28 May 1959
"You know, when I asked you to surprise me this wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Jean murmured tartly. Lucien winced, as much from the bite of her words as from the sting of the alcohol she was using to gently clean the cut above his eye.
"I did bring you that treat," he protested, lifting up the brown paper parcel he held in his hands.
"Sit still," Jean told him reflexively, and he did as he was bid, closed his eyes and kept his hands wrapped tight around the present he'd brought her from the bakery. So far this day had gone spectacularly pear-shaped; a quick chat with Alice had turned into a hunt for clues, and his trip to the bakery had brought him face-to-face with his prime suspect. He'd never been one to let an opportunity pass him by, but a quick, cursory chat had devolved into a brawl right there on the pavement in front of the shop, and he'd been forced to ring Jean and ask her to reschedule his appointments for the day while he tried to set things straight with Matthew. When he'd left the house that morning Jean had been smiling at him, and he'd been imagining a pleasant lunch, just the two of them together, before they decamped to the surgery for her treatment, but he'd missed lunch altogether, and it was Lucien, not Jean, who sat on the examination table now, holding very still while she tended to him.
"Really, I don't know what you were thinking," Jean continued. She'd finished cleaning the cut, and turned away from him to retrieve a plaster.
"He was just there, Jean! I could hardly let him leave without speaking to him."
"Interviewing suspects is a job for the police," she chided him as her hands returned to his face, carefully setting the plaster above his brow. Her touch was gentle, and sure, and though she was scolding him there was a tenderness in the gesture that told him she was more worried for his safety than angry with him for his foolishness. "You're lucky you didn't get any worse than this."
"You should see the other chap," Lucien told her lightly. Above him Jean drew her hands away, and as his eyes fluttered open he found her standing with her hands on her hips, frowning at him.
"He will be all right," Lucien added hastily. "I just...I can hold my own, you know."
As if of their own accord Jean's eyes travelled over his body, and Lucien tried not to look too smug, knowing what she would find when she looked at him like this. Though he was not one to give much time over to the consideration of his physical appearance Lucien did take pains to keep himself fit. He'd made a promise to himself many years before that he would never again feel so weak and helpless as he had done while he'd languished, starving and miserable, in the camp. There was strength enough in his arms, in the breadth of his shoulders, the span of his chest, to protect him from most of the petty dangers life in Ballarat presented.
"I know you can," Jean told him softly, her eyes flickering back to his face. "I just wish you'd be more careful, that's all."
And why should she wish for such a thing, he asked himself. Was it only that she needed him to remain well enough to look after her, to keep her housed and employed, or did she have other, more personal reasons for wanting him to remain healthy, and with her? He knew very well what he wanted the answer to be, but he did not know what secrets lay within her heart, and he was beginning to believe he never would.
"All finished, Doctor Blake," she told him then, stepping away from him, and so Lucien hopped off the table and presented her present to her with a flourish.
"For you, Mrs. Beazley."
Jean smiled at him as she took the parcel from him, and his heart was lighter for it.
"I recall you quite enjoy chocolate," he told her as she opened the paper and peered inside. Having had great success in the past with the simple pain au chocolats Lucien had elected to purchase them once again, and he watched Jean's smile grow, hoping that she was pleased with him. She had done him a kindness that morning, making his favorite breakfast for him and not taking him to task for the way he'd stumbled home drunk and gloomy the night before, and he hoped that in this particular gift she would see his own attempt at making amends, could hear him whispering I know you, and I remember.
"They look lovely, Lucien, thank you," she told him. "I think I'll save them for after."
"Quite right, too," he said, his own good cheer fading somewhat. She was right, of course, right to save them until after her treatment, but her words reminded him of his true purpose in this place, reminded him that she was unwell, and it was time for him to administer the medication that would only continue to make her feel worse.
"Up you get," he told her, and gingerly he took the parcel from her, placed it on the desk while she settled herself on the examination table and he began to gather the things he'd need. Between them he and Mattie arranged the delivery of her medication from the hospital, kept in sealed in its neat little bags in the refrigerator next to Jean's roasts and jars of pickles, and he had fetched one already, and it took no more than a moment to collect the rest of his accoutrements.
When he turned his attention back to Jean she had already rolled up the sleeves of her dress, exposing the crook of her elbow to him, her feet daintily crossed at the ankles and her head lying back on the cushion at the raised end of the table.
"I'm sorry about this," Lucien told her as he gently took hold of her arm, guiding the needle into her vein. Every time they met one another in this place, every time he was forced to prick her delicate skin, he said the same thing, for every time, every single time, he felt terribly guilty, knowing he was the one who had laid her so low. The fact that he had done it in the hopes of saving her life reassured him later, but in the moment he always felt a kind of grief. More so today, for as he brushed his fingertips across the tender skin of her elbow he found her flesh faintly bruised, as if the repeated jabs of his needle had begun to do their work, and gave her pain. Next time he would be sure to use her other arm, and hope to spare her the worst of it.
"It's all right, Lucien," she told him, the way she always did when he apologized. Jean didn't care for needles, and so she kept her eyes closed tight as he stuck her and fastened the IV in place. The work took only seconds, and as soon as it was finished Lucien crossed the room to his desk, and Jean's eyes opened, her hands folding together neatly in her lap. They had an hour, now, or thereabouts, an hour in which they could discuss whatever they wished while the medication slipped slowly into Jean's veins. Perhaps they ought to discuss the events of the previous evening; Lucien recalled very little of it, only knew that he had walked home, drunk as a lord, and that Jean had been there waiting for him when he came stumbling through the door. What had happened after that, what they might have said to one another, he couldn't be sure, but he did know than when he woke he'd been covered by a blanket, and someone had taken the time to remove his shoes. It could only have been Jean, he knew, and he was touched by her kindness, even as self-loathing crept up his throat at the thought of her looking after him in such a state. He had expected to find her cross with him, but she had instead only been kind, and so he elected to leave that unpleasant conversation for a later date. It might be, he thought, that they needn't discuss it all. They could leave the past where it was.
There were other matters of greater urgency that could not be left unseen to, however. Whatever the state of their personal relationship Lucien was still Jean's doctor, and it was his duty, as her physician, to monitor her symptoms and seek to provide care wherever he could. With that in mind, then, he pulled out her file and his pen, and set about the delicate task of asking Jean the sorts of questions he knew she would not want to answer.
"Now, Jean," he began. "I need to keep a record of your symptoms and their severity while you're undergoing treatment. Most of your symptoms are typical side effects but we need to be sure that there isn't anything else going on."
He looked up and found Jean watching him, one eyebrow raised almost in accusation. Lucien swallowed hard, feeling rather as if he been caught in a cage with some furious lion, and continued.
"I understand you've been experiencing some nausea," he said, placing his pen to paper in anticipation of her response to his first question. "About how often, would you say?"
Across the room from him Jean huffed.
"Really, Lucien," she said, tugging absently at her dress, "I'm fine, I-"
"Jean, how often are you vomiting?"
Too often when he inquired after her health Jean grew waspish, and refused to give anything other than the vaguest of responses. That simply wouldn't do; he needed information in order to look after her, and as much as he wanted to keep her happy he couldn't allow his personal desire for her comfort to take precedence over his professional responsibility as her physician. Perhaps now was not the right moment to push her, but if he determined to wait for just the right moment he was certain it would never come. For the next hour he was the doctor, and she the patient; they would resume their more nebulous roles when they left this room, but not before.
She was quiet for a moment; Lucien watched her expectantly, took in the set of her mouth, the hard shine of her eyes, and wondered whether a few pastries would be sufficient to keep him in her good books now that he had gone and tested her resolve.
"Every day," she said at last, very quietly. "At least once or twice. Usually after I eat. More the day after treatment. Less at the weekends."
Lucien scribbled down her answer with an unsteady hand, his heart clenching unpleasantly in his chest. That would be why she'd been having such a hard time, the morning before; treatments were Tuesdays and Thursdays, and so Wednesday must have been an especially dreadful case. By Sunday she would have gone two full days without medication, and he supposed it stood to reason she would feel somewhat improved then.
"How's your appetite?"
"Considering the fact that I seem to...fall unwell after eating, I'm afraid I'm not much interested in food." The words were delivered delicately, as if Jean found it distasteful to discuss her bouts of indisposition in more direct terms, but Lucien understood what it was she was trying to tell him. Food made her ill, and so she did not eat, and the combination had left her growing thinner by the day. Something would have to be done about that, and soon.
"I'll speak with the doctors at the hospital," Lucien told her. "There might be something we can give you for the nausea, so you can eat. It's vital that we keep you fed and hydrated."
As he spoke he scribbled a note to himself; thalidomide had become a popular treatment for morning sickness, and might be used in Jean's case to mitigate her nausea. He'd want a second opinion before prescribing anything, but the thought that he might be able to offer her some aid was a cheering one.
"Now, what other symptoms are you experiencing?" he asked next.
"I think you know my hair is falling out," she told him, and when he looked up at her there was such sorrow in her eyes that he could not bear to hold her gaze. Yes, he had noticed that her soft, shiny hair no longer hung in lustrous curls, but had instead fallen limp and thin. Soon enough there would be none of it left at all, and he knew that Jean was dreading the moment when she must inevitably part with it. That was not something he could treat or stop, however, and the knowledge of his own uselessness in that department was galling.
"And I'm exhausted. I've never been so tired in all my life."
Both of those side effects were to be expected, but Lucien wrote them down anyway.
"Headaches?" he asked her. "Chills?"
"Yes, and yes," she answered.
He had noticed that as well, that she winced at loud noises and kept the fire burning in her parlor all day long. Though she did not know it, he had more than once spent a Saturday afternoon chopping wood in the garden to keep her log store full before making arrangements with a local gentleman in town to have it delivered.
"What about mood swings or hot flashes?" he asked next. "In addition to the medication you have also had a hysterectomy, and that fluctuation in hormones can have a variety of consequences. Are you having any issues with memory or your temperament?"
"Do you take issue with my temperament, Doctor Blake?" she asked him in a scalding voice, and he looked up at her sharply, flummoxed by the venom in her tone. Most of the ladies under his care did not take kindly to the after effects of the change, and most of them did not enjoy discussing it with their male doctor, but he had rather hoped that Jean, being an imminently practical soul not prone to dramatics, might be less easily offended.
"I was only asking-"
"Do you find me changeable?" she snapped.
For a moment Lucien's mouth hung open; the answer was a resounding yes, but he feared that if he spoke that word now she might pull the line from her arm and storm out of the room. When they first met, before this unexpected change in their circumstances, Jean had been as constant and dependable as the sunrise each morning. What pleased her, what didn't, those things had been made very clear to him, and she had seemed to him to possess a steady sort of spirit, not prone to the sudden swings from high to low that Lucien so often experienced himself. Since her operation, however, he had found her unpredictable, barking at him to leave one morning and making his favorite breakfast the next, accepting his care in one moment and spurning him when he least expected it. He had counted her variable moods as no more than a logical response to the upheaval of her life, but it occurred to him now that perhaps more was afoot. He made a note in her chart to discuss medication for the regulation of her hormones when he next visited the hospital, as well; perhaps, he thought, that might put her on more of an even keel. He kept that particular thought to himself, however, for he imagined if he told Jean what he was thinking she'd be more likely to curse him than thank him for it.
"I think you're having a very difficult time of it, Jean," he said slowly. "And given that the way you feel physically changes day by day, the way you feel emotionally will likely change with it. It's not a criticism."
Perhaps he had been too patronizing in his response; her eyes flashed murderously at him, but to his relief she did not offer further admonishment.
"Now," he said. "Is there anything else?"
"No," she said. He rather got the feeling that if there was she wouldn't mention it, but he had enough information for now. Once he'd had a chance to speak to the doctors at the hospital and adjust her medication regimen he would ask her again, and chart her progress. It was his hope that despite the discomfort their conversation clearly caused her it might be all for the good, in the end. It seemed he was hoping for that rather a lot, lately.
With no more questions to ask, and Jean quietly fuming, they passed the remainder of their hour in a pained sort of silence. The morning had started so well, had seemed to Lucien to be a herald of brighter things to come, but then he'd gone and upset her again. Not that it was difficult to do these days, upsetting her, but still, he hated to see her looking so glum, and had no notion how to put things to rights. When their time was through he gently removed the needle from her arm, and the moment he did she was on her feet. Jean left him as quickly as she was able, but it did not escape his notice that she took her pastries with her, and he smiled to himself as he packed his equipment away. However cross she might have been she had accepted his gift, and he was left hoping, yet again, that all was not lost.
