The January Wish (28 page)

He nodded and pointed to a leather zip-up folder under the chair. Sylvia unzipped it, allowing it to lie open on the floor. Inside were what appeared to be copies of blood test results, prescription forms, handwritten notes, and a compartment holding a pill dispenser which Sylvia immediately opened, taking a pill and placing it inside Mr Benson’s mouth. ‘Let it dissolve under your tongue, okay? It’ll take the load off your heart and help it get more oxygen. Now concentrate on taking slow deep breaths—in and out,’ Sylvia breathed the words as Mr Benson tried to slow his breathing.

Mark shifted back and forth from one foot to the other, adrenaline bubbling up inside. He went to ask if there was anything he could do, but refrained, as Sylvia looked like she had everything under control. And no doubt she’d yell orders if help was needed. He
could
help reduce the anxiety by applying some acupressure, a simple way of assisting the body without any acupuncture needles, but he’d never seen Mr Benson as a patient before, and he might become more anxious if Mark began pressing on his skin without understanding what he was doing.

Sylvia placed two fingers on Mr Benson’s wrist and looked at her watch for a few seconds. Within a minute or two, his breathing slowed and his chest relaxed a little, however the deep furrows on his face still conveyed pain.

Dr Bronovski came out of his room to see if his assistance was needed, but Sylvia shook her head, so he motioned to his terrified-looking patient sitting awkwardly in a chair to come through for her consultation, although her head remained turned in the direction of Mr Benson. Like a car crash, you couldn’t help but look at.

Sylvia checked her watch again. ‘Okay, how bad is the pain now on a scale of one to ten?’

‘About seven,’ Mr Benson replied.

Concern creased Sylvia’s forehead, and she turned her face towards Mark. ‘Mark, could you get the portable BP monitor from my room?’

Mark nodded and dashed through the hallway. He grabbed the one from his own room instead which was closer to the waiting room, and gave it to Sylvia who wrapped the cuff around Mr Benson’s arm and pressed the inflation button. Mark leaned discreetly over to see the blood pressure reading. It was actually quite low. Uncommon for a man of his size, unless he’d overdosed on anti-hypertensive medication, but when associated with chest pain it could indicate a heart attack.

Sylvia took another pill from the container. ‘Take another pill now, hold it under the tongue.’ She put it in Mr Benson’s mouth and reminded him to breathe slowly.

Five minutes later, Mr Benson was still reporting his pain as a seven. Mark hoped like hell he’d make it to the hospital in time without going into cardiac arrest. They had an emergency defibrillator in the storeroom, but Sylvia had mentioned that in the time she’d worked at the clinic they’d never needed it. Yet.

Through the clinic windows Mark saw the ambulance at the bottom of the hill, so he went outside to wave it over. A middle-aged female paramedic and what looked like a young recruit followed Mark inside as he explained the situation. Sylvia told them what medication she’d given and when, and Joyce brought over a print-out of Mr Benson’s patient file.
Good thinking Joyce,
Mark thought. Although it looked like Mr Benson’s whole medical history was inside his leather folder. Mark picked it up and carried it outside as they wheeled the patient into the ambulance, and handed it to the older paramedic as she got into the back with Mr Benson.

‘They’ll take good care of you, Mr Benson, hang in there,’ Sylvia said before they closed the ambulance doors.

Sylvia had been amazing. So calm, efficient, and caring. No wonder she was popular. She may believe that her way was the only way, but she did her job well. Although maybe now she’d refer patients for acupuncture and herbal treatment after having experienced the benefits herself.

As Mark watched the ambulance disappear down the hill, its siren waking up the neighbourhood, he realised that if Mr Benson survived, then Sylvia had quite probably saved his life by acting so quickly. He also realised something else. Without Sylvia in his life he wouldn’t have made any headway in moving forward through his grief over Cindy’s death. Sylvia’s presence, although triggering his guilt at first, also motivated him to move on. If they were going to make a go of things, he needed to step up and take responsibility for himself.

It was time to save his own life.

The rest of the day couldn’t go fast enough, and by the time Mark arrived home that evening his blood was filled with adrenalin for what needed to be done. He chucked his wallet and keys on the kitchen bench and charged straight into the spare room.

He lifted the largest box first, and ripped off the masking tape holding it closed. He tipped the box upside down and piles of clothes fell out into a heap on the floor. Various fitness outfits, jeans, tops, and…Cindy’s wedding dress covered in a protective slip. A sudden sense of her presence made his knees buckle and head dizzy, but through gritted teeth he picked up another box, ripping it open and tipping it over like a wild animal on a rampage for food. Books, CD’s, and magazines spilled out on top of the clothes. The next box was heavy, so he pulled out the items one by one—various trinkets, candle holders and framed prints. Things that made a house a home. He opened another box, tipping its contents on the floor, and then another, until all the boxes were empty and the floor was littered with the rubble of his grief, his own kind of Ground Zero.

Splinters of pain wedged themselves in his heart as he sorted through the pile, bit by bit. It could take him hours, all night even, but Mark didn’t plan on stopping till it was done.

Sylvia was finishing off her ham, cheese and tomato sandwich out on her back deck when a knock sounded at the front door. Curious furrows creased her brow. Grace wasn’t due for another few hours. The weather was uncharacteristically warm for this time of year, and Sylvia reluctantly stood from her sun-drenched chair and walked through the kitchen to the front door.

‘Mark, hi,’ Sylvia said. ‘Come in.’ She thought he might give her a ‘hello’ kiss or even a hug, but he didn’t.

‘Thanks,’ he said, giving his shoes a quick wipe on the doormat before walking inside. ‘Have you heard anything about Mr Benson?’

‘Yes, I called the hospital this morning. It
was
a heart attack, but he’s stable now,’ Sylvia replied.

‘Good to hear. It’s lucky you were there to help him.’

‘It’s lucky you rescheduled him to Friday for me, otherwise he may have had the heart attack at home with no one there to help him.’

‘Team effort, then.’ Mark smiled.

‘Yes, a team effort.’ Sylvia smiled back, then noticed Mark’s smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

‘I won’t stay, I know you’ll be helping Grace get organised for tonight.’ Mark scratched the back of his head. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’m going away for a little while.’

‘You are? When, where?’ A wave of discomfort rolled through her body. Mark still wasn’t ready. She knew it’d been a bad idea to let him kiss her again.

‘I’ll still be at the concert tonight, but I’m leaving tomorrow morning. Going to see Cindy’s parents to give them some of her belongings I’ve been holding onto. Then I’ll take a drive up north, go camping and spend some time in nature.’ Mark stood there with his hands wedged in his pockets. ‘I’ve spoken to Joyce, she’ll let my patients know. I’ve already called those booked in for Monday. I feel bad, but this is something I need to do,’ he said. ‘I’m no good to my patients if I can’t be one hundred percent focused on them.’

Sylvia’s head nodded up and down, while her heart shook side to side in protest. But she had to let him go so he could figure out what he wanted. If he wanted
her
. ‘When will you be back?’

‘Not sure, shouldn’t be too long. I’ll reassess after a couple of days and let Joyce know. I just need to go with the flow for a while and have time to think.’

Sylvia nodded again, while mismatched words moved around her mind, trying to sort themselves into a coherent sentence. She’d never go away somewhere without knowing when she’d be back. Heck, she’d never go away without having a detailed itinerary broken into hourly increments. Something inside told her she should try it sometime. Head off into the sunset and see where the road led. Be spontaneous. Maybe Mark had come into her life to teach her that.

‘Well, I guess I’ll be going. I’ll see you tonight anyway,’ Mark said, leaning forward and giving her a light kiss on the cheek.

Again, it seemed all Sylvia was capable of was nodding.

‘Take it easy on that ankle for a while.’ Mark pointed to her foot. ‘No climbing ladders or running around the block, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘And tell Grace I said good luck for tonight.’ Mark walked down the steps and got on his bicycle, and Sylvia’s eyes followed him as he rode off down the hill.

Later that afternoon, Sylvia woke from a brief nap and went to the kitchen to boil the kettle. While she waited for the rewarding pop of the switch as the water boiled, she unloaded the dishwasher. Glancing out the kitchen window, she saw Nancy Dillinger sitting as still as a statue on a wrought-iron bench in her garden. Her eyes were closed, and for a moment Sylvia thought she might be dead, what with Mr Benson’s close call and Mark’s dead wife playing on her mind. She went out on the back deck to get a closer look, and saw Nancy’s chest rising slowly up and down. Phew. Sylvia realised she must simply be taking advantage of the warm sun. It was good to see her outside, getting some vitamin D.

At the exact same moment, Nancy opened her eyes and looked right at Sylvia, and a sudden pop burst from the kettle. Sylvia jumped backwards a little, her hand flying to her heart. It was like in a horror movie when you think the bad guy’s dead and then he opens his eyes. Sylvia gave a feeble wave and called out. ‘Hi, Nancy. I was just, er…’ She looked at her watch. Grace would be there in just under an hour. ‘…Wondering if you’d like to come over for a cup of tea?’ After years of neighbourly waves and nothing more than a simple ‘hello’, Sylvia had finally broken the ice.

Nancy’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh, um…I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘No trouble. I’ve just boiled the kettle.’

‘Um,’ Nancy said, looking at her watch. ‘Reruns of
The Golden Girls
will be on soon, so um—‘

‘I have scones,’ Sylvia interjected. ‘With jam and cream.’

Nancy pushed herself up from the garden bench. ‘Well, in that case. I’m sure you don’t want them to go to waste.’ She walked to the front of her garden with quite efficient speed for someone in their late seventies. Although the promise of a Devonshire tea could get many a tired body moving—Sylvia was surprised she hadn’t done a hop, skip, and a jump over the side fence to arrive sooner.

Sylvia went through the kitchen and opened the front door just as Nancy was walking up the steps, and she led her out to the back deck to take advantage of the low sun before it faded away. Sylvia set down a plate of scones, still steaming after she’d heated them in the microwave, and went back in to get the tea, milk, and sugar.

‘These are delicious,’ Nancy said with a piece of scone in her mouth. ‘Did you make them?’

‘I’d like to say yes, but no. Picked these up from the bakery this morning.’ Sylvia lathered a scoop of cream onto a scone and lifted it to her mouth.

‘So, you don’t bake?’ Nancy glared at her like she’d sinned.

‘Sometimes. But I prefer to cook meals rather than cakes and things.’

‘Do you cook butter chicken?’ she asked with a fierce curiosity.

Just how much could Nancy see through that window of hers? Sylvia had cooked that only a week ago. ‘Yes, I cook a mean butter chicken, actually.’

‘A what?’

‘Many. I’ve cooked it many times.’ No point trying to explain that
mean
means
really bloody good.

‘Oh. Good. That’s my favourite meal, you know.’

It looked like Sylvia now had Nancy’s stamp of approval. ‘Well in that case, I’ll be sure to drop some over to you, next time I cook it.’

A sudden glow lit up Nancy’s face. ‘Please do. That would be delightful.’

‘How long have you lived next door, Nancy?’ Sylvia asked, after she’d swallowed the last mouthful of her scone.

‘Thirty-six years and four months.’

Sylvia smiled. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who liked to be specific with things. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, was there a
Mr
Dillinger?’ Sylvia covered her chin with her teacup, blowing the surface of the liquid into tiny ripples as gentle steam circled above the cup.

‘Oh yes. But I divorced him,’ Nancy stated.

‘Sorry about that. So, how long have you lived alone here?’

‘Thirty-six years and four months.’

‘Oh.’ Sylvia realised that amount of time was more than the whole time she’d been alive. Such a long time to be alone.

‘I’m not lonely you know,’ Nancy piped up, seemingly reading Sylvia’s thoughts. ‘I like living alone. I get to watch the shows I want to watch. Don’t have any dirty towels or smelly socks to pick up from the floor. And besides, I have eight hundred and fifty-seven Facebook friends to keep me company.’

Sylvia almost inhaled the mouthful of tea she’d just sipped. Nancy Dillinger was on Facebook?

‘Don’t look so shocked. I did a seniors computer course at the community college a while back, so I’m pretty nifty with the internet. Although I don’t use that tweeter garbage or whatever it’s called. How anyone can have anything useful to say in one hundred and forty characters or less, I have no idea.’ Nancy sculled the last of her tea and placed the cup back on the saucer.

Sylvia held in a snort of laughter. Nancy was probably more technologically savvy than many teenagers. Certainly more than her. Sylvia had a Facebook account but never checked it. ‘And did you and Mr Dillinger have any children?’

Nancy softened a little and nodded her head. ‘One daughter,’ she said, staring into her empty teacup. ‘But she died when she was twelve.’

‘Oh, Nancy. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’