Читать книгу Miracle: Twin Babies - Fiona Lowe - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

OXYGEN stats are dropping! Tube him!

More blood, he’s bleeding out!

Flatlining. Stand clear, now!

A lone kookaburra’s raucous laugh vibrated the hot, torpid summer afternoon air, mocking Nick Dennison’s thoughts. Thoughts that were firmly fixed in the past, over one and half years ago before everything in his life had gone pear-shaped. Back in a time when being a doctor had defined him and life had been work, and work had been his life.

Resting back on his haunches after being bent over pulling weeds, he pushed against the trowel and stood up, stretching his back. Sweat ran down his cheeks and he wiped his face against the tight sleeve of his T-shirt, leaving a trail of rich black earth against the soft cotton.

Through the shimmer of the eucalypt-oil heat haze he could see in the distance the small fishing town of Port Bathurst, affectionately known by the locals as Port. Snuggled into the curve of white sand and turquoise water, protected on one side by a treacherous reef and on the other side by a granite-flecked mountain, Port was a glorious work of nature and far from the man-made inner-city life he’d always known.

A wet nose nuzzled his ankle as a ball dropped next to his foot. He glanced down at the intelligent and loving eyes of his blue heeler. ‘Have you rounded up the chooks yet, Turbo?’

The dog cocked his head to the side, picked up the ball and sat down, hope and expectation clear in his expression.

Nick rubbed the cattle dog’s black ears. ‘I take it that’s a yes.’ He accepted the saliva-covered ball and hurled it off into the bracken, watching the dog tear after it. He had once talked to a hundred people a day—now he was conversing with a dog and talking to his vegetables. He’d craved solitude and simplicity for a long time. Now he finally had it.

He heard the phone ringing through the open window of his cottage and instinctively glanced at his watch. Tuesday. Five o’clock. His mother would have just got in from her midweek ladies’ tennis match. He let the phone ring out. Being asked a hundred questions about his health and his lack of future plans wasn’t conversation.

He grabbed a shovel and started spreading manure, losing himself in the joy of being able to do physical work again, closing his mind to everything except the rhythm of the movement.

Dr Kirby Atherton jogged down the long Port Bathurst pier just as the last tinges of orange faded from the cloud-studded sky. Another hot day was on its way, which would make the holidaymakers visiting town happy, but distress many of her elderly patients. She’d only been in town a few weeks but her early morning run was part of her routine. She lacked control over many things in her life, but keeping fit—that she could control. Running both exhausted and exhilarated her and helped keep the demons at bay.

‘Morning, Doc.’ A wide grin sliced across a weather-beaten face.

Kirby jogged on the spot next to a stack of crayfish pots and looked down at Garry Braithwaite, sluicing his fishing boat. ‘Morning, Garry.’

‘Everyone calls me Gaz, love.’

She noted his request for next time she greeted him. Acclimatising to Port was a lesson in letting go of city ways and shortening every long name and lengthening every short one. ‘Good catch?’

‘Not bad.’ He indicated a large white plastic trough filled with crawling crustaceans. ‘These beauties will be in Japan before you’re in bed tonight.’

‘That’s amazing.’ She glanced behind her at the fish co-op which was ablaze with lights. This was its busiest time of day as it accepted the catches of the local fleet. She turned back, a wistful tone in her voice. ‘Are they all going to Japan? Not even a few to the farmers’ market?’

‘Just the ones the co-op rejects. I’ve got about five.’ He started to wind up the hose, his expression cheeky. ‘Do you have a special dinner guest tonight, Doc? Perhaps you should talk to Deano and get some abalone.’

Kirby ignored the inference. In some ways coming to Port had been like stepping back in time. It appeared to be the small town’s opinion that no matter how qualified, successful or independent a woman was, if she was young and single she must be looking for a husband. A few months ago Kirby might have agreed. ‘Save me a small cray, Gaz, and I’ll catch you at the market in half an hour.’

She turned and switched on her MP3 player, and with her feet matching the thumping bass beat she ran toward the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the sweet smell of fruit muffins straight out of the oven and the scent of rich brown earth clinging to freshly picked produce.

She’d been trying to get to the market for the last three Saturdays but each time a sick patient had derailed her plans. Coming to Port was supposed to be the commencement of her GP training but within a week of starting as the town doctor, her mentor had fallen ill. Without supervision, Kirby was flying by the seat of her pants.

It was still early in the season but if the last weeks had been a typical Port Bathurst summer then she really needed some extra help as well as a mentor. She didn’t want to have to move again and find another GP programme, and returning to Melbourne was not an option. Surely there was an experienced doctor with a family who wanted to have an idyllic summer by the sea?

But Port Bathurst wasn’t Lorne or Sorrento, it didn’t have designer clothing shops, the mobile phone coverage was intermittent and the dial-up internet was really more down than up. The glory days of it being a gold-rush port had faded. Today it sat at the end of a very long road, with a large chunk of wilderness between it and the nearest town. Although all these things had been part of the charm that had drawn Kirby to the historic town, it seemed to put most people off. No one had answered her advertisement. Kirby surveyed the slowly building crowd. It was still early so there was a marked absence of teenagers but plenty of empty-nesters clutching well-planned lists, examining the fresh produce and enthusiastically haggling over prices. Toddlers and preschoolers full of energy zipped up and down between stalls, way ahead of their half-asleep parents. A man in his thirties walked past, pride radiating off him as he held his wife’s hand and wore a baby sling on his chest, his newborn snuggled against him fast asleep.

Family is everything. She steeled herself against Anthony’s uncompromising voice but it wasn’t enough to stop the ache that throbbed inside her whenever she glimpsed such a scene. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, rolled her shoulders back and kept walking. Forget eating healthy—right now she needed hazelnut coffee and a hot jam donut.

She unexpectedly paused, derailed in her quest by the sight of an old wooden trestle table groaning under the weight of bountiful vegetables. Arranged in groups for effect, the vivid colours of nature demanded attention. The red and green skins of the capsicums shone, the plump white ends of spring onions contrasted stunningly with the healthy dark green tails, and the ruby tomatoes promised an old-fashioned, rich flavour. The vividness of the colours astounded her and she was struck by how lush and enticing everything looked. These vegetables glowed with good health and were positively sexy.

‘Can I help you?’

The deep voice vibrated the air around her, moving it across her skin like a silk caress and leaving behind a tingling trail of unmet need. Completely stunned by her body’s reaction to a disembodied voice, she glanced up.

Emerald-green eyes, the colour of the bay, gazed down at her, swirling with hints of blue and dancing with undiluted charm. An indistinct memory stirred.

‘Anything take your fancy?’

You. She bit off the word that thundered hard and fast through her head and found her voice. ‘I’ve never seen vegetables like this before. The colours are amazing.’

He smiled and dimples carved into his cheeks, seeming to darken his early morning stubble. Surprisingly deep lines for a man who looked to be in his early thirties bracketed a wide mouth, and unexpected fine lines radiated from his eyes toward short dark hair streaked with silver. ‘Thanks. They’re my first crop of organic vegetables so I feel like a proud dad with his children.’

She raised her brows. ‘Except you’re selling them.’

He grinned. ‘Every kid has to go out and make their way in the world.’

She laughed. He was the most gorgeous farmer she’d ever met. Not that he really looked like a farmer despite the fact he had a cattle dog sitting quietly beside him. There was no sign of a battered hat and his pressed stone-coloured shorts contrasted with a fresh blue-and-white-striped short-sleeved shirt—smart, casual weekender clothes, the type that a man of the city would wear. A gym-buffed man of the city.

Working out in a gym could have given him his broad chest and wide shoulders but not the sun-kissed skin. Skin stretched over taut muscles and was covered by a smattering of golden hair which was in stark contrast to his darker head hair. No, this man’s body emanated a base power generated by sheer physical hard work.

She studied his face. Something about him seemed familiar and yet nothing about him prompted recognition.

His brilliant green eyes danced at her. ‘If you tell me what you’re thinking about, perhaps I can suggest a vegetable to match?’

Horrified that he’d caught her out staring at him as if he was on display like his stock, she randomly pointed to a stack of vine-ripened tomatoes. ‘I’ll take two, please.’ She noticed small white scars on the back of his hand as he reached across the table.

Long, tanned fingers picked up the red, round fruit and placed them lightly against her palm. ‘I recommend you spread hot, grainy toast with the local goat’s cheese in virgin olive oil, and then top it with thin slices of tomato covered with freshly ground pepper and some of my basil. You’ll be licking your lips and fingers to soak up every last wondrous morsel.’

An image of him languorously licking her fingers spun through her, making her dizzy. She’d obviously been working way too hard if her mind could just shoot off on dangerous tangents like that. She’d come to Port Bathurst to start over and to protect herself, and that didn’t mean melting into a puddle of lust at a stranger’s feet.

‘Right, thanks. Organic food and recipes, too. Awesome!’ Can you hear yourself? You sound inane.

He shot her a crooked smile. ‘Enjoy. It’s the small things in life that are worth holding on to.’

‘A farmer and a philosopher?’

A shadow flickered across his gaze for a moment before being absorbed by a world-weary smile. ‘Something like that. Enjoy your weekend.’ He accepted her money and turned to serve his next customer.

A flash of something akin to rejection spiked her, which was illogical and ridiculous. This wasn’t a social situation. He was a stallholder and she was a customer and he had a line of customers behind her waiting to be served. No man is worth it, remember! Her indignant and wounded subconscious kicked her hard, reminding her of Anthony’s betrayal.

Reminding her of why she’d come to Port Bathurst in the first place. A new start—keep moving forward and never look back.

But repeating her mantra didn’t stop a deep line of disappointment rolling through her. A disappointment which was completely out of proportion to the situation. Man, she must be tired, but then again, working flat out for a month would do that to a girl. She tucked some flyaway strands of hair behind her ears and took a deep breath. Just keep moving forward. She turned and walked toward the coffee cart, needing the java jolt and sweet taste of hazelnut more than ever.

The queue for coffee was long and congenial and she chatted to people about the weather, signed a petition to save the old bridge, and listened to concerns about how the new fishing quotas would affect the town’s main industry. Getting to know Port was all part and parcel of being a country GP.

‘There you go, Doc. One skinny hazelnut latte, super-sized.’

‘Thanks, Jade. It smells divine.’ Kirby gripped the cup and headed toward a free table. She put her tomatoes and coffee down and slid into the chair. Carefully easing the tight-fitting plastic lid off the top of the cup, she admired the foamy froth, took a deep anticipatory breath and lifted the coffee to her lips.

The frantic barking of a dog and yelling voices stalled her sip and she turned sharply toward the commotion.

Jake, Gaz’s ten-year-old son, came running toward her, his chest heaving and his face pinched and white. ‘Dr Kirby, Dad can’t breathe!’

She leapt to her feet and yelled out to Jade in the coffee cart, ‘Get the St John’s kit from the hall.’ Then she ran, following the boy back toward his father. The crowd opened up around them, easing their passage through the closely lined stalls. She hurdled some packing cases and in the distance she could see Gaz leaning forward, coughing violently and trying to breathe.

His solid height and weight obscured the person who was helping him. Someone had his right arm around Gaz’s waist and his hand pressed firmly against the fisherman’s chest. Thankfully someone who obviously knew first aid. Kirby hoped he was giving a sharp blow to Garry’s back at chest level.

Kirby ducked around the craft stalls, concentrating on her feet missing cables and desperately wishing for a more direct route to get to her patient. She looked up again. Gaz continued to cough, but his colour was fading from bright red to white.

As she got closer she saw the first-aider was her farmer. He’d just placed both his hands under Garry’s armpits and thrust inwards. Surprise washed through her that he knew this newer and less damaging technique. Most first-aiders still used the older Heimlich manoeuvre. She prayed that whatever was choking Garry would be projected out of his mouth soon.

Just as she reached them, Garry slumped forward, his face blue. Instinctively, Kirby threw herself at him, her shoulder catching him on the chest, preventing him from falling. ‘I’m—’

‘Help me get him down.’ The farmer’s voice held an unexpected authoritative command and a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I’m a doctor, just do as I say.’

Kirby staggered under the unexpected words and Gaz’s weight as she tried to grab his arms. A farmer-cum-doctor? But she had no time to think about that strange combination. All her concentration was on the fisherman who struggled for every life-sustaining breath.

‘Doctor!’ Jade ran up clutching the first-aid backpack which Kirby immediately put on the ground and opened.

‘I need the pocket mask,’ the doctor and Kirby both said at the same time.

Questioning green eyes framed with thick brown lashes appraised her as she helped him lower Garry onto the ground. ‘I’m Kirby Atherton, the town’s doctor.’

‘Excellent. I’m Nick. Let’s get him onto his side and I’ll try more lateral chest thrusts.’ He knelt next to their patient, placing his hands firmly over the ribcage. Using his weight, he pressed with a downward and forward movement.

‘I’ll check his airway.’ Kirby rolled a now blue Garry onto his side and put her finger inside his mouth, hoping desperately to feel a foreign object.

‘Anything?’ The word held hope and dread.

‘Nothing.’ She rolled him back, checked his carotid pulse and chest movements, and called out to Jake. ‘What was Dad eating when he started choking?’

The trembling boy tried to speak. ‘St-stra-strawberry. He threw it in the air and catched it in his mouth.’

‘It will have lodged in his trachea.’ Nick voiced her exact thought.

‘Starting mouth-to-mouth.’ She applied the pocket mask over Garry’s mouth and lowered her head. He needed air but she had no idea if she could she manage to force any past the obstruction.

‘Find me something I can put down his throat that will grip. Try the jewellery stall.’

Kirby heard Nick’s mellow voice instructing Jade as she counted and puffed five breaths into the unconscious man.

The moment she raised her head, Nick applied the same pressure again over Gaz’s ribs, thrusting downward and forward.

Kirby rechecked Gaz’s airway, hoping to feel the firm fruit. Her stomach rolled. ‘Still nothing.’ She gave Gaz another five breaths, panic starting to ripple through her. If they couldn’t secure his airway soon, he’d go into cardiac arrest.

‘I’ve got these.’ Jade came running back and handed Nick a pair of long, thin pliers.

Kirby’s fingers detected a faint beat. ‘Pulse, weak and thready. He’s going to need an emergency tracheostomy to bypass the blockage and avoid arresting. Jenny, pass me the scalpel blade.’

‘Hang on a mo.’ Nick spoke quietly but decisively. ‘Give me half a minute with these sort of forceps and see if I grab the strawberry.’

Kirby didn’t want to waste any more precious time. ‘But we don’t have a laryngoscope for you to visualise the trachea.’

Green eyes flashed with ready understanding. ‘I’ve done it before in EMD.’

A blurry image played at the edge of her mind but immediately faded, overtaken by her focus on the emergency. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Steady his head for me.’

‘Will do.’ His confidence reassured her and she placed her hands over her patient’s ears, two fingers still resting on his carotid pulse.

The scream of the ambulance’s siren broke over the tense crowd, the sound both urgent and comforting as it brought the medical equipment they really needed.

‘Here goes.’ Nick shot her a look that said, Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and lowered the thin, silver pliers into the slack throat of the unconscious man. ‘Can’t feel anything, damn it.’ His long fingers carefully controlled all the minute movements with stunning expertise.

Kirby kept her gaze on Nick’s hand, willing it to find the obstruction. Time spiralled out, each second an agonising wait. Garry’s pulse suddenly faltered under her fingers. ‘No pulse. Get out now. I’m starting CPR.’

Nick immediately pulled his left arm back, and a soft, half-dissolved strawberry hung limply from the tip of the forceps. ‘Got it. Roll him over.’

Kirby moved her patient’s head to the side as he started coughing violently and vomited up a stream of pale pink liquid onto the ground.

Relief surged through her as she checked his pulse. ‘Pulse back, patient breathing.’ She looked up into Nick’s face, as the worry lines on the bridge of his nose faded. She experienced a sense of déjà vu. ‘Lucky save.’

He nodded, a slow smile appearing through the stubble on his jaw. ‘Very lucky.’

‘Kirby!’

She turned to see Theo and Richard, the ambulance officers, running toward her. ‘Great timing, guys. We need all your gear.’ She grabbed the black oxygen cylinder with its distinctive white top and quickly unravelled the pale green tubing. Gently, she lifted Garry’s head and looped the elastic over his ears, adjusting the Hudson mask. ‘This will help you breathe.’

The sick and bewildered man gripped her arm. ‘Thanks, Doc.’ His voice rasped out the words. ‘I couldn’t breathe… It scared the hell out of me…worse than being on the boat in a storm.’

She smiled down at him. ‘I’m glad I was here, but really it was Dr…’ She realised she didn’t know his surname. ‘Nick? I didn’t catch your surname.’

He finished attaching the Lifepak electrodes and scanned the ECG tracing before looking up and speaking straight to Garry. ‘I’m Dr Nick Dennison, and I’m just glad I was two stalls over.’

Nick Dennison. Kirby did a double-take so fast she almost cricked her neck, the name having instant recognition in her brain. But the man in front of her looked nothing like how she remembered Melbourne City Hospital’s up-and-coming emergency care specialist. What on earth was he doing in Port Bathurst, selling organic fruit and vegetables?