In the corner behind Joanne, a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform failed to keep the disapproving glare from her features. It was aimed at Joanne.
‘I want him to have this cream. I will administer it myself,’ Joanne insisted. She sounded close to hysterical.
The man was trying to be sympathetic to her concerns but wasn’t budging. ‘Mrs Bleakwith, I cannot allow that. Your husband’s condition will be treated according to my instructions. There is no need for you to worry. The cream you are holding is exactly what the nurses here are applying twice daily.’
‘That’s what I already told her,’ claimed the nurse in the corner, speaking for the first time since I arrived. Her expression was savage, not helped by a face that only a mother could love. ‘She kept saying her cream was the right stuff and that it was a new tub she picked up this morning.’ That she had been arguing with Joanne before the doctors arrived was clear in the nurse’s exasperated tone.
The male doctor offered Joanne kindly eyes. ‘Nurse Growler is a respected member of the team, Mrs Bleakwith. Her team will ensure your husband is given the right treatment.’
As if his calm demeanour was the flame lighting her fuse, Joanne exploded. ‘NO! I want him to have what his doctor prescribed. He has been under the personal care of Dr Kimble for more than a year now. If you start messing with his treatment, you’ll set him back months.’ She was close to tears.
I wanted to say something. Hovering in the doorway as I was, I felt like I was eavesdropping, but there was no lull in their conversation.
The doctor went to Derek’s bedside. ‘Mrs Bleakwith, I have discussed your husband’s condition with several of my colleagues and a leading dermatology consultant. No one can explain why his condition is as bad as it is, but I can assure you, we will get him better. The injuries from his fall are superficial and he could wake up at any time. I know the police will be keen to speak with him when he does.’
Joanne sobbed, still clutching the large tub of cream as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat. ‘I just want him to get better and come home. This whole thing with his skin and his joints has been such a nightmare. You really think you can find a cure?’
The young doctor reached across to place a comforting hand on Joanne’s shoulder. ‘We have a biopsy of his skin for testing. Your husband’s condition appears to be nothing but a really bad case of dermatitis, one that ought to have been cleared up with the cream you have so diligently been applying. However, we are checking to be certain there is nothing more sinister attacking his skin and will have an answer in a few hours. As for his joints, that looks to be an acute case of bursitis. We can treat that too, but first we must determine what is causing it. The symptoms are most unusual both in their severity and their presentation.’
Joanne’s head was down, her eyes closed as she fought her misery.
Using the hand still on her shoulder, the doctor steered Joanne back toward the door and they finally spotted me standing there.
As if the sight of me were the catalyst, the dam holding back Joanne’s tears finally burst and they came forth, her shoulders shaking as sobs racked her body. The young doctor stepped away as I stepped in.
Putting an arm around her shoulders, I did my best to try to soothe her. ‘He’s going to be all right, Joanne. That’s what the doctors said. You just need to give it time.’
‘It’s all been so awful, Felicity,’ Joanne cried into me. I was taking her weight on my shoulder, my head turned to the side which gave me a view of Derek.
I remembered him as a little boy at school. Best friends with John Ramsey despite how John treated me. His face, indeed all the parts of his skin that I could see, were red and blotchy and there were open sores visible. He looked a terrible state. No wonder Joanne was so worked up about it.
I gave her some time to weep, staying quiet until she got her breathing under control again. As I expected, she broke the embrace we were in, pushing away and embarrassed by her public display of emotion. In moving, her scarf came free, floating to the floor.
As I bent to pick it up for her, she said, ‘Goodness, I must look such a mess,’ she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Meeting my eyes, she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Felicity.’
I waved off her apology. ‘It’s perfectly all right.’ I could remember how unable to control my emotions I had been in the weeks following Archie’s death. ‘Here.’ I offered her the scarf, holding it out for her. When she took it, I said, ‘That goes with your outfit really well, did you get it somewhere local?’ I was just trying to say something nice and offering an opportunity to change the subject.
She took the offered accessory and stuffed it into a coat pocket without commenting or thanking me. Then, her expression changed as a question suddenly occurred to her. ‘Did you come here to see Derek?’ she asked.
Now on the spot, I found myself questioning why I had come to the hospital. I was
