Ken McClure - Past Lives

He could see that Jane did not recognise him or anything to do with her surroundings. Her eyes flitted all over the room and she mumbled almost continuously. It disturbed him that even her voice seemed different to what he remembered. He recalled a pleasant, quietly spoken, reserved woman who had thanked him for explaining her condition to her and outlining the course of her operation.

Despite the seriousness of her problem, she had kept her sense of humour and had commented on his name, saying that she felt safe in the hands of a “fellow Scot”. She herself was the daughter of second generation immigrants; her maiden name was Campbell. Macandrew remembered wondering at the time why such a pleasant woman had come to marry the brash Tony Francini and had put it down to opposites attracting.

Jane now had a deep rasping voice. Her eyes had changed too; he couldn’t quite put his finger on it but there was something about her expression that alarmed him. She sounded deranged but her facial expression suggested intelligence rather than madness.

‘Mrs Francini, do you remember me?’ asked Macandrew firmly but gently. ‘I’m your surgeon. You’re in hospital. You’ve just had a serious operation but you’ve come through it well.’

Jane Francini’s head stopped moving and her face turned towards him. He saw that she was afraid. She started to speak again and a torrent of unintelligible words swamped Macandrew. Jane Francini’s hands reached up to grab the lapels of his white coat as if imploring him to do something, but what?

‘Take it easy,’ he soothed. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s going to be all right. Just relax and get some rest. You’ll feel better real soon, I promise.’ Macandrew gave her a sedative.

In an almost seamless transition, the look in Jane Francini’s eyes changed from fear to puzzlement; her voice also changed. She now spoke in a soft young voice, as if she was a little girl but quite coherently. She looked appealingly at Macandrew. ‘I have to get back now. It’s getting dark. My mother will worry if I’m not home soon.’

‘Where’s home, Jane?’

‘Fulton Grange.’

Macandrew looked to the two nurses who shook their heads but before he could ask Jane anything further, she grew very tired as the drug took effect and her head fell back on the pillow.

‘I’ve given her enough to keep her out for a while,’ said Macandrew. ‘This business isn’t going to do her heart condition any favours.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked the younger of the two nurses in the room.

It was a simple question and Macandrew found himself wishing he had a simple answer other than, ‘I don’t know.’

With Jane sedated and sleeping peacefully, Macandrew returned to Saul Klinsman’s office, albeit with some trepidation. He wasn’t looking forward to another verbal assault from Tony Francini. When he entered, he found Francini sitting in Klinsman’s green leather armchair, nursing a drink; he could smell it on the air; it was brandy. He appeared to have calmed down although Klinsman was still speaking to him in appeasing tones, assuring him that nothing had gone wrong at the operation. The tumour had been removed cleanly and without complications but he had to understand that his wife might still be very ill; it all depended on what the lab report said about the tumour itself.

‘How is she?’ Klinsman asked as Macandrew came into the room.

‘Sleeping. I’ve sedated her.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Francini. His earlier aggression had been replaced for the moment by vulnerability. His eyes appealed for answers.

‘Quite frankly Mr Francini,’ said Macandrew softly, ‘I haven’t come across anything quite like this before.’

Francini slumped forward in the chair and then re-donned his tough guy mantle. ‘I should have taken her to LA,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Letting some hick with a knife loose on Janey wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever done.’

Macandrew took the insult stoically. The man was hurting. Klinsman moved uncomfortably in his chair behind the desk as Francini went on to slate the Med Centre as if no one was present. ‘Fucking two-bit hick dump...’

‘Mr Francini,’ began Macandrew in controlled fashion.

Francini looked up from the floor and Macandrew almost recoiled at the dislike he saw there in his eyes. ‘Your wife is sleeping; she’ll be out for some time. Why don’t you go home and get some rest? We’ll call you if there’s any news.’

Francini got up slowly and came towards Macandrew. Macandrew held his ground and did his best to remain motionless when, in reality, his brain was warning him to take some defensive action. Francini stopped short in front of him and stabbed his finger into his chest. ‘If I lose her...’ he warned. ‘If I lose her...’ Francini turned and walked out of the room.

Klinsman let out his breath in a long sigh and Macandrew slumped down in a chair and closed his eyes. ‘I thought he was going to hit me.’

‘He might still,’ said Klinsman. ‘Just don’t hit him back. We’re in enough trouble.’

Klinsman’s comment had not entirely been concerned with ethics. Macandrew was a surgeon but he was built like a light-heavyweight boxer. He was at least six inches taller than Francini and probably weighed fifty pounds more. Although his features were refined and his manner gentle, he’d always felt his size was a disadvantage in his chosen profession. Joe public preferred that neurosurgeons be slim and studious — preferably with a mid-European accent and wearing rimless glasses. To be tall and broad was fine for a lumberjack but in the operating room, people started equating size with clumsiness and wondering about dexterity. Even his name was wrong; John Macandrew sounded more like a ranch owner than a doctor. Operate on my kid? The hell yuh will...

‘I really don’t know what’s going on,’ said Macandrew wearily. ‘I only hope it’s some weird reaction to anaesthesia and she’ll be OK when she wakes up.’

‘You and me both,’ said Klinsman. ‘The Med Centre can do without this right now.’

‘What do you mean by “this”?’ asked Macandrew, displaying uncharacteristic paranoia.

Klinsman looked at him dispassionately and said, ‘I have to think of the Med Centre’s reputation, Mac. Mistakes can lead to damaging publicity, not to mention lawsuits.’

‘There was no mistake,’ Macandrew insisted. ‘It was a textbook operation. The tumour was removed cleanly and in its entirety. There was no damage done to any other area of the brain. We haven’t had a full path report yet, but there was no surgical damage. Period.’

Klinsman held up his hands as if in self-defence. ‘I’m not suggesting you screwed up Mac,’ he said. ‘Believe me. It’s just that I’m sitting in the hot seat and we have a patient who appears to be, for the moment at least, post-operatively damaged.’

Macandrew calmed down and thought for a few moments before deciding that there was no point in continuing the conversation. He got up to leave.

‘Keep me informed,’ said Klinsman.

Macandrew paused for a moment outside in the corridor, suddenly feeling very alone. On the way back to his office, he felt sure that people were looking at him accusingly out of the corner of their eyes. He told himself it was probably his imagination — and it was — but he was still relieved when he reached his office and closed the door behind him. After a few minutes of just sitting at his desk with his chin resting on his folded hands, he picked up the phone and called the path lab. ‘Any word on the Francini case?’

‘One moment please.’

Macandrew glanced out at the reddening sky while he waited. It would be dark soon. Not exactly the perfect end to a perfect day.