In Sheets Of Rain - Nicola Claire Page 0,41
Sean.”
“Why not?”
She was definitely crying now.
“Because we love him and he’s part of the family.”
“Mum. I can’t bring Sean. We’re not together anymore. But I can be there.”
“But everyone will ask where Sean is.”
“So?”
A sob slipped down the line. A hitched breath followed. My knuckles began to ache.
“I haven’t told my sisters yet,” my mother wailed.
“Why not?” I whispered.
“Because I can’t face them! Because I’m so ashamed. What will they think of me? Of us? Raising a daughter who could do this? What will they say?”
I stared at the wall and said nothing.
What was there to say?
31
Yeah, All Right
“The cardiopulmonary bypass machine adds oxygen to the blood that is pumped from the inferior vena cava during heart surgery. Then once oxygenated, it replaces the blood back in the patient’s system via the aorta. It’s a simple process to draw in diagram form.”
Suit Guy — Michael — quickly outlined the device I was meant to be selling on the whiteboard.
While I thought about Weet-Bix Guy.
“This here is a reservoir for deoxygenated blood removed from the body,” he said. Then drew a squiggle. “This is the oxygenator.” Another squiggle and a round thing. “This is the pump that returns the oxygenated blood to the body,” he added.
While I thought about Joe, the gigolo.
“The perfusionist is solely responsible for the management of the physiological and metabolic needs of the cardiac surgical patient.” He drew a stick figure beside the heart-lung machine. “He’s the guy you’ll be working with the most. Forget the cardiac surgeons. The perfusionist is your gatekeeper.” He drew a large heart shape around the stick figure. “Win him over, and you’ve won the sale.”
He turned around and looked at me. While I thought about angels singing. And elevators not working. And kids hiding in crashed cars.
“Now you draw it.”
You have got to be kidding me.
His lips twitched.
“It’s a lot to take in, huh?” he said. I nodded.
He looked back at the diagram and frowned.
“I guess I’m no Picasso,” he mused.
“Actually, I’d say you’re more Picasso than Renoir.”
He laughed. “OK. Let’s take a break. You hungry? Like coffee?”
I nodded my head eagerly. “Now, if they made a cardiopulmonary bypass machine for caffeine, I’d be able to draw you a diagram with my eyes shut.”
He laughed as we exited the meeting room.
“It’ll get easier,” he said, as we walked out to his car.
I wasn’t sure if he was just talking about the bypass machine.
“Are you familiar with the cafes around here?” he asked.
“Not in Epsom, but we used to park up in front of Starbucks on Broadway while waiting for our next call.”
“Starbucks,” he said unimpressed. “I’ll take you somewhere, which will blow Starbucks from your memory banks forever.”
“Bring it,” I said.
We sat at an outdoor table as happy and conversely harried pedestrians strolled past. The coffee was good. Michael watched me while I watched the shoppers.
“So, how’s the book?” he asked.
“The book,” I said.
“Yes. Where were we? She’s just started standing up for herself. Hope is on the horizon. Has she found her happily ever after yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“It’s difficult.”
He frowned. “How so? Tell me.”
“Do you really want to know?” I asked.
“Yes, Kylee. I really want to know. Tell me.”
I stared at the shoppers and Michael sipped his coffee.
And I said, “Sometimes people don’t want the heroine to win at all.”
“I can’t believe that,” he said. Mock shock making him raise his eyebrows to ludicrous levels.
“It’s true,” I said, laughing. “To stand up for herself, she has to hurt some people.”
“Ah. The age-old ‘hurt them to help them’ routine.”
“I don’t think she’s helping them,” I remarked.
“Is she helping herself?”
I thought about it. Then nodded.
“Yeah. She is helping herself. I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s hard. Everything’s hard. Her friends don’t understand. Her family is disappointed. Her…”
“Her?”
“Her husband is broken.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah, oh,” I replied.
The pedestrians kept on walking. The shoppers clutched their prizes. My coffee got cold.
“Tell me something, Trolley Girl,” he said.
I lifted my eyes to his.
“Do you want the heroine to win?”
I blinked.
“Well, yeah,” I said.
“Then let her win. It’s your story. You write it. Let your heroine win.”
I stared at him, and he stared at me.
And I said, “Yeah, all right.”
32
Untouched And Not Touching
My heart beat erratically, matching the knock on my front door. I dusted my hands down my jeans and stared around my small lounge, making sure everything was in its place. I fluffed the pillows on the couch while the person knocked again. Harder.
Counting my breaths, I straightened up and took the steps necessary to greet them.
My sister