Chapter 22
Ican’tbe sick
‘Hey, loser,’ Pav said as he slammed Jamie’s office door behind him. Jamie glanced up from the audit he was going through to jerk his chin at Pav before looking down again. Pav sighed. ‘So we’re still going with the miserable-bastard routine, are we?’ he asked, plonking himself down on the chair opposite Jamie’s desk and lifting his feet up to rest on the meticulously organised papers in the inbox. Jamie scowled at Pav’s feet but Pav just smirked and settled in more comfortably.
It had been two weeks since Jamie’s stand-off with Libby, and yes, he was miserable. He missed her and Rosie so much it was like a physical ache, but he was still so angry that every time he lifted the phone to call her or went to say something to her on the wards he held himself back. That didn’t stop him from thinking about her. He’d seen her at the bus stop a couple of times. Once it had been raining and it took all his willpower to drive past the damp woman and child (he had broken and phoned Pav though, offering to write up his Morbidity and Mortality meeting notes for presentation just so Pav would drive them home).
‘Listen up, Misery Guts,’ Pav continued, his normal jovial tone now laced with irritation. ‘I know this is no longer “any of your business”, but Libby was in my theatre today.’
‘Pavlos, that is not exactly big news. Sheisa medical student here.’
‘I had to send her home, you stubborn bastard.’
Jamie frowned and looked up at Pav. ‘Why? Did she fall asleep again?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. She was coughing, badly. I’d noticed it the other night when I drove her home.’
‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ Jamie snapped, a wave of worry for Libby bringing that now familiar feeling of helpless frustration.
Silence stretched between them until Jamie was forced to look up at Pav, who was staring at him, his lips pressed together in a firm line of disapproval and his brows drawn down over his eyes.
‘What?’ Jamie asked, throwing his hands up. ‘She’s not my problem, man. It’s highly unlikely she’d listen to a bloody word I say anyway, so what exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Okay then,’ Pav said, pulling his feet off the desk and causing an avalanche of paper – none of which the lazy bugger made any attempt to clear up. ‘I was under the impression that you cared about her, but I guess, since she’s “not your problem”, don’t trouble yourself. Wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.’
‘Idocare about her,’ Jamie muttered, throwing his pen down on the desk. ‘But she won’t listen to reason and I can’t keep banging my head against a brick wall.’
‘Oh dear,’ Pav sing-songed, ‘did the big baby not get his own way with the pretty lady? Did she not accept your superior wisdom in all things and bow down to your wishes? Grow up, you daft article. She’s been looking after herself and her kid for a long time. You can’t expect her to give up her only source of income because it offends your delicate sensibilities.’
‘It wasn’t like that. I – ’
‘It was exactly like that.’ Pav pushed up from the chair and stood, pointing his finger at Jamie, which in itself was slightly shocking – Pav was not a finger-pointer, he was more of a laid-back hand-wave kind of guy, gesture-wise. ‘You’re problem is you’ve been too privileged your whole cushty life to understand what it’s like to struggle. You can’t understand the choices that girl makes, because you’ve never had to worry about howyouwere going to afford medical school, howyouwere going to payyourrent.’ Pav had a large Greek family. They supported him as far as they could but with three other siblings in the mix it wasn’t that much help financially. He’d had to work the entire five years he was at medical school at the student bar during weeknights, and for a catering company on the weekends, despite the fact that he’d only had to pay minimal rent to Jamie. Jamie’s dad owned a drug company. Before he became a doctor Jamie had never worked a day in his life.
‘Pav, look – ’
‘Don’t bother,’ Pav snapped as he stormed to the door, wrenching it open. ‘Just you go back to your boring privileged well-ordered life and find a nice horsey girl to introduce to Mummy. Forget about Libby.’
The door slammed and Jamie sighed as he sat back in his chair. Maybe Pav was right … but he was not about to go down that rabbit hole again. He pushed away the concern and grabbed the mouse to fire up his screen. He’d finish this bloody audit, go home to his grumpy, sulking dog (Beauty was not on board with this sudden Libby-and-Rosie-sized gap in her life – her usual extremely over-exuberant, drool-filled welcome had been replaced by a brief doggy scowl and a snort of disgust) and try not to think about the look on Libby’s face before she left his office.
*****
‘That is not the right test,’ Dr Morrison said, her eyes not moving from the screen in front of her. Libby felt the sweat trickle down her back and started to feel a little sick.
‘Well, I think they just want to know …’ She grabbed the doorframe and took some shallow breaths, ‘the state of the chest and if it will …’ Willing the feeling of pressure in her chest to abate, she tried to get her breathing under control. The walk here from the ward seemed to have knocked the stuffing out of her again. When would she shake off this bloody cold? ‘… if it will cause a problem for the general anaesthetic.’
‘The history is consistent with fibrosis. The patient needs a high-resolution CT scan.’
Libby had the crazy urge to rip Dr Morrison’s monitor out of the wall and throw it at her head.
‘That’s fine. I’ll go and change it …’ She broke off with a coughing fit and stepped out into the corridor to try and get her breath. The sweat was pouring off her in earnest now as she leaned against the door. When she’d recovered and could straighten up from her embarrassing position bent over double in the corridor, she looked up and straight into Dr Morrison’s eyes. They were an unusual grey colour. Libby had never noticed them before, having never really been afforded full eye contact by the woman. Dr Morrison watched her for a good few seconds, her face giving nothing away.
‘You are not well,’ she eventually said, no pity in her tone, just stating the fact.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Libby told her, but knew it wasn’t overly convincing when her voice cracked at the end. Sweat was beading on her forehead and for a moment she thought she might actually vomit all over Dr Morrison’s designer shoes.
‘You arenotfine,’ said Dr Morrison accusingly, standing up with a sudden movement that only served to make Libby feel more sick. ‘Sit down.’ Dr Morrison hesitated a moment before reaching up and putting her hands on Libby’s shoulders to guide her into Dr Phillips’ vacated chair. Libby was feeling so crappy by that stage, she wasn’t up to making much of a protest.
‘Listen, honestly I’m okay,’ she muttered, pushing her hair behind her ears; but she realised she was talking to an empty office. She sighed and dropped her head into her hands; the humanity she was exhibiting must have scared Miss Perfect away. She glanced at the clock over Dr Morrison’s desk and groaned. It was nearly six and she had to pick up Rosie. She put her hands on the armrests and started trying to push herself up, only to be forced back into the chair by Dr Morrison’s hands on her shoulders. Libby looked up to see that Dr Morrison had wheeled in an observation trolley. Before she knew what was happening a sats probe was attached to her finger, a blood pressure cuff to her arm, and a tympanic thermometer was shoved in her ear.
