to work…
‘Ah…’
The theatre-collectively Lizzie and May-held its breath.
‘Ah?’ Lizzie said.
‘Colour.’
Colour. She knew what he meant.
OK, for many men one damaged testicle didn’t mean infertility, but often it did. To condemn an eleven-year-old to a lifetime prospect of never becoming a dad…
‘It’s even better than your leg,’ she said in quiet satisfaction, and he cast a startled glance up at her.
‘Hey. We’re talking infertility here. That’s a darn sight less important than losing a leg.’
‘Is it?’ She frowned, still concentrating on her dials.
Harry appeared to think about it. He was starting to stitch, fastening the testis to the wall of the scrotum so it couldn’t twist again.
‘I reckon.’ He told her. ‘Babies or leg? No choice really.’
‘I bet Emily wouldn’t think so,’ May retorted, and Harry gave a rueful grin.
‘That’s because it’s not Emily’s leg.’
‘You wouldn’t give up your leg for a baby?’ Lizzie asked curiously.
‘Well, I might have to,’ he conceded. ‘I mean, if you held up a living, breathing baby called Alphonse and you said to me, “Your leg or the baby gets it,” then maybe I’d concede a leg.’
‘Gee, that’s good of you.’
‘Alphonse would have to be a very nice baby as well.’
‘Emily wants six babies,’ May volunteered, and Harry nearly dropped his needle. He caught himself and concentrated harder, and Lizzie grinned.
‘That’s not a good thing to drop on an operating surgeon, Sister,’ she told May. ‘We could have him faint in Theatre and then where would we be?’
‘He’s just doing needlework now,’ May retorted but she looked a little abashed. ‘I could do that.’
‘Yeah right,’ Harry said. He stitched some more. ‘Six babies?’ he asked cautiously, and May nodded.
‘That’s what she said. Though I concede that maybe I shouldn’t be the one to break it to you. I think you need to speak to your bride.’
‘Phoebe’s likely to have six babies or maybe even more,’ Lizzie volunteered. All of a sudden the grey tinge on Harry’s face had become more pronounced and she was starting to worry. He should be in bed. All she could do was lighten things up and hope.
‘Can we award six art prizes?’ May asked. Like Lizzie, she’d seen the strain descend on Harry’s face and she was prepared to take a lead.
‘Nope. I’ll leave the other five with our Dr McKay. If Emily wants six babies, that’s five of Phoebe’s and if he and Emily try really hard and read all the proper instruction manuals then maybe they can make one all of their own. Their own little Alphonse who they won’t even have to sacrifice a leg to obtain.’
He should smile, she thought. The laughter should come back. But it wasn’t appearing.
‘Dressing,’ he said curtly, and May handed him what he needed with a curious sideways glance at Lizzie.
They’d stepped over a boundary. They knew it. But neither of them knew exactly what that boundary was.
With the anaesthetic reversed and Terry slowly and drowsily coming around to the land of the living, and with his parents reassured, it was time to call it quits. Harry made his way through to the doctor’s quarters, leaning heavily on his elbow crutches, and Lizzie followed in concern.
‘Let me help you get into bed,’ she said, but he shook his head.
‘I can do it.’
‘I’m a doctor, remember?’ she said gently. ‘You’re not going to do a Terry on me, are you?’
‘No, but-’
‘If I leave you alone you’re just going to flop down on your bed and sleep just as you are-aren’t you?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I can see it in your face.’
‘You can see too damned much,’ he said enigmatically, but she was already holding the bedroom door for him.
‘In. Now. Sit on the bed and let me help you undress.’
‘I can-’
‘You can’t. Sit. Submit to being cared for. Now.’
It shouldn’t be personal.
She was a doctor, and he, for the moment, was a patient. How many times in her medical practice had she helped a patient undress? Hundreds, she thought.
It was stupid to avoid this. Harry knew it too. He left his boxers on-a man had some pride-but he let her slip the rest of his clothes from his body and pull on a pyjama jacket. Then he slid back onto the sheets with a sigh of relief and watched as she examined his leg.
‘Is it hurting?’
‘Like hell,’ he admitted.
‘You shouldn’t have been on it.’
‘I hardly had a choice.’
No. Terry would have been in real trouble without him.
‘Can you bear for me to give it a rub?’ she told him. ‘I swear I’ll be gentle.’
‘It doesn’t need it.’
‘You know it does,’ she told him. ‘I didn’t do all that heroic leg manipulation in the pouring rain only to have my patient die of deep vein thrombosis.’
‘I’m not intending to develop DVT.’
‘Not if you let me massage it,’ she said demurely. ‘Come on, Dr McKay. Let the nice doctor do her job. I promise you it’ll barely tickle.’
‘Liar,’ he said, and she chuckled.
‘Be brave, then,’ she told him. ‘If you’re very good I’ll see if I can find you a jelly bean from the kids’ ward as a reward.’
Under the bandages the leg still looked swollen and painful. Lizzie laid the last of the bandages aside and winced.
‘Ouch.’
‘Hey, who has to be brave here?’
‘Sorry.’ She pulled up a chair and sat, making a careful assessment of the wound.
The leg had been broken two thirds of the distance from knee to ankle. The plate and pin had been inserted through a neat incision that would heal really well.
‘You’ll be as good as new in no time,’ she said appreciatively. ‘That’s a very nice scar.’
‘Why, thank you.’ He had his hands linked behind his head and was staring up at the ceiling.
‘If it hurts you, I’ll stop,’ she said gently, and he glared.
‘I’m not scared.’
‘I’d be scared if I were you,’ she told him. ‘Letting me practise my massage skills on you. I’d be scared out of my wits.’
But she didn’t hurt him.
Lizzie had watched the physiotherapists in the orthopaedic wards enough to do no harm now, and to achieve what she wanted. Carefully, skilfully she massaged the swollen leg, keeping well clear of the wound itself. She left the back-slab on, slipping her slender fingers under when she wanted to gain purchase. She didn’t want to encourage movement at this stage. She simply wanted to facilitate the blood supply through the bruised and damaged blood vessels. And ease the hurt.
She took her time. Slowly stroking. Kneading. Over and over, gently and soothingly, taking all the time in the world.
She didn’t speak, and he didn’t seem to want to either. She simply moved her fingers carefully over his bruised
