Blood Entwines (2 page)

Rosemary banged the heel of her hand against the Perspex window. She felt so useless. She had insisted on staying in the viewing suite to watch.

Kara was
her
responsibility, the last remaining tie to Patrick and the life they'd had together. And now the doctors were letting her die. She could see her stepdaughter, her body unresponsive on the operating table. A sob escaped Rosemary's treacherous lips, tears blurred her vision, but she could not look away.

They were cutting Kara's beautiful hair. First with sturdy silver scissors they cut chunks of matted mahogany, greasy with road dirt and dried blood. Then the shaver peeled off flurries and finally wisps of hair so light that it could be carried on the gentlest of breezes. The operating team trampled on the discarded hair as they gathered around Kara like a flock of feeding vultures, prodding her, attaching wires, wiping her skin with pads dipped in dark orange fluid.

The equipment around the operating table beeped, the noise urgent, demanding a response. The red digital number on one machine kept climbing, counting into the hundreds. Rosemary's attention was focused on the heart-rate monitor, its screen showing the slow, laborious beat of Kara's heart, struggling to keep going, straining to keep her alive.

The surgeon cut an incision two inches long at Kara's temple. Blood oozed. Rosemary turned away, bending over, resting her hands on her thighs and breathing deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

‘I will not be sick,' she said, her lips pursed together. Touching her forehead with cool fingers, she closed her eyes, counting silently to five.

She would watch every minute in the hope that her presence would give Kara strength. Straightening up she returned to her position at the window, her arms folded, her hands tucked in tight.

***

He heard them congregate around him, the gentle wheeze of breath in and out, cold hands grasping his wrist. He wanted to twist away, to pull back, but he was stuck, ridged, his body solid in paralysis. What were they doing
?

No! You fools
.

Not that, anything but that
.

The pierce of needle into his flesh
.

He could feel every press, every pinch, every hand on his body. But he could not retaliate
.

Anger curled within him
.

They had stolen from him. They had taken the one thing that had the power to destroy them all. It was his burden, his responsibility
.

How could he make amends for the actions of other people
?

***

The door to the theatre swung inward and a nurse in blue scrubs pushed an IV drip stand towards the table. She spoke with the doctor, her words urgent, her body language tense. The blood for the transfusion arrived. It was a rare type, Kara's type, the same as her father's. Rosemary leaned forward, stretching her neck so she could see. The surgeon nodded, gesturing to his colleague to finish the job, to sew Kara's skin together, delicate stitches with a needle that shone silver in the light of the theatre.

The nurse draped a bag of blood over the drip stand, connecting it to a port in the back of Kara's hand. They were giving her an infusion, bag after bag of platelets, filling her till she was stuffed with someone else's blood.

Slowly the liquid moved down the line into her body, a streak of red in the opaque, plastic tube.

Please let her be OK, please
.

Rosemary shifted her weight from one foot to the next, balancing on the balls of her feet as if ready to sprint.

They'd had a disagreement that morning, Kara and Rosemary, over something trivial, the tension building between them. It was an almost daily occurrence, this quiet bickering. Kara hated Rosemary. There was no denying that fact. Since the police report into Patrick's death things had been . . . difficult.

‘No!' The memory of Kara screaming, her face tear-stained. ‘It's not true. It's
not
true. You're a liar.' The detective standing there, his hands like chunks of meat, useless by his side.

‘Say something!' Kara crying, pleading with Rosemary to challenge the report, to declare the outcome ridiculous, but Rosemary had been too tired to fight any more.

Kara could not remember closing her eyes, yet here she was, wrapped in a warm cocoon of darkness. She was on the cusp of fully falling, of losing herself completely to sleep. The notion appealed to her. She was tired. Why not have a little rest?

I've lost my shoes, she thought, drifting on a wave of semi-awareness. She could feel her toes tingle, like when you put your feet into hot sand at the beach. Her skin felt different too, downy, like a newborn baby's. She pulled her mind away from the lull of sleep. Something was bothering her, an annoying wisp of afterthought. What had she been thinking about? She must try to remember.

Silky warmth travelled through her body from her toes to her legs, her torso, her arms, right the way down to her fingertips. It felt nice. She sighed contentedly and let her consciousness drift by, lazy and uninhibited.

But there it was, that annoying thought. Why couldn't it leave her alone? She just wanted to sleep, to drift.

Think
!

Exasperated, she heaved her mind into action, trawling through the boxes of memories.

A voice, female, reassuring and supportive. No, that wasn't it.

Red, fire-engine red. Her mind skidded away from the image as if scalded.

She tried again. A name. That's what she was looking for. The heaviness and warmth threatened to distract her again, pulling her away from solving the mystery. No, no. Just concentrate for a minute more, she told herself. A name, yes that much she knew, but whose name?

B. The letter sprang to her mind like a rapid reflex.

B for boy. Yes, she thought to herself, that was it.

A boy whose name begins with . . . Bill? Bobby? Barry?

No, no and no. Not the right name.

An irritating buzzing began somewhere in the distance. It sounded like an irate bee. She was distracted from her task as she listened intently. The buzzing grew louder, coming closer, humming towards her, circling to the right side of her head. She wished that she could open her eyes, move her hand, swat the irritation away, but she couldn't.

The sound reminded her of the dilapidated electric shaver her dad used to use. When she was little she supervised his morning shaves. She would dutifully watch at the alabaster sink as he neatly trimmed his beard.

A crack in her memory. She hugged the jagged piece of pain to her heart. She must not think of him. The only way she felt better was if she didn't think of him.

The buzzing increased and swooped near to her right ear and then away. Swooped again, coming closer. She didn't like it. It was too loud and she was getting cold, very cold. She wanted to concentrate on remembering.

Why was it so cold?

B is for . . .

The name, think of the name.

Ben Shephard. That was it! She smiled to herself in triumph.

The buzzing stopped. All was quiet. Then the pain came. A silent scream erupted in her mind. She could not move, could not cringe away as it burned and seared through her body. First her chest then her arms, legs, her face, eyes, ears, lips; they were on fire, painful, excruciating fire, and she wanted to die.

If she could just die, then the pain would stop.

Rosemary looked down into the operating theatre. One of the machines stopped beeping and for a moment silence hung in the air, curling in tendrils like mist. The heart rate monitor was crashing, the green line indicating Kara's heart beat faltering, the space between the peaks and troughs lengthening.

The surgical team froze for an inhale of breath, then moved as one, congregating around Kara, hands moving fast, needles injecting into the soft flesh of her arm; a machine rolled to her bedside; words fired from one doctor to the other, none of which Rosemary could hear.

Instead she watched horrified as the nurse peeled back the surgical gown, exposing Kara's chest. Rosemary could lip read the words
cardiac arrest
.

The nurse squirted clear gel on to stainless steel paddles, handing them to the surgeon. He shouted something and they all stepped back as if afraid that death was contagious. The surgeon pressed the paddles to Kara's chest and sent a volt of electricity through her. In an unconscious holding of breath, they all leaned towards the patient expectantly. The heart rate machine remained silent for such a long time. Rosemary counted the seconds in her head, each one excruciating.

Then a beep; a green peak on the screen. Then another beep; a trough. Slow at first, then more regular the
beep, beep
of the machine matching the
thump, thump
of a pumping heart.

Rosemary exhaled. Kara was alive.

The girl's limbs began to shake, bouncing against the hard surface of the table, her spine curved to breaking point. The tube in her mouth dislodged, and her hand fell off the side of the operating table, the electrodes peeling from her skin.

‘Kara,' Rosemary called, her entire body pressed against the glass divide.

The nurse next to the IV drip flung herself across the patient, anchoring the flailing limbs, holding Kara's body down. Another nurse leaned over Kara's legs, weighing them. The surgeon stabilised her head and neck and for a full minute the team waited for the convulsions to stop.

There was an exchange of worried glances, the lifting of an eyebrow, the dart of a pupil.

Something was wrong.

Jenny was the first to hear the news. Her dad let it slip as they drove to the Chinese for Wednesday night takeaway.

‘Big surgery today at the hospital,' her dad said, trying to engage his daughter in conversation.

‘Hmm.' Jenny was thinking about Ashleigh and their plans for the weekend.

‘It was a pedestrian, knocked down on Howe Street.'

‘Ya.' She tapped the screen of her mobile, scrolling through Youtube.

‘Think it was a senior from your school.' Her father glanced at her, taking his eyes off the road for a moment.

‘A senior?' Jenny asked. ‘Who?'

‘Now, Jen, you know I couldn't tell even if I knew. I simply do the accounts. No access to patient files.'

‘Aw, Dad, come on . . . this could be big news. Think!'

Her father shrugged. ‘Just that it was a senior. A girl.'

Jenny leaned her head against the window, squinting as she thought about the seniors who walked home along Howe Street.

Maybe, she thought, nah, it couldn't be. Could it?

‘Dad,' she said. ‘Can we go the long way to the Chinese? I need to stop off at a friend's to pick up some study notes.'

‘Sure.' Her dad turned off at the next junction, looping across to the other side of town.

Jenny flicked to her Facebook page. Nothing there except a lame post from Craig Crowley about the Halloween dance.

What a troll! He tried to put his hand up her skirt at the St Patrick's Day parade last year. It wasn't the first, and probably wouldn't be the last, time a guy tried to do that, but with Craig Crowley Jenny drew the line.

‘Pull up here, Dad, number eighteen.' Her father parked the car at an awkward angle next to the footpath. Jenny got out slowly, scanning the street in both directions.

Number eighteen was completely dark, no lights turned on. It could be that they hadn't come home yet. She walked up the garden path, fidgeting with the sleeve of her jumper. What would she do if she got to the front door and someone answered it?

Her foot crunched on something, the sound of cracking beneath her boot made her jerk to a stop. She peered down into the semi darkness, lifting her leg gingerly. On the bottom of her boot was a string of something congealed. She peered closer at the stringy substance.

An egg.

Looking around she noticed another egg on the grass nearby, as well as an apple and a tin of beans. There was a half empty bag of shopping abandoned on the porch. Jenny stood perfectly still for a moment, calculating the potential repercussion of her discovery. Someone had just left the groceries there, at the front door, interrupted in their task by the receiving of bad news perhaps?

Taking out her phone she began to text as she made her way back to the car.

Where are you
?

She pressed ‘send'. Ashleigh had anger-management class after school on a Wednesday but she should be home by now. Why wasn't she on Facebook?

Jenny was in love with Ashleigh. She would do anything for her, including kiss a boy. If it meant that Jenny and Ashleigh could have something in common, something to talk about constantly, something to shop for, dress for, apply make-up for, then Jenny would do it. She didn't care what it was, as long as she got to spend time with her best friend.

‘Nobody home?' asked her dad when she got back into the passenger seat.

‘Hmm.' Her mind was working overtime.

They drove in silence the rest of the way to the Chinese.

‘I hate the smell of takeaway in my hair.' She turned and looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Is it OK if I wait here?'

‘Anything you like, precious.'

He banged the door loudly and trudged off to get their dinner.

Jenny picked up her mobile and speed dialled. She imagined Ashleigh lying on her bed, her long hair falling around her shoulders, her slim legs tucked underneath her, lips slightly parted . . .

She shook her head and tried to concentrate but the memories wouldn't go away.

‘Hi, my name's Kara.' The new girl, her first day at school. She was pretty. Too pretty. Jenny remembered the calculating look on Ashleigh's face. In her opinion it was best to keep potential threats close.

‘You can sit with us.'

Everything changed after that. Two became three. Ashleigh didn't seem to care about the rumours: whispers about Kara's breakdown, about being a pyromaniac.

Jenny drew in a deep breath as a velvet voice answered the call, ‘Hello.'

‘Ashleigh,' she began, pushing the memory away, ‘you're never going to believe what's happened!'

Ashleigh rolled her eyes. These mandatory calls from Jenny were such a pain. She was in the middle of painting her nails. Her toes were drying a perfect crimson. She was getting ready for her visit to Ben's house. She hadn't been invited, but that wasn't going to stop her.

She would have to be less subtle in her threat about the scout from St David's. Ashleigh looked at the business card on the table. She had stolen it from her dad's wallet earlier. All it would take was an anonymous text. She was prepared to give Ben a second chance. The business card would be enough to show that she was serious about the consequences. Ben wasn't completely stupid.

‘Well, Jenny, what is it? What haven't I heard?'

It took approximately two minutes for Jenny to gush out the details of the accident. For once Ashleigh was silent, listening to everything Jenny had to say.

Poor Kara, in hospital, major surgery . . . Jenny was practically panting on the other end of the phone.

Ashleigh mumbled something noncommittal and told Jenny she'd call her back. Then she hung up, placing the phone reverently on the vanity table in front of her. She stared at the mobile, processing the information, storing the important bits for future use and discarding anything that she thought unnecessary. She sat very still and analysed how she should proceed.

She still needed to visit Ben, to remind him that she was not to be crossed. On reflection, she realised the whole situation might work to her advantage.

She looked into the mirror above her vanity table. She puckered up her brows and moved her lips into a mournful line. She needed to practise looking distraught. It was an appropriate reaction when one of your best friends has been in an accident. Maybe she could get some time off school, extra credits towards her course work.

Sometimes she got very weary of pretending all the time, but only when it involved not getting her own way. The rest of the time, it was perfectly fine.

She considered the Halloween dance. She would of course be going with Ben. He wouldn't refuse her. Now.

She thought about her cream dress and decided that it was totally wrong. She opened her laptop and logged on to ASOS. She knew exactly which dress she would get, one that would blow Ben's mind.