***
The door to the theatre swung inward and a nurse in blue scrubs pushed an IV drip stand towards the table. She spoke with the doctor, her words urgent, her body language tense. The blood for the transfusion arrived. It was a rare type, Kara’s type, the same as her father’s. Rosemary leaned forward, stretching her neck so she could see. The surgeon nodded, gesturing to his colleague to finish the job, to sew Kara’s skin together, delicate stitches with a needle that shone silver in the light of the theatre.
The nurse draped a bag of blood over the drip stand, connecting it to a port in the back of Kara’s hand. They were giving her an infusion, bag after bag of platelets, filling her till she was stuffed with someone else’s blood.
Slowly the liquid moved down the line into her body, a streak of red in the opaque, plastic tube.
Please let her be OK, please.
Rosemary shifted her weight from one foot to the next, balancing on the balls of her feet as if ready to sprint.
They’d had a disagreement that morning, Kara and Rosemary, over something trivial, the tension building between them. It was an almost daily occurrence, this quiet bickering. Kara hated Rosemary. There was no denying that fact. Since the police report into Patrick’s death things had been . . . difficult.
‘No!’ The memory of Kara screaming, her face tear-stained. ‘It’s not true. It’s not true. You’re a liar.’ The detective standing there, his hands like chunks of meat, useless by his side.
‘Say something!’ Kara crying, pleading with Rosemary to challenge the report, to declare the outcome ridiculous, but Rosemary had been too tired to fight any more.
Kara could not remember closing her eyes, yet here she was, wrapped in a warm cocoon of darkness. She was on the cusp of fully falling, of losing herself completely to sleep. The notion appealed to her. She was tired. Why not have a little rest?
I’ve lost my shoes, she thought, drifting on a wave of semi-awareness. She could feel her toes tingle, like when you put your feet into hot sand at the beach. Her skin felt different too, downy, like a newborn baby’s. She pulled her mind away from the lull of sleep. Something was bothering her, an annoying wisp of afterthought. What had she been thinking about? She must try to remember.
Silky warmth travelled through her body from her toes to her legs, her torso, her arms, right the way down to her fingertips. It felt nice. She sighed contentedly and let her consciousness drift by, lazy and uninhibited.
But there it was, that annoying thought. Why couldn’t it leave her alone? She just wanted to sleep, to drift.
Think!
Exasperated, she heaved her mind into action, trawling through the boxes of memories.
A voice, female, reassuring and supportive. No, that wasn’t it.
Red, fire-engine red. Her mind skidded away from the image as if scalded.
She tried again. A name. That’s what she was looking for. The heaviness and warmth threatened to distract her again, pulling her away from solving the mystery. No, no. Just concentrate for a minute more, she told herself. A name, yes that much she knew, but whose name?
B. The letter sprang to her mind like a rapid reflex.
B for boy. Yes, she thought to herself, that was it.
A boy whose name begins with . . . Bill? Bobby? Barry?
No, no and no. Not the right name.
An irritating buzzing began somewhere in the distance. It sounded like an irate bee. She was distracted from her task as she listened intently. The buzzing grew louder, coming closer, humming towards her, circling to the right side of her head. She wished that she could open her eyes, move her hand, swat the irritation away, but she couldn’t.
The sound reminded her of the dilapidated electric shaver her dad used to use. When she was little she supervised his morning shaves. She would dutifully watch at the alabaster sink as he neatly trimmed his beard.
A crack in her memory. She hugged the jagged piece of pain to her heart. She must not think of him. The only way she felt better was if she didn’t think of him.
The buzzing increased and swooped near to her right ear and then away. Swooped again, coming closer. She didn’t like it. It was too loud and she was getting cold, very cold. She wanted to concentrate on remembering.
Why was it so cold?
B is for . . .
The name, think of the name.
Ben Shephard. That was it! She smiled to herself in triumph.
The buzzing stopped. All was quiet. Then the pain came. A silent scream erupted in her mind. She could not move, could not cringe away as it burned and seared through her body. First her chest then her arms, legs, her face, eyes, ears, lips; they were on fire, painful, excruciating fire, and she wanted to die.
If she could just die, then the pain would stop.
Rosemary looked down into the operating theatre. One of the machines stopped beeping and for a moment silence hung in the air, curling in tendrils like mist. The heart rate monitor was crashing, the green line indicating Kara’s heart beat faltering, the space between the peaks and troughs lengthening.
The surgical team froze for an inhale of breath, then moved as one, congregating around Kara, hands moving fast, needles injecting into the soft flesh of her arm; a machine rolled to her bedside; words fired from one doctor to the other, none of which Rosemary could hear.
Instead she watched horrified as the nurse peeled back the surgical gown, exposing Kara’s chest. Rosemary could lip read the words cardiac arrest.
The nurse squirted clear gel on to stainless steel paddles, handing them to the surgeon. He shouted something and they all stepped back as if afraid that death was contagious. The surgeon pressed the paddles to Kara’s chest and sent a volt of electricity through her. In an unconscious holding of breath, they all leaned towards the patient expectantly. The heart rate machine remained silent for such a long time. Rosemary counted the seconds in her head, each one excruciating.
Then a beep; a green peak on the screen. Then another beep; a trough. Slow at first, then more regular the beep, beep of the machine matching the thump, thump of a pumping heart.
Rosemary exhaled. Kara was alive.
The girl’s limbs began to shake, bouncing against the hard surface of the table, her spine curved to breaking point. The tube in her mouth dislodged, and her hand fell off the side of the operating table, the electrodes peeling from her skin.
‘Kara,’ Rosemary called, her entire body pressed against the glass divide.
The nurse next to the IV drip flung herself across the patient, anchoring the flailing limbs, holding Kara’s body down. Another nurse leaned over Kara’s legs, weighing them. The surgeon stabilised her head and neck and for a full minute the team waited for the convulsions to stop.
There was an exchange of worried glances, the lifting of an eyebrow, the dart of a pupil.
Something was wrong.
Chapter Four
Jenny was the first to hear the news. Her dad let it slip as they drove to the Chinese for Wednesday night takeaway.
‘Big surgery today at the hospital,’ her dad said, trying to engage his daughter in conversation.
‘Hmm.’ Jenny was thinking about Ashleigh and their plans for the weekend.
‘It was a pedestrian, knocked down on Howe Street.’
‘Ya.’ She tapped the screen of her mobile, scrolling through Youtube.
‘Think it was a senior from your school.’ Her father glanced at her, taking his eyes off the road for a moment.