‘Right – I’ve covered wards, I’ve covered theatre, I’ve covered Urgent Care, I’ve covered discharges. Are we all on the same page? Yes? Excellent. What haven’t I covered? Um…’
‘Needs,’ Nick pipes up. ‘And CNAs.’
‘Oh, right. Needs. Hang on, let me check…’
‘Mrs Dougherty in Three has paperwork for Needs.’
Barb folds through a few sheets on her clipboard. ‘Mrs Dougherty in Three…yes, has paperwork saying no penicillin. Everybody got that? No penicillin for Three. And Mr Krane in Twelve has no deep reclining, no prone. Breathing problems. So don’t lie him flat for linen changes, or he’ll go all gaspy.’
‘I spotted him yesterday arvo having a ciggie out in the car park.’ Mel hooks her thumbs into her utility belt. ‘He seemed fine, then.’
‘You saw him having a ciggie? Christ, Mel, would you let me know if my respiratory patients are out smoking?’
‘Sure.’ Mel shrugs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’ She makes a face, catches Nick’s eye.
Nick shakes his head at her, grinning. ‘Yeah, Mel. Who can we trust to keep an eye on things if security won’t?’ Mel gives him the finger, rolls her eyes.
Barb flaps her pages at them. ‘Behave. What else was it?’
‘CNAs,’ I say, waving my hand.
Barb beams at me. ‘Course, sorry. You’ve got obs in Three, Seven, Nine, Twelve and…um, that’s it. Three, Seven, Nine and Twelve. Come back after that, we’ll get you on breakfast, and then linen.’
I give her the thumbs-up.
‘Oh, and a word about Seven. Actually, this isn’t just for Amie, it’s for everyone. Everybody looking here? Right. Most of you know what’s going on with Seven. It’s a police case, so don’t get bothered if you see the constabulary at some point. Derrin Blunt has said he’ll pop by for some questions after breakfast –’
I wave again. ‘Actually, Dad said it’s looking more like after lunch.’
‘Oh? Right. So Sergeant Blunt will be in after lunch, might have Jared Capshaw or other officers with him. No emergency, just as you were. There was a bit of, y’know, flailing around when Harris first came in, but no aggro. Also not ambulatory, and he’s on Endone, so he’s gonna be groggy for a fair while.’
‘Is that the business out of Five Mile?’ Mel asks.
Barb nods. ‘Yes, it is, and no wild speculation, if you don’t mind. I’m sure we’ll all hear about it in the papers. One last thing – please don’t engage with Harris’s father, Mr Derwent. You’ll be in your grave before you win that one. Just call me, and I’ll come deal with him, okay? I can’t ban immediate next-of-kin from the ward as long as he’s behaving himself, even if he is visiting with a lidful. But if you see or experience him being troublesome, report it.’
‘I caught him pinching the patient on the arm,’ Nick says.
‘Did you? Great. I mean, not great, but you know, write it up. And that’s it, folks.’ Barb catches every eye around the staff room. ‘Go make the hospital work.’
She flaps her clipboard at us like she’s shooing chooks out of a pen – in a tiny rural facility like Ouyen hospital, professional manners tend to get a bit casual. We rise as a jumbled group off our chairs, while she drops down into hers. The white plastic creaks, the moulded arm-rests spreading to accommodate her bulk. Her face is flushed beneath her skullcap of sweaty brown hair. She’s not wheezing today, though. That’s a good sign.
‘Get you anything?’ I make the offer casual. ‘Need some chasing done before I go on obs?’
‘Oh, bless.’ Barb passes me her clipboard, with assorted paperwork. ‘Could you take that to the admin desk and say I’ll do handover in five? I just need a little coffee first.’
‘I’ll say ten, and I’ll bring you the coffee.’ I tuck the clipboard under my arm. ‘And I’ll text Dad, see if I can get a better idea of when he’s coming in.’
‘Amie, you’re a doll.’
I go make her a cup of instant coffee at the bench. When I bring the cup over, Barb’s face is looking better, less pink. This is the moment she gets to rest before she bundles into her car for the drive back to Patchewollock.
Nick’s already pulling on the straps of his backpack, throwing his scarf around his neck. I grab him before he heads out the door.
‘Any more excitement I missed?’
‘Not really.’ He helps me straighten my staff lanyard, which is tangled over my collar. ‘You saw it all yesterday morning. Harris did his puking in Recovery, apparently, while he was still on half-hourly obs. When I came on night duty the only thing I had to worry about was his dad. Real piece of work, that one.’
‘How come you had night duty? Did you put your name down for extra shifts?’
‘Yeah.’ Nick shrugs. ‘My car’s just about ready to crap itself. It’s time I bought something decent instead of relying on Grant’s hand-me-downs.’
‘Hey, don’t knock hand-me-downs. Hand-me-downs are cheap.’
‘Yeah, but the difference is, if yours dies in the middle of the road you can get it fixed for nothing.’
‘Dad could have a look?’ But it’s only half an offer. I don’t know how busy Dad will be over this Five Mile business. He might not have time to fiddle about with other people’s engines for the next few days.
‘Nice of you,’ Nick says, but the look on his face tells me he’s already made up his mind. ‘Anything you need before I go?’
‘World peace? A cure for cancer?’
‘Hilarious.’
‘Dunno, is there anything?’
‘Go say hullo to Mrs D, she gets lonely. And you’ll wanna drop in on your mate during obs.’
‘Harris isn’t my mate,’ I point out.
‘You knew him when he came in.’
‘He was in pain when he came in. I was just helping him out. I mean, yes, aeons ago I played netball when he was in under-17s, but –’
‘Glorious sporting years, I’m sure. But they’re clearing the drain in his leg this morning.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Maybe go distract him with footy nostalgia.’ Nick makes a face, which just looks tired. ‘Dickhead Derwent. Don’t know how he managed to get himself shot in the leg. Self-inflicted, probably.’
‘Hey. Give him a break.’ I push at Nick’s arm.
‘Right. If you’re gonna abuse me, I’m off.’ But there’s no rancour in his voice. He’s obviously too knackered, and he’s just not that kind of guy. ‘Have fun, see you Wednesday.’
‘Text me about the pub after work.’
‘Will do. Cheers, babe.’
I drop the clipboard off to the admin desk, text Dad with the question, and collect Spot, the blood pressure machine. Obs is a pretty simple gig: pulling Spot along the hall, going into rooms to say hello, open curtains. Take temperature, pulse, blood pressure, check respiration rate, tidy up a little. It’s a lull; the night duty staff are giving their final instructions and saying their goodbyes, and the earlies staff are still yawning as they come on the ward. Patients not already roused by the breakfast bustle are starting to wake.
Mrs Dougherty in Three wants the loo, and then a blanket. She has wispy-white hair and cold fingers. ‘How’s your dad, Amita?’
She’s also one of the only people I know who calls me by my given name. ‘He’s good, Mrs Dougherty.’
‘When’s he gonna give up the police work and come take me away from all this, eh?’
‘I’ll tell him you’re still available, Mrs D.’ I grin, tuck the blanket around her, let her know I’ll come with her brekky in a bit.
I don’t know what to expect in room Seven. I haven’t seen Harris Derwent since he arrived with such dramatic flourish: paddy wagon lights blueing up the whole bay in a frantic, hands-on, this-is-a-fucking-emergency scene. He was barely conscious then. It’s not like he’ll recognise me now.
The room is still dim. It smells like sweat and antiseptic in here. There’s a bulky figure on the bed, obscured by the sheet-covered cage over the lower half of him. My shoes are rubber-soled so they don’t make any noise at all as I move closer to the other bed’s nightstand and reach for the lamp.
As soon as I flick the switch, I hear a sigh.
‘Could you please turn off that fucking light?’
His bed is half-reclined. He’s all lank blonde hair and whitened tan. I’m seeing a lot of him: he’s shirtless, with the sheet rucked down to his hips. Working in a hospital, you find yourself dealing with people in various states of distress and undress. It’s kind of weird, seeing people you know personally when they’re so vulnerable. Six months into this job it’s something I’m still getting used to.
‘Sure.’ I turn the light off. ‘What happened to your gown?’
Harris doesn’t reply. Then I nearly step on the wadded blue paper gown on the floor. He’s pulled it off himself. Maybe it was uncomfortable, all scrunched to accommodate the cage over his leg.
‘Are you cold? You look cold.’
His eyes are winced closed. A plate of quartered hospital sandwiches and a cuppa sit untouched on the trolley at the bedside. I wonder if he’s still too groggy or nauseated to eat. But his recovery period was last night; he should try to eat. It’s the best way to regain strength after surgery.
I carefully fold up the sheet and blanket so they’re covering his chest. Nice chest, although it’s not really my job to notice. From what I hear, Harris Derwent gets his chest admired on a pretty regular basis anyway. I keep my eyes firmly elsewhere while I’m fixing the blanket.
He turns his head towards me. ‘Do I know you?’
I lose what to say for a second. His eyes are very green and glazed, and he looks horribly tired. Which is fair – I went home exhausted after yesterday’s shift, although nothing much happened after that one emergency. But even one emergency can do that to you.
‘I-I was here when you first arrived,’ I finally get out. ‘Yesterday morning. You came in with Jared Capshaw –’
‘You counted me down.’ His voice is rough from the intubation.
‘Yeah.’
He remembers me. What else does he remember?
‘Do you know where you are? You’re in Ouyen hospital. You’ve had surgery on the bullet wound in your thigh.’ I try to think of more detail so he can orient himself. ‘You’ve been pretty out of it since you came in. Your leg –’
‘What about the others?’ His eyes hunt around, as if he thinks they might be in here with us. ‘Rachel…’
‘You were the only one admitted.’ I frown. ‘D’you want me to chase it up for you? Is there someone you need to contact? Your dad’s been in –’
‘No.’ The word comes out short and flat. ‘Don’t contact my dad.’
‘Okay… But he’s already been in once and he’ll probably come in again later. He seems pretty keen to see you.’
Harris closes his eyes and his whole body sinks, boneless. ‘Fine. Whatever.’
I squint at him. His hollow cheeks are covered in dark gold stubble. He was nearly an hour in surgery, and he would’ve been recovering from sedation all afternoon, into the evening. More drugs would’ve seen him through the night. Maybe this is really the first time he’s communicated since he arrived.
I think about what he’s communicating.
‘D’you want me to stall him?’ I say quietly. ‘I could maybe hold him over until the afternoon…’
Harris blinks up at me. ‘You can do that?’
I nod.
He holds my gaze for a moment before sinking into the bed again. This time, he looks more relaxed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is he bothering you? Barb can ban him from the ward if –’
‘No. That’ll just piss him off.’ He stretches his neck, grimacing. ‘Dad… Dad can be hard work. That’s just the way he is.’
Which is what people say about you – the thought comes before I can stop myself. At least I don’t say it out loud.
*
For the next couple of days, Harris has a barrage of visitors.
A stocky Melbourne cop with a ginger crewcut drops by, along with some skinny English guy in a suit. Not to mention the local police, and by that I mean my dad and Jared Capshaw. Dad came back from that first interview with Harris wearing a very grim expression. Melbourne police involvement always makes him edgy.
I ask Dad if there’s any word about what happened because, after a one-paragraph mention in the local paper, there’s been no more information, and the rest of the staff have all been trying to pick my brains. Everything is gossip fodder in a small town.
‘It was some Melbourne police op.’ Dad spreads his hands. ‘One of the Watts kids – do you remember Rachel Watts? Yeah, she and her boyfriend got into trouble with some goons at the Five Mile quarry. Harris swooped in, trying to help out, and ended up getting shot for his efforts.’
‘Didn’t Harris go to Melbourne with Rachel’s brother for a while?’
‘Yeah, Mike Watts and Harris are mates. I guess that’s how Harris got involved.’
Harris doesn’t exactly have a reputation as a hero. I try to imagine him swooping in. Can’t picture it. ‘Are you sure he wasn’t with the goons?’
Dad shrugs. ‘Look, I don’t actually have many details about it. Harris Derwent was one of the good guys, that’s all I know.’
‘Harris was helping the cops?’ That gives my eyebrows a workout. ‘No way.’
‘Yes way – but please don’t use that phrasing when you explain it to the hospital staff,’ Dad says with a grimace.
He gives me a quick sound-bite to repeat: Harris and a couple of other kids got caught in the crossfire of a police operation at the Five Mile quarry, but everyone’s okay, Melbourne police have the person responsible in custody, and Harris isn’t a suspect. That’s enough to shut everyone up, and it’s all I have the energy for after dealing with Mr Derwent since Sunday. Harris’s dad always seems to be lurking around, ready to take advantage of every moment his son is left alone. He’s rude, unpredictably short-tempered, and even though it’s none of my business, I don’t like him.
When his dad isn’t around, an outside call is patched through to Harris’s bedside phone. He talks to whoever it is for a long time. His voice works to sound upbeat, saying things like, ‘Nah, I’m good. Yep, it’s all sorted. Just a couple more days. I’ll tell your dad if there’s anything I need. No, no bullshit, I swear’. Then his tone softens as he says, ‘Hey, it’s okay. Don’t feel bad. I’m just glad you’re all right…’ I hear this while I’m taking away his meal tray, on which a lot of food has been moved around but nothing much has been eaten.
On Tuesday, Michael Watts’s dad comes during visiting hours. I haven’t seen the family since I heard they moved to Melbourne. I’m cleaning up in the bathroom and catch the end of a stilted conversation where Mr Watts asks Harris if he’s doing all right, and does he need anything, and has he got a place to stay. Harris answers yes, no, sure, to everything.
I exit the bathroom with the rubbish, and see Terry Watts pressing a roll of fifties into Harris’s hand. Harris looks as if he’d rather take a pair of pliers to his own fingernails than accept the money, but he nods and holds onto it anyway. When Terry finally leaves, Harris turns on his side, like he’d curl up in a ball if only his leg wasn’t in the way.
I think he might be in some sort of delayed shock. Also the drugs we’re pumping into him can cause nausea. He kind of zones out for a while there, becomes unresponsive if I come in to serve meals or tidy up. I don’t push him, but I mention it to Barb.
I’ve resigned myself to being ignored while I’m changing the pillowcases. Which means it’s an absolute surprise when I go in later that afternoon and Harris speaks to me.
‘Thank you.’ His voice comes out raspy. I don’t know if that’s the drugs, or lack of voluntary use.
‘That’s okay.’ I think I’d better take it slow. ‘You all right?’
He doesn’t seem to know if he’s really got it in him to reply. He just shrugs. I nod – I don’t understand, but I get it.
‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help more with keeping visitors away.’ He knows who I mean by visitors. ‘Usually the charge nurse bosses people around. She’s much better trained.’ I give him a little grin, testing the waters.
He shakes his head. ‘Not your fault. Sorry you have to deal with it.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ That’s the second time he’s covered for his dad’s behaviour, I notice. ‘I’m Amie, by the way. If you need anything.’
I replace the pillow and notice him trying to keep his eyes trained away from my boobs as I lean over him. Which means at least some of him is back online. When the patients start checking you out, you know they’re returning to normalcy.
‘I know you from someplace else, don’t I?’ he says suddenly.
‘Um, maybe from school?’ My final year of high school is still hanging off me like a loose thread. I’ve only been legally allowed to buy drinks at the pub for six months. ‘I went to Ouyen Secondary, too.’
Harris still looks mystified.
I explain further. ‘You went through the year above, with Simmo. And uh, Della and Jo and Chrissy.’ I keep my eyes averted when I say that. Harris’s rep with the girls is legendary, but he doesn’t need to know I’ve heard about it. ‘Or maybe you remember me from from West Mallee FNL?’ I slip the second pillow out from under the freshly-changed one, trying not to roll his head. ‘I played netball when you were playing footy. It was a few years ago…’
‘The sarge’s kid?’
I sigh, quietly enough that he won’t notice. ‘Yeah, that’s me.’
He squints up. ‘Was that the under-17s?’
‘Yeah. I only played for two seasons. You gave it away the year after I started. You used to play half forward with Michael Watts.’
He closes his eyes, and I wonder if his leg is hurting him. ‘Yeah, I played with Mike.’
I get a strong memory then of Harris taking a one-armed specky in the middle of some game…was it when they played Mildura South? I don’t remember the opposition. But I remember how Harris looked in that moment: muscled shoulders lifted and arms reaching high, sun-bleached hair whipping back, stretched to his full height. You couldn’t help but admire the scenery. I know a few of the netball chicks actually cried when he quit footy.
‘You were a gun.’ I clear my throat. Hopefully I’m not blushing. ‘Top notch. That’s why I remembered you. Wasn’t there talk of you being scouted?’
‘That was only a rumour,’ he rasps.
I’m pretty sure it was more than a rumour, but I let it lie. ‘So why’d you give it away?’
His eyes take on a strange sightlessness, and I know he’s not looking at the inside of this hospital room. The pause goes on for a moment too long.
‘Harris?’
‘Just did.’ He turns his head.
He clearly doesn’t want to talk about this. I have no idea why. Most of the guys I know talk about their old footy victories a hundred times a day. Now Harris looks low, as if the whole conversation has depressed him. Damnit.
Then he blinks suddenly and talks again. ‘So you finished school last year?’
‘Um, yeah.’ I bundle up the dirty pillowcases in both hands. ‘Did a CNA course over the summer, and now here I am.’
‘So you’re a nurse? Or a, what…’
‘A Certified Nursing Assistant. Just a fancy name for a trainee.’ I scan the sheets above his leg. The linen will be tricky, but not impossible. ‘I’ve got to change your bed sheets, too.’
Harris startles a little. ‘How the hell you gonna do that?’
‘Watch me.’ I grin.
It takes about five minutes. I peel the fitted sheet down from the top at the same time as I unroll the new sheet, slipping it beneath his neck and shoulders, careful of his IV. When I get to his hips, I have to slide an arm under him and lift him in sections until the new sheet is cooling the skin of his back.
He’s heavy, and I won’t say he smells nice – he hasn’t let us bathe him since he came in – but he has a distinct scent I associate with maleness. I’ve always thought if guys knew how appealing their own scent was to girls, they wouldn’t use so much pongy aftershave. His skin is fine-pored and smooth, but he also feels clammy to touch; I’ll have to report that.
He jerks when I slip my arm under his waist. I’d put it down to nerves, but this is Harris Derwent we’re talking about, the slayer of Five Mile… I file it under ‘normal embarrassment’ – I know he’s not wearing any jocks.
The sheet goes down pretty easily on his right side, everything kept modest because of the top-sheeted cage. Then I move over to his left. ‘Can you lift your butt?’
‘I got nothing on,’ he warns.
I try not to grin: definitely normal embarrassment. I tug a side of the top sheet over to spill onto his lap. ‘Will that spare your blushes?’
He’s blushing anyway, but he nods.
‘Good. Now lift up, just a little.’
He braces his right foot, tenses, and lifts enough to give his hips a few centimetres of clearance off the bed. I whip the dirty sheet down and shimmy in the clean one.
‘Excellent. Down.’ I replace the top sheet by laying it over the cage above the existing one, then drawing the old sheet away. ‘There you go. Just like magic.’
‘Great.’ He’s panting. That tiny bit of effort has made him break out in a sweat.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah. Fine.’
I keep an eye on his face as I unfold a fresh blanket over the top of him. ‘How’s your leg?’
‘Dunno. You tell me.’ He shivers, rubs his hip under the blanket. ‘The doctor hasn’t said anything except I was lucky, and that I’ll be on crutches for a while.’
I nod. ‘You were, you know. Incredibly lucky. The bullet went clean through without hitting bone, or any major blood vessels. You could’ve lost your leg, or bled out.’
‘Crutches sound like a good option, then.’
‘Really good. Like, unbelievably good. The only things you have to worry about now are physio and risk of infection. That’s why they’ve got the drain in.’ I pause. ‘But I’ll ask the RNs, see if I can get you more information.’
‘Thanks.’
I examine his face. ‘Anything else you need? Are you in pain?’
He shrugs awkwardly. ‘I’m due another dose tonight.’
I narrow my eyes. He’s frowning, and his forehead has a light sheen. Since I started working here I’ve learned that patients aren’t always the best judge of how much pain they can handle. Male patients, particularly, whinge about minor injuries like they’re dying, but almost never admit to serious pain. I’m gonna have to make this easy for him.
‘Gimme a number,’ I say. ‘If one is ‘Shit, I’ve stubbed my toe’, and ten is ‘Please god, make it stop’, where are you?’
He takes a breath and looks away, across the room.
‘Hey.’ I tap him on the arm. ‘Don’t whitewash it. Just tell me.’
His throat moves as he swallows, and he doesn’t say anything.
I study him, see the lines on his forehead, the furrows of tension around his eyes and mouth. I abandon the laundry trolley and walk out of the room.
It takes me a few minutes to find Barb and fill her in on the problem.
‘Well, how long has he been like this?’ She sighs and grabs a pair of gloves from the wall dispenser as we walk. ‘Hasn’t anybody else noticed the poor bugger’s been suffering?’
‘He’s been out of surgery, what, two days?’ I hand her a wrapped syringe. ‘Look, he’s not the most forthcoming patient, maybe he’s just been real quiet about it.’
‘Mmph,’ she says, and loads the syringe.
We enter Harris’s room together and I can tell he recognises Barb.
‘Hello there, Mr Derwent.’ Barb uncaps the syringe as she moves to the other side of his bed. ‘Amie tells me you’re struggling a bit.’
‘Could be,’ he says. He’s still panting a little. I feel like a fool not to have noticed before now.
‘Well, you know, that’s why the Good Lord gave us analgesics,’ Barb says. ‘Also, we have that nifty little buzzer beside your bed. All the mod cons here. So next time you’re doing it tough, give us a bell, all right?’ She grabs the tube of his drip with one meaty hand.
He nods just as she depresses the plunger. His face instantly releases – hard lines softening and lips opening as the pain recedes. The sight of his reaction gives me a little shiver. I get over myself, grab a towel and smooth his hair back off his forehead.
‘Dummy,’ I say softly.
‘Thank you,’ he says, and I think he really means it this time. His voice has gone thick, liquid.
‘Well spotted,’ Barb says to me. ‘I’ll have someone come in to check his blood pressure and do some obs, and then maybe we’ll have a talk about the drug sheet. He shouldn’t be getting so much breakthrough pain at this point.’
As Barb heads out, I move to stuff the dirty linen in my cart; I’ve still got beds to change in Twelve. Harris snags my wrist as I’m turning.
‘Hey.’ He’s slurring his consonants. ‘M’sorry for being an arsehole patient.’
‘You’ve been in pain.’ I shrug. ‘Pain can make people a little crazy.’
He’s still holding my wrist. His fingers are warm, shaky, and a little sweaty. His eyes glow like green neon, the pupils mere pinpricks. ‘I knew you were the sarge’s kid. He’s an okay bloke. I know I see him a bit more than he’d like, but he’s awright.’
I’ve heard Dad talk about Harris, on occasion. I don’t know if all the things Dad had to say about him were as complimentary.
‘Well, I’m glad you think so.’ I gently extricate my wrist, patting his hand as I go. ‘Now start getting better, and you’ll be kicking the footy again in no time.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ Harris sighs. His eyes close.
I think of something then. ‘Harris, when you’re checked out of here, do you have a place to go?’
‘Dad,’ he says softly. ‘Dad’ll want me back.’
It’s not until I’m out in the hall with the trolley that I realise he didn’t really answer the question.