Owner of a lonely heart
Early next morning, Patrick arrived at his office still elated from yesterday's success. He was also looking forward to his day. Later this morning, he would hand over any duty connected to the TB project to Phyllis and then, finally, be able to cut back on his long hours a little.
To celebrate the day, he had suggested he pick up Timothy from school a little early and they would spend the afternoon with ice cream and shopping for some new DVDs and other things around the market.
Patrick had just poured himself a cup of coffee, when his phone rang. "Shelagh, good morning!" he exclaimed. "I am still energized from yesterday. What a day we had."
"Yes, indeed," Shelagh chuckled, amused at his outburst. "Listen, Patrick, I am sorry to bother you, but is it possible that I left one of my folders in your car? I carried some paperwork with me yesterday and I am missing a green paper folder."
"Well, I did not notice anything but let me check and I will call you back." Patrick hung up and hurried outside to his car. He spotted the folder lying in the foot area of the rear seat through the closed window and immediately called Shelagh back.
"Shelagh, your folder is in my car. Do you want me to bring it round?" he asked.
"No, thank you, I would not want to impose. I can pick it up later. I have some errands to run this morning and will be all over town anyway. I can be at your office around noon. Would this be all right?"
"Of course," Patrick replied. "I will be around."
Almost three hours later, Patrick walked across KCMC campus. He had to deliver some paperwork to the Dean's office and wanted to catch some air after the long handover session with Phyllis.
When he passed by the entrance of the emergency room, an ambulance arrived. He spotted a white woman on the gurney being wheeled inside. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Just as the door closed behind the paramedics, he knew: The woman was wearing a blue scarf, just like Shelagh's.
Patrick felt his heart race and his breath caught. He clutched the folders he held under his arm tightly against his chest and spurted inside the ER. The woman was the only case staff were working on in the resuscitation area. Patrick approached the scene and felt like he must suffocate when he recognized the woman on the gurney: It was indeed Shelagh.
She was unconscious. She had a few cuts in her face, other injuries were not visible from where he stood. Patrick opened his mouth, he felt like screaming, but no sound came out. He stood frozen like a statue, unable to move. Suddenly he felt someone tugging at his arm.
"Mister? Mister? Are you her husband?" A nurse was trying to get his attention. He looked at her as if he did not understand her words. "I am sorry, Mister, but you cannot stay here. You must go to the waiting area immediately."
The nurse had to talk at Patrick for several minutes and eventually drag almost violently at his arm until he was able to move. He realized that he of all people should know he would only stand in the way of the medical staff. But the thought of leaving her alone made him sick to his stomach and he needed to force himself to move.
Just before he was to turn around towards the door, he spotted the blue striped scarf on the floor next to Shelagh. Patrick quickly walked over, lifted the scarf and shook it lightly to get off any dust. Then he slowly went towards the waiting room, watching out for Shelagh as long as it took until the door to the emergency room shut.
The waiting area was almost empty, save for an elderly woman with a girl the age of Timothy who seemed to be her granddaughter. Patrick threw the folders he had been holding carelessly on a chair and sat down on the one next to it. He buried his face in her scarf and breathed in her scent. He panted with bitterness. This was as close as he had ever come to take her into his arms. He got dizzy from her sweet scent. Soap, something with lemon, perhaps, he thought.
Patrick let out a groan and jumped up, still clutching the scarf, pressing it to his chest. He began pacing the room, not caring that the elder lady and the young girl watched him intently. He took out his cigarettes and tried to light one while the scarf was draped over his left arm, but his hands were shaking so much he hardly managed. When he finally succeeded, he stood still until the cigarette was completely smoked. He instantly lit another one and then a third one, without any effect on him.
He began pacing the room again and wondered when somebody would come talk to him about her condition. He painfully was taken back a little over one and a half years ago when he had been in a similar situation and Marianne's life had been at stake. He thought how ironic it was that he had been waiting in this exact same waiting room back then. Never again had he wanted to go through these agonizing hours, and here he was.
Then it dawned on him that he had no right to receive any information about Shelagh. He was not related to her, not by any kind of private or professional relationship. And most likely Shelagh would not even want him to know anything about her status. She was his love, his secret love, but not his lover, he thought bitterly. And he was not hers.
Since he had white skin and a hospital badge, he would probably be given any information he asked for, but he hated to play out his privilege. Technically, Sister Julienne would probably be considered Shelagh's next of kin and Patrick suddenly felt embarrassed about not having thought earlier about informing her. He pulled out his phone from and dialled her number.
Sister Julienne arrived barely fourty-five minutes late, followed by Fred and Trixie.
"Dr Turner, how is she? What happened to her?" the nun asked, voice trembling.
Patrick shrugged his shoulders. "I am sorry, I have no clue. I happened to pass by the ER just when the ambulance arrived but I have not yet spoken to anyone."
One more hour passed until a doctor came into the waiting area. He informed the group that a truck whose brakes had been failing while driving downhill had hit Shelagh. She had just gotten off a taxi in front of the KCMC compound when the truck came running and had not been able to evade the vehicle.
Shelagh had suffered a traumatic brain injury, her left leg was broken and her left lung punctured. She had also suffered an injury to the spine but with the available means, the doctors were not able to assess the severity of that latter injury. She was now being transferred to the ICU until she was stable and the doctor recommended having her evacuated to Nairobi or a British hospital, depending on what her health insurance would cover.
Sister Julienne's face had lost all colour; it was almost ashen. Trixie had to blink back her tears and even the unshakeable Fred had to sit down because his legs would no longer sustain him.
Patrick, too, felt tears sting in his eyes. Everything should be done to save her – and right now, he was not able to do anything, even though he was a doctor. Her condition was very serious. Patrick was appalled by the irony in this case. Only a few weeks ago, on their way to Arusha, they had talked about how traffic accidents were among the main causes of deaths in Tanzania. Now her life was hanging by a thread and he was not even allowed to see her, to sit with her.
A nurse arrived and fetched Sister Julienne who was allowed to sit with Shelagh for a while. Trixie and Fred sat next to each other holding each other's hands while Patrick had retreated to one corner of the room, leaning against the wall, occasionally lighting a cigarette until the packet he had bought the same morning was empty.
While he slowly walked to the waste bin to discard the empty packet, his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and felt another punch in the gut. Timothy. He had forgotten to pick up his son.
"Timothy!" He exclaimed, "I am sorry, I am on my way." He hung up, not allowing his son to even utter one word, conceding to the fact that his son would now be even madder than he already was. But he felt that if he now explained the situation, he might just break down on the spot.
Patrick told Trixie and Fred that he needed to go to pick up his son and asked to be informed about any news regarding Shelagh. Then he hurried to his office to pick up his bag. He almost bumped into Tom on his way out. Not feeling inclined to explain anything to his younger colleague, he only shouted: "Late to pick up my boy!"
Patrick did not bother to fetch his car but jogged the way to the compound of the International School. Even though the school was so close to his workplace, pupils were not allowed to leave the compound on their own. Hence, Timothy always had to wait for his father to pick him up, even when he was late.
Timothy sat on a bench near the gate, flicking through a comic book. Already from afar, Patrick could spot his son's disappointed expression. When he came nearer, Timothy angrily spat: "Don't give me any more excuses. You just forgot as you always do."
Patrick, out of breath and with sweat running down his temples sat down next to his son and swallowed hard. "Timothy, I am sorry. Yes, I forgot, but there is a reason."
Timothy breathed in and wanted to complain even more but his father shut him down by firmly squeezing his arm. "Timothy, Shelagh had an accident this morning. I have been waiting for news from the ER all day, this is why I forgot. I am sorry."
Patrick looked Timothy in the eyes, his face deeply worried. He saw his son's expression change from anger to shock. "Dad, Shelagh? What happened? Is she…?"
"No, Timothy, she is alive and in the ICU but she is in critical condition."
Patrick saw Timothy's eyes fill with tears. It tore his heart and he pulled his son into a tight embrace. It felt almost like the day Marianne had died, so suddenly and without warning and he knew that this was exactly what his son remembered now.
They clung to each other for a long moment until Patrick said: "I think we should get out of here. How about go someplace, have our ice cream?" Timothy snuffled and nodded, his expression still terrified. Then, father and son got up and walked back to the KCMC compound.
Later, when it was already dark outside and they had finished their dinner, Patrick and Timothy sat down in their living room together and Patrick dialled Sister Julienne's number. She did not answer and Patrick put down his phone. Then he put his left arm around his son's shoulder and drew him to his chest. He lowered his cheek onto Timothy's hair and they listened to each other's breathing and heartbeats. They had sat like this very often in the days and weeks following Marianne's death, trying to seek comfort in each other.
A few minutes later, Patrick's phone rang. It was Sister Julienne.
When Patrick hung up, Timothy impatiently shouted: "How is she, Dad? Tell me, she is doing okay?"
"No news, I am afraid," Patrick replied. "Sister Julienne said that Shelagh is in a medically induced coma, meaning the doctors have put her to sleep which will help her body to heal. They hope that she will remain stable throughout the night. In this case they will be able to fly her out to London tomorrow on a medical evacuation flight."
What he had not told Timothy was, that, while still in the ER, Shelagh's heart had stopped several times. As of now, the doctors were not yet able to determine whether her brain had suffered any permanent damage. Sister Julienne had almost cried and had told him that she would spend the night with Shelagh until Trixie would take over in the morning and accompany her friend on the evacuation flight.
It had flashed Patrick's mind for a second suggesting he might go with Shelagh instead. He was a doctor, after all - but then he thought how ridiculous this might sound. He had no business whatsoever going with her, she had closer friends than him. What's more, he could not just leave his son and felt ashamed of not thinking about him.
After Timothy had gone to bed, Patrick went to the porch, sat down with his head resting heavily in his hands, elbows propped up on his legs, and cried. Last time he had cried so heavily it had been the day of his wife's death. Now it was the day he might have lost the one woman who had been able to show him a way out of his grief – but she might never know.
As during the time of Marianne's death, he felt utterly helpless. He was a doctor, but what good came out of it when he could not save the women he loved? He also felt desperate. Why had he never mustered the courage of telling Shelagh how he felt about her? Now he might never get the chance to do so. He felt sick to his stomach and almost threw up his dinner.
Much later, Patrick felt as if he was empty, no longer able to cry. He rubbed his face with his hands and suddenly noticed that it had become much too chilly to sit outside in a shirt with rolled up sleeves. A look on his watch showed him that is was already past midnight and he slowly got up. He was certain he would not find a wink of sleep but he made himself go to bed.
The next morning, Patrick had decided to stay at home with Timothy as the boy was still upset by the events of the prior day. Phyllis had gladly agreed to cover for him. The minutes dragged on until it was eight-thirty, a time, Patrick considered appropriate to enquire about the latest news regarding Shelagh.
He called Sister Julienne again. This time, she answered her phone immediately. She was still at KCMC where Shelagh had just been loaded into an ambulance taking her to the plane for her medical evacuation to London.
Patrick drew in a relieved breath. He was thankful for the doctors at KCMC who had saved her life so far, but he was painfully aware that they were in a developing country. The sooner she could be evacuated to a better equipped hospital, the better her chances.
He thanked Sister Julienne for her update, hung up the phone and explained everything to Timothy. They spent the rest of the day at home, watching DVDs, eating sweets and trying to stay out of Teresa's way. Patrick kept checking his phone every few minutes, even though he was aware he would most likely not receive any news. Now that she was stable and evacuated, no one would probably think of contacting him on a regular basis.
That night, he sat again outside, this time without crying but still in pain. He still agonized over his inability of never having talked to her about his feelings and now possibly being too late. Even though she would have arrived in London by now, her condition was still critical and he knew very well that complications might occur any time.
Suddenly he could no longer bear the pain. He threw away his half-smoked cigarette and jumped up. He went inside and paced around his living room when suddenly his eyes fell on the small mahogany tableau he had had made for Marianne from a local carpenter for their first Christmas in Moshi.
If he could not tell her in person, he could at least write the words down for her and hope that one day, she might read them. He had not written a letter by hand in – he could not even remember. For the most part of their early years together, he and Marianne had lived in different cities or even countries. This had been the time prior to mobile phones and emails and he still had their many letters neatly bundled and carefully packed away in a cardboard box among their household items kept at Granny Parker's house.
He had enjoyed writing them and to his deep satisfaction, Marianne, a professional writer, had always praised his style and his way with words.
Patrick retrieved a few sheets of paper from the tableau and went to fetch his favourite pen from his bag. Then he sat down at the dining table. It took him several attempts to get into a flow of writing, but once he stopped, he only finished after he had filled two entire sheets.
Patrick folded the papers and put them into an envelope which he then put away into the drawer of his nightstand. He decided that as soon as she would regain consciousness he would send his letter.
