‘Oh, come on, I thought we were past the whole Barry thing.’
She crosses her arms. ‘I’ve forgiven you, Nick, but I can’t forget.’ She starts to walk away.
‘Hey! What does that mean? You don’t trust me any more?’
She clenches her jaw, and I think to myself, What did I expect? Paige is home, but our problems aren’t over yet. Not by a mile. Even if Paige does survive, I’m starting to wonder whether our marriage will.
The following week, I confess to Ben that I’m thinking of moving away from surgery and into teaching. We’re at the local basketball courts, shooting hoops, something we haven’t done in months.
‘That’ll be the day,’ he says, laughing as he dribbles the ball past me.
This disarms me. Moments ago I was very open to this, and Ben’s reaction makes me wonder if he has a point. I might be a hopeless educator. ‘I’m serious.’
Ben wipes the sweat from his brow and tosses me the ball. ‘Why would you want to do that, Nick? You are one of the best paediatric surgeons in Melbourne. You’d be crazy to throw all that away.’
‘I wouldn’t be throwing anything away.’
‘Yes, you would be. You’re a surgeon. Not a teacher.’
‘I want to do this.’ I bounce the ball in his direction.
‘Really? Then why do you sound so miserable about it?’
I don’t reply.
‘Is that your answer?’
Ben throws the ball back to me. ‘I might not have a choice, Ben, okay?’ I shoot and miss. ‘Someone is going to have to be around to raise the baby, assuming…’ Assuming he or she survives.
Ben rests his hands on his knees and catches his breath. ‘You want my advice, Nick?’ Ben poses this as a question but of course it’s not a question at all. ‘Instead of spending time focusing on the worst that could happen, maybe you should spend your time making the most of the time you have left. I’m pretty sure that no pregnant woman out there ever wants to have to see her husband getting ready to live a life without her. Let her enjoy the months ahead. Deal with the rest later.’
I hurl the ball in Ben’s direction. He catches it and tosses it back. ‘Easy for you to say.’
‘She just moved back in. Let the dust settle, work on finding some normality in your lives again so your life doesn’t fall apart if she survives.’
Ben walks off the court and holds out a towel and a drink bottle for me. ‘Remember, that’s what we’re all praying for here.’
Forty-Seven
Paige
Windsor Lakes isn’t quite the same when Elsie and Frank aren’t sitting together in the common room. Elsie has come down with a chest infection, which means she’s confined to bed. Frank is positioned on an armchair in one corner of her room, snoring, with an unfinished crossword on his lap. Elsie’s room is small but comfortable. Her walls reflect her love of art. From them hang bright abstracts and verdant landscapes with blue skies and richly coloured autumn leaves. She keeps only three things on her dresser: her reading glasses, a butterfly brooch her mother gave her and a copy of the Bible. Elsie has been a resident at Windsor Lakes for over ten years. Glancing around her room, I marvel at how such a long life can fit itself into the confines of a compact room like this with so few belongings. You could count on one hand the things that matter to Elsie.
I perch on the edge of the bed. ‘Looks like you’re keeping the doctors and nurses on their toes,’ I say, adjusting her blanket.
‘We’re all old here, Paige, it’s our job to keep them on their toes.’ She coughs into her elbow before sinking back into the pillows.
‘Can I get you anything? Those ginger snap biscuits you love? I know where Viv keeps them hidden.’
‘My wool and needles.’ She points to her basket on the floor. ‘And tell that husband of yours to come and visit his grandmother every once in a while.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ I say. ‘He’s going to be home this Saturday. I’ll make sure he visits then. Is Bette still planning on visiting next week?’ I pick the basket up and lift several balls of yarn in varying colours from it.
‘That one,’ says Elsie, pointing to the mint green. ‘And yes, she is, but she can only manage a couple of days. She’s run off her feet with the B & B.’
I hand Elsie the yarn and a crochet hook and watch as her long, knobbly fingers start to move, hooking the wool and weaving it in and out. While she sets to work, I examine the burgundy pouch in the basket, which holds an assortment of knitting needles and crochet hooks in various colours and sizes. ‘You don’t even need a pattern?’ I ask, noticing there aren’t any patterns or booklets in the basket. An idea is taking shape in my mind.
She taps the frame of her glasses. ‘I’ve got these. And my memory.’
‘My grandmother used to crochet. Apparently, she used to make sweaters for her chickens.’
Elsie laughs. ‘Well, if a teapot can have a jumper, then why not a chook?’
‘What is it you’re making?’
‘A matinee jacket. For your little one.’ She continues working her hook around the wool. Elsie coughs again, letting the crochet hook fall into her lap. She takes a laboured breath and sinks back into her pillows.
‘Why don’t you rest now? Finish it later. When you have more energy,’ I suggest. I squeeze her hand. It feels cold, the skin loose and papery thin.
‘How many times do I have to tell you that my clock’s ticking? Knowing my luck, the doctors will be in here later tonight demanding to have me transported to the hospital. And then?’
‘And then you go. You go to the hospital and you get better and then you come back here and finish it then.’
Elsie lets out a small laugh as she pats my leg. ‘Innocent,’ she murmurs. ‘That’s the thing about being young like you. You think you have all the time in the world to finish all the things you started and all the things you didn’t.’
By the time I’m halfway through my second trimester, I’ve crocheted four amigurumi toys under Elsie’s careful tutelage. A hedgehog (Alfie), a turtle (Mrs Go Slow), a bunny (Ginger) and a monkey I named Frank after one too many hints from a certain crossword-loving fellow at Windsor Lakes. Crochet doesn’t come easily to me, and I struggle to finish one toy a week. Stitched into each one is a pocket just big enough for a letter.
Elsie’s chest infection has escalated into pneumonia, and she’s been transferred to hospital. She spends long stretches of the day sleeping, so I make an effort to visit her in the mornings when she seems to have a bit more energy. Nick and my doctors have warned me to be careful – in my condition, I need to stay as healthy as possible – but I can’t stay away. This is Elsie, after all.
I show her my latest creation, a salmon-coloured starfish in the making. ‘What do you think?’ I ask, holding it up for her to see.
She nods approvingly. She draws in a laboured breath and winces, her eyes fluttering closed. I wait for her to open them again.
‘I think it’s perfect.’ Her eyes drift shut again, her chest continuing to rattle with every precious breath she takes.