Base.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the medical staff at Balmoral,’ the nurse says. ‘They don’t want you there. They deal with coughs and colds, not pneumonia. You need intravenous antibiotics, rest and regular fluids. If your oxygen saturation levels drop again your blood pressure will fall, and then anything could happen.’

  Per ignores her. His handwriting slips above and below the lines on the form, but he continues to fill it in.

  The nurse sighs. Our eyes meet over Per’s head. ‘Even if he leaves the hospital,’ she says, ‘he’ll have to come back morning and night for antibiotics.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Per?’ I say.

  She puts her hand on his arm. ‘You need full time nursing care, Commander, at least for the next few days.’

  He puts both hands on the desk. Then he stands, sways, and steadies himself. His face is still flushed, but now that he’s standing it’s losing colour quickly. His T-shirt and black fatigue pants are rumpled. He’s wearing socks but no shoes.

  The nurse backs him into the chair again. He’s too weak to resist. ‘You’ll have to go to the respiratory ward,’ she says.

  ‘No.’ He swallows. ‘Discharge.’

  ‘I’ll be annoyed when I have to readmit you.’

  Per shakes his head.

  ‘Very well, Commander. I’ll get a dish for the cannula.’

  I follow the nurse down the corridor. ‘Can’t you leave his cannula in?’ I say.

  ‘No. The risk of infection’s too high. If he’s silly enough to discharge himself he’ll have to put up with being jabbed again, night and morning.’

  ‘Not if I take him home and look after him.’

  She stops. Raises her brows. ‘Are you medically qualified, as well as all the other things you do?’

  ‘No … but I’ll get a private nurse from an agency to administer the antibiotics. That will save him travelling. I can do the rest, use the cannula for fluids if I can’t get enough into him by mouth. I’ll keep an eye on his oxygen sats as well. I guess I’d better get an oxygen cylinder as a backup. Will you give me his doctor’s details? I’ll need a copy of his discharge summary, and scripts for the medications he’s on. A wheelchair too if you can spare one, so I can get him to my car, and out of it at the other end.’

  The nurse is silent for a few seconds. Then her expression softens. ‘Your father. He had paraplegia, didn’t he, after his accident?’

  ‘Quadriplegia—C4.’ I give her a shaky smile. ‘That reminds me. I’ll need to get a blood pressure monitor. My housemate’s a doctor. He’s away, but I can hassle some of his friends for the things I need. Guess I’ll need a decent thermometer as well.’

  ‘Was you father intubated?’

  ‘Only a couple of times a year, whenever he got a chest infection. Mostly his diaphragm was functional. Per is fit, with lungs like a whale, so it’s unlikely he’ll need tubing once the antibiotics kick in. But I’ll know when to call for help if he does.’

  She squeezes my arm. ‘I have nothing to worry about then.’

  I stroke Per’s hair. ‘You’re the worst patient in the world.’

  I’m sitting on my bed with pillows stacked behind me. Per is lying between my outstretched legs, with his head against my chest. In this position he’s upright enough that he can sleep without coughing himself awake too often. And his feet don’t dangle off the end of the bed. He clung onto the doorframe to my room when I brought him home, insisting he wanted my room in preference to Liam’s. Having him in a single bed is easier for me anyway. He’s always within reach, and it’s easier to change the sheets. I sleep on a camping mat on the floor next to him.

  He burrows closer. ‘Stay with me.’

  ‘I warned you not to get too comfortable. You’re hot again so I have to cool you down, and do your observations. That bossy nurse will be back soon. She spends more time criticising me than she does looking after you.’

  He moans when I wriggle out from under him, and prop him up. I go through my hourly routines. Temperature, pulse, blood pressure, oxygen level, medications. I listen to his chest, front and back, with a stethoscope.

  ‘There are more gurgles now. That’s positive. Helga made you another pot of soup. Vegetable or chicken?’

  He crooks his finger and I perch on the bed. He strokes my arm and plays with my fingers. I do my best to harden my heart, remind myself that this isn’t real, that needing me won’t be long term. He’s sick as a dog. Asleep twenty hours out of twenty-four. He’s like Superman after a Kryptonite episode. He’s my little boy with dark hair.

  He watches me with sleepy eyes as I massage his upper body.

  ‘You should have stayed at Royal North Shore,’ I say. ‘The nurses could have propped your bed up there, and you would have had physios. Kat said you had a thing about hos
pitals. Why?’

  He points to his scar, and mumbles. ‘Infected. Questions. Lots of questions.’

  So hospital staff asked him questions? He mustn’t have answered them because he told me only his brother knew the truth about his scar.

  He was only ten years old. I kiss his forehead. Trail my fingers over his cheek until his lids finally close. His raspy breaths are shallow, but even.

  ‘What did I say?’ My voice catches. ‘Worst patient ever.’

  Like he’s done a few times a day for the past five days, Per is sitting on the end of the bed, willing himself to stand on his own and walk to the bathroom.

  ‘Why can’t you behave like a normal sick person?’ I say. ‘Take a bed bath, pee in a jar, grow a beard.’

  Per’s lips are tight. ‘Because I refuse to.’

  I pull him to his feet. ‘Come on then, lean on me.’

  He puts his arm around my shoulders as we walk down the hall to the bathroom. It’s dawn; dim light filters through the frosted glass panel in the front door. There are shadows on the rug. Perhaps that’s why I catch my toe on the fringe and stumble.

  ‘Shit!’

  There’s no way I can support Per’s weight, so we go down together. I land on my knees, and then fall onto my side. He collapses on top of me. As soon as he pushes himself onto his hands and knees he starts coughing, huge wracking coughs. He gags and wheezes until he’s breathless.

  I wrap my arms around him and help him into a sitting position. He rips off his T-shirt and wipes his face, and spits out the mucus he can’t keep in. I ignore him when he tries to shrug me off. I rub his back in big firm circles.

  ‘Take your time, Per. You’re always in such a rush.’

  When he bunches the T-shirt into a ball, I try to take it out of his hands.

  ‘No, I’ll have a shower,’ he says. ‘Rinse it out.’

  I push his hair back from his forehead. It’s nowhere near his eyes, but he must have missed his fortnightly haircut because it’s marginally longer than usual.

  ‘You must be improving because you’re getting to be a control freak again.’

  He looks up at me with heavy eyes and shakes his head.

  ‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘And it’s not fair. My vomiting was way more revolting than anything I’ve ever seen from you.’

  Each breath he takes is an effort, but he laughs. Just for a second or two his teeth flash white and his eyes are bright. It flusters me. He barely ever smiles, and even when he does, all that happens is a twitch of the lips. His chest is right there in front of my eyes. It’s more slender than it was when we made love, but perfectly proportioned. I ache sometimes with wanting to hold him close, skin to skin.

  Later in the morning, when he’s asleep, I sketch what he looked like when he was on the floor, just before he laughed. He opens his eyes when I’m only halfway through. He holds out his hand.

  ‘Show me,’ he croaks.

  ‘No way. Go back to sleep.’

  When he pats the bed I go to him and perch on the edge. I’m still wearing my pyjamas. Stripy cotton shorts with a pink drawstring, and a blue sleeveless top. He’s propped up on his pillows. He lifts his hands and fastens two tiny buttons at my throat.

  My breath catches. ‘Why did you do that?’

  He’s staring at my breasts. ‘Cold.’

  I can’t look at him. I didn’t even realise my nipples were erect until he pointed it out. Does he know I’m not cold at all?

  He touches my arm. ‘Maybe your other pyjamas are better. The ones made out of winter sheets.’

  I stand. Turn my back. Line up his medications. ‘It’s too warm to wear them,’ I say. ‘We’re midway through spring.’

  ‘What’s the date?’

  I’m doing my best to keep my voice even. I’ve been counting down the days until The Adélie leaves for Palau. There are only five to go.

  ‘October 17.’

  ‘Harriet. Come here.’

  ‘What?’ My hair is loose and it falls over one side of my face. He puts it behind my ear.

  ‘Beklager, lille venn.’

  I shrug, and stand. Get all businesslike again. ‘There’s no point saying sorry.’

  A shadow crosses his face but I ignore it.

  ‘You’d better go to the bathroom before the nurse comes. Don’t forget your sample for the jar, or she’ll collect it personally.’ I take his hands. ‘Come on. I’ll organise your shaving things as well.’

  He needs me for now. My feelings about Palau can wait.

  CHAPTER

  39

  Per gasps for air. It takes me a second or two to get up from my bed on the floor and shove the puffer into his hand. He inhales, coughs, and inhales again. Then he leans over pillows and takes a series of shuddering breaths. When I open the window a breeze blows into the room. It ruffles his hair.

  ‘Did you have a nightmare?’ I pass him a glass of water, and rub his back. When I listen to his chest it crackles. ‘Were you running in the dream? Or swimming? Slow your breaths, Per. Try to relax. Listen to the rustle of the leaves, and the sounds the waves make.’

  He’s only just got his breathing under control when he grabs my wrist. At first I think he’s feverish again because his eyes are bright. But he’s cool when I feel his forehead with my other hand. I take his temperature anyway, and do the rest of his checks. I stroke his cheek.

  ‘You’ll do.’

  ‘You were lost in the snow.’

  ‘In your dream?’

  He nods.

  ‘Well … If I really were lost you’d have found me. It’s two in the morning, Per. Are you ready to go back to sleep? Or should I get you one of your boring iceberg books?’

  He touches my hair. Runs his hand down my arm. ‘Will you hold me? Like before?’

  We’ve kept our distance since the day I stared at his chest and he did up the buttons of my pyjamas. I take a breath and blow it out in a rush. ‘Just for a little while. You need to sleep without worrying about squashing me.’

  I adjust the pillows and clamber onto the bed behind him. He waits until I’m comfortable, and then he rests against me. He’s lying sideways, with his head on my chest. One of his legs covers one of mine. The weight of him feels so good it puts a lump in my throat. It’s stupid to pretend I’m not in love with him.

  ‘What does “lille venn” mean? You’ve called me that a few times since you’ve been sick. Is it nurse?’

  I feel his smile against my breast. Then he coughs, and steadies his breath again. ‘The direct translation is “little friend” but that’s not what it really means.’

  ‘But it’s a nice thing to be called?’

  He nods, and breathes deeply into my cleavage. ‘Yes.’

  It’s easier to talk in the middle of the night, when we’re not looking at each other.

  ‘What’s “stakkars liten”?’

  He hesitates. ‘Poor baby.’

  ‘You called me that once, when I had a nightmare. What about “det går bra”? You said that as well.’

  He smiles again. ‘That means it’s fine, it’s okay.’

  ‘I thought it was an endearment.’

  ‘There aren’t as many in the Norwegian language as there are in English. There’s min skatt. That means … my treasure, my dear.’

  ‘That sounds very old-fashioned.’

  ‘It’s not used much. Mostly by older people, who’ve been married for a long time.’ He threads our fingers together, unthreads them and threads them again. He holds on tightly. ‘Why didn’t you want me to meet Drew at the fundraising dinner?’

  I’m too surprised by the question to hide my response. My whole body stiffens. Drew and Per have spent hours together in the last few days, and I’ve thought nothing of it. Hardly anything Drew says makes sense anymore, and he’s lost just about all of his memories from the past few years. Allan’s been picking him up and dropping him here, so he can see more of me in the school holidays, like he usually does. He sits on a chair at the fo
ot of my bed, or on the deck, and watches Per reading and sleeping. Per answers all of his questions, no matter how many times he’s answered them before. I don’t bother correcting Drew when he calls me Maggie anymore. We reminisce together about events that happened before I was born. In the afternoons Jonty or Helga walk with him along the beach.

  ‘I wanted to protect him.’

  Per knows Drew loves being around people, even if he can’t remember who they are. But he mustn’t want to pick a fight by calling me a liar. Instead, he says, ‘Umulig.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s impossible,’ I say. His scar is silvery in the moonlight. I trace it with my finger. ‘Tell me about your scar.’

  He hesitates. Presses his face into my hand. Closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them and holds my gaze. He guides my finger along another scar, just inside his hairline. It’s about ten centimetres long.

  ‘Stakkars liten,’ I whisper.

  ‘Afghanistan, four years ago, peacekeeping force, landmine. Or do you want to know about this?’ He lifts his T-shirt and points to a ragged-edged scar on his hip. ‘Shrapnel wound, Guinea.’

  ‘You know I want to know about this.’ I put my hand on his cheek again. ‘You told me you fell through a roof, and you hid it from your father. Why would a ten-year-old do that?’

  ‘My father was an alcoholic.’

  ‘The other night you said something about people asking questions. I think you meant in a hospital. Didn’t your father look after you properly?’

  ‘It was worse than that. No more questions, Harriet.’

  I could return to my bed on the floor to show him I’m not happy, that he should trust me more. I could walk out of the room and sleep in Liam’s bed. Per’s arm had been loosely draped around my hip. It tightens. It’s too dark to read his expression but I’m pretty sure he’s my little boy with dark hair again.

  I adjust my position and pull him even closer. He relaxes, takes my hand and brushes my fingers with his lips. ‘You looked after your father, didn’t you?’ he says. ‘After the accident.’

  ‘Most of the time. I travelled with Drew when Dad was in respite care or hospital. Dad didn’t want me around then. He only needed me when we were at Newport.’