The Restorer Read online

  ‘More than a week ago. I was waiting for him to mention it, but he didn’t. He didn’t have the guts to come clean.’

  Mum was staring at Dad. ‘You just let him stew?’

  ‘He needed to be taught a lesson.’

  ‘Roy, what a horrible thing to do.’ Mum’s neck was flushed.

  ‘What?’ Dad exclaimed. ‘I’m the one who’s done something wrong now?’

  It took Mum a moment to speak. ‘Imagine,’ she said in a soft, clear voice, ‘if I’d let you stew.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Jesus,’ Dad said, ‘that again?’

  Freya didn’t know what they were talking about anymore.

  Mum didn’t answer, just glared back at him.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘When I make a mistake I have to carry it around for the rest of my life and you get to treat me like dirt. But him—that’s different.’

  ‘You didn’t just make a mistake, Roy.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Dad went on, ‘if you were a bit harder on him, he’d be normal.’

  ‘Stop being such an arsehole, Roy.’

  Dad’s knife and fork clattered onto his plate. He got to his feet. ‘Or what?’

  Freya woke because she needed to go to the toilet. She felt her way down the stairs, paused at the threshold to the bathroom, and fumbled for the switch. She found it, blinked against the dazzling revelation of light—the smooth white tiles, the restored claw-foot bath, everything polished and clean. There was a smell of paint, of newness, of possibility. But the showerhead, a gleaming new chrome one, was still leaking.

  As she left the bathroom, she heard her parents. At first she thought they were still arguing. Their door was closed. She stood near it, listened. Dad said something, then made a low, repetitive series of grunts that sounded frustrated, pained.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Mum said suddenly. ‘Come on.’

  She backed away. For a second, she thought Mum was calling to her. But no. The bed was jolting against the wall.

  Later, as she lay in her room, not even feeling drowsy anymore, she thought she heard Mum crying. But then perhaps she wasn’t sure, because when she really listened, she heard only the distant hum of night-time work across the harbour and the thump, thump, thump of a helicopter over the city.

  When at last she fell asleep, she dreamed that she was with Mum, who was wearing a white dress, her hair pulled back tight from her face. Red lipstick, like she sometimes wore. The two of them were standing on the street, out the front of the brothel.

  ‘I’m waiting for him to come out,’ Mum said to her. ‘So we can all go home as a family.’

  ‘Where’s Daniel?’

  Mum turned. Only her eyes held any life, a dark gleam of panic. ‘Who?’

  Mum went with Daniel to school the next day, and by the time she’d come home, everything was sorted. When Mum dug in, nothing could stop her.

  ‘So then,’ Dad said over dinner that night. ‘Did you use your feminine charms?’

  ‘The man who runs the band is obviously a bully,’ she said. ‘So I treated him like one.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I told him I wasn’t leaving until he apologised. He should have spoken to us directly before kicking Daniel out of the band. Telling an eight-year-old not to bother coming back unless he can find his instrument! He’s dealing with children, not army conscripts. I told him to let Daniel back in and to treat him kindly.’

  ‘And did that work, then?’

  ‘Not exactly. I had to keep talking.’

  ‘So what’d you say?’

  ‘I told him you’d come in next.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m glad I’m useful for something.’

  ‘So am I,’ she said.

  Their eyes met, and there was a pause, as if each didn’t know what the other was going to do. Then they smiled at one another and kept eating.

  After dinner, Freya helped Mum clean up, and then Mum lay on the couch for a while, listening to music, while Dad worked upstairs, and Freya sat at the dining room table, doing homework. The television was on. The protests in China had been crushed. No one knew how many people had been killed.

  It was bitterly cold, the small bar heaters barely making a difference in the old house with its draughts and high ceilings. Freya was in bed, under the covers, long before Mum went off to work her night shift.

  15

  The wind was coming straight off the ocean again. Maryanne had never noticed wind as much as she did in this city. Perhaps because she’d never lived so close to the coast, or maybe it was the broader streets, and how quickly the traffic died off once people had gone back to the suburbs at the end of the day. Perhaps—even with the noise of the harbour and the nearness of the hospital—there was just more stillness for the wind to fill, so that you knew it constantly, even in its absence.

  She glanced past her own reflection out to the lights of container ships suspended over the cold darkness of the sea, and then back at the ward, one long, open corridor from one end to the other. Her eyes came to rest on the girl in bed number 15.

  The girl was seven years old, and came from a family of three children, but Kate, the other nurse on duty, had told Maryanne that the youngest had drowned a year ago, in a backyard pool. Perhaps it was this—the thought of that family, with one loss already, the slightly distant look in the girl’s eyes—that had filled Maryanne with an undercurrent of disquiet ever since she’d started her shift.

  The girl had had a tonsillectomy, three hours ago now. Her observations were normal, there was nothing Maryanne could point to, nothing at all—and yet.

  She returned to the girl, took her wrist in her own hand. ‘How are you feeling, Sally?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Can you open your mouth for me?’

  Sally opened her mouth, showing her small, white teeth. The front two were missing. Maryanne shone her torch across the girl’s small pink tongue, checking the cauterised stumps of her tonsils at the back of her throat. They looked purple, a little more inflamed than usual, but there was no blood. Nothing obvious she needed to worry about.

  But still—

  She had learned, in her time as a nurse, to rely on instinct, always knowing that anything might happen, working away in every direction while drawing on a sort of subconscious perception developed through years of experience. A part of you was honed to know more than the rest of you did, attuned on some subliminal level to trouble and ready to respond.

  Trusting it, and trusting yourself, that was the key.

  That was what she’d failed to do on the day she’d left for work—a year and a half ago now—when she’d said goodbye to Roy, when they’d lived that other life together in Sydney, on the day he’d made his mistake.

  He had kissed her goodbye, his lips hard and dry, his eyes unmoving. They’d been fighting the night before. She couldn’t even remember why, did not know so much the substance of the exchange that had led into their fight, only its shape, the sudden twist of words that had opened something beneath them, and there they’d been, sliding into it. He hadn’t hit her that time, but he’d come close, and maybe it would have been better if he had. Her arm had been bruised where he’d held it. He’d wanted to hit her and had somehow pulled back from the edge. They’d gone to sleep without talking and woken up in silence, exchanging only a few scraps of talk in the morning before she had to go. There’d been that look in his eyes as they kissed, empty and dangerous and difficult to pin down all at once.

  Daniel had already been awake. He’d been playing with his Lego in the living room. She’d kissed him goodbye while Roy looked on.

  At the door, she’d hesitated before leaving. ‘Why don’t you drop them off at my mother’s?’

  He shook his head. ‘They’re my children. I can look after them.’

  Maryanne had gone to work, and then the day had taken over. That early morning unease had almost left her until the moment, that terrible moment in the afternoon, when they had phon
ed her.

  She was leaning over the bed, holding her breath as she checked Sally’s pulse.

  ‘When can I go home?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Probably tomorrow.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  The girl’s face fell a little at that news.

  ‘You know,’ Maryanne said, ‘I have a son your age. I hope he’s asleep right now.’

  ‘I’m not sleepy,’ Sally answered, lifting her chin.

  ‘That’s okay.’ Maryanne winked. ‘You’re in hospital. You don’t have to go to sleep if you don’t want to. I won’t tell anyone. Let me know if you want something.’

  ‘Ice-cream.’ A bargaining look came into the girl’s eye. ‘And some jelly?’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find some.’

  She smiled at the girl again and went to the main desk.

  ‘I’m worried about the girl in bed 15,’ she said to Kate, who was sitting there doing paperwork. ‘Who’s covering the ward?’

  Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Dr Davis.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Kate said.

  ‘Right.’ Maryanne picked up the phone. ‘Best call him then.’

  Ten minutes later the resident came shambling in. Dr Davis was a cumbersome, untidy-looking man who couldn’t have been much older than she was, with a broad face, ruddy features and small, cold eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and a shape to his body that constantly made his shirt pull out of his trousers. There was an ironic edge to his voice whenever he spoke to the nurses, as if he knew something they didn’t.

  ‘So who is it then?’ he said, as he walked with her to the girl’s bed.

  ‘This is Sally,’ Maryanne said. ‘She had a tonsillectomy today.’

  ‘Hello, Sally,’ he said, giving a perfunctory smile and checking the girl’s chart. He looked into her mouth with his torch and then nodded.

  Maryanne followed him back to the nurses’ station.

  ‘She’s perfectly okay,’ he said.

  Maryanne shook her head. ‘There’s something not right about her.’

  Davis looked Maryanne up and down. ‘What isn’t right about her?’

  ‘It’s just…well, something intangible.’ She felt stupid trying to explain it, not because she thought it was stupid, but because of the way he was looking at her.

  ‘Intangible,’ Dr Davis said.

  ‘Yes. The obs are fine, but there’s something not right about her.’

  ‘The obs are fine,’ he said.

  ‘I know, but I have feeling—’

  ‘You have a feeling.’

  She held her ground. ‘I’ve been doing this a long time.’

  His lips pulled back slightly from his teeth. ‘I’m covering three wards tonight, so maybe you should give me a call if the obs change. What’s that song? More than a feeling? You know that song, don’t you?’

  Maryanne stared after him as he walked off. Kate was sitting at the station, watching him walk off too.

  ‘What’s black,’ Kate said, ‘and hangs off an arsehole?’

  Maryanne looked at her. ‘You want me to answer that?’

  ‘A stethoscope,’ Kate said. ‘It’s always a stethoscope.’

  Maryanne kept taking the obs. In between other patients, in between checking the lines and changing drips, in between administering medication and receiving more patients from the theatre with more badly written instructions from doctors, and comforting the family who sat in the dim light around the grandmother in bed 7 who had died two hours ago. In between keeping an eye on the man recovering from a bowel resection in bed 8 and making sure his saline irrigation wasn’t leaking. In between small conversations with the young man in bed 11 who was only now starting to understand that his leg was gone for good. She was always careful with the young men who had lost a limb. They were always the most likely to do something stupid—never let them tell you that women were less rational or more emotional. She would never forget once, back in Sydney, the one who went out to the balcony on his crutches, hobbling on his one leg, and—before anyone one could come close—swung over and vanished to the footpath four storeys below.

  But whatever she was doing around the ward, she did not long take her eyes off the girl. She brought her jelly and ice-cream and sponged her upper body, taking in every small detail as she did—its lightness, its fragility, so reminiscent of Daniel, the way her fingers seemed to sink into the meagre flesh of the girl’s arms to rest on the thin bones. There was nothing much to point at, but still she found herself waiting, watching.

  Maryanne called the resident back in again on the hour.

  ‘Her condition’s changed then?’ Dr Davis said as he joined her by Sally’s bed.

  ‘There’s something going on,’ she told him.

  ‘She’s just had an operation.’

  ‘Look, I’m not an idiot.’

  He put his hands up. ‘There’s no need to get defensive.’

  She took a breath, kept her voice level. ‘It’s not like I’m calling you back because I miss your company.’

  Something deflated in him, if only slightly. ‘I’ll look again. Because I’m here.’ He peered into the little girl’s mouth. ‘No blood. The ligatures are holding. It’s all good. Nothing to worry about.’

  She walked after him as he headed towards the exit. ‘There’s also the colour of her skin. Can’t you see that?’

  He turned on his heel beside the nurses’ station. Kate was pretending to focus on her paperwork, but not putting too much effort into the pretence. Air puffed out of the corners of his mouth. ‘There’s nothing here that can’t wait until morning. I mean, it’s getting late.’

  ‘I think you need to call the specialist.’

  He laughed incredulously. ‘Do you ever stop? Even if you think you’re not joking, you are.’

  He walked off stiffly.

  ‘He’s angry now,’ Maryanne said. ‘But so am I.’

  Kate looked at her and smiled. ‘He’s a real ladies’ man.’

  ‘I’m sure he makes someone very happy.’ Maryanne picked up the phone and dialled the specialist.

  It rang a long time, and then a voice answered, tight, alert. ‘Yes?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Dr Godfrey? Sorry to call you. This is Maryanne, at surgical. I have a seven-year-old girl here.’

  ‘The girl with the tonsillectomy. What about her?’

  ‘Something’s not right with her.’

  ‘Has the resident seen her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does he think?’

  ‘He’s not sure either.’

  ‘Then why isn’t he calling me?’

  ‘Okay, he doesn’t think you need to come in. But I do.’

  ‘And why do you think I need to come in then?’

  She told him what she’d told the resident. She waited. It was silent at the other end of the phone. She realised that she was expecting him to laugh or come out with some cutting comment, and she was ready for it, ready to fight, to threaten, to see what she could force through.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ he said. ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘If it was my child—’ She paused. ‘You know the history of the family, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If it was my child, I’d want the specialist to be here.’

  ‘Let me know if anything changes. I’m only half an hour away.’

  ‘If something happens, I think it’ll happen quickly. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘Thanks for calling.’

  ‘I’ll document that I called you.’

  If he considered that a threat, he didn’t let on. ‘That’s good. You should.’

  And then he too was gone. As she jotted down details of the call, a cold, frustrated fury boiled inside her. If she was right, what good would it do, what would it matter to the girl if she wrote it down?

  Sally was lying on her side. There was a laboured sou
nd to her breath now: a ragged quality to each exhalation. The tub of jelly was untouched on her bedside table, the ice-cream melted beside it. Maryanne sat her upright, leaned her over a pillow to help her breathing, ran a hand along her back. Her skin was clammy. Maryanne could feel her ribs, and the rasping meagreness of each breath.

  ‘I’m going to stay with her,’ she told Kate.

  It meant Kate would have to take over the rest of the ward, would have to work twice as hard, but she just nodded. She at least didn’t need convincing. They’d worked together enough times now to trust each other.

  ‘Tell the resident to come back up too,’ Maryanne said.

  ‘He’s not going to like it.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve talked to the specialist.’

  Kate laughed. ‘Got it.’

  Maryanne sat down, enclosed the girl’s small hand in her own, and waited.

  A brain injury. Her son had suffered a brain injury. That was what they’d told her over the phone that day. There’d been an accident. After the call she’d gone straight from the hospital she worked at to another one nearer to home. They’d been operating on him when she’d arrived, and been in there for an hour already. They’d had to drain away blood from inside Daniel’s skull. Roy had been sitting in the waiting area, his face ashen. When he saw her, he began crying.

  ‘The police,’ he said. ‘They want to talk to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They think—’

  ‘What?’

  He shook his head. His eyes cut up towards her. ‘I don’t know.’

  She was standing over him, staring down. ‘Did you do something?’

  ‘God, Maryanne,’ he’d said. ‘He’s my son. My son.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. It was stupid.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I pushed him. He hit the table.’

  ‘You pushed him?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to, not that hard, but yeah. It’s not what I told the police, though.’

  ‘What? What did you tell them?’

  ‘I said he tripped. You know what the cops are like. You think they’d let it go, if I said I was involved? It was an accident.’ He lifted his hands to his face.

  ‘Roy—’