Fiona Lowe - Letting Go With Dr Rodriguez

For some reason her face felt suddenly hot, which was crazy because she hadn’t even said the man’s name. However, since she’d stormed out of the clinic, each time she’d thought about the raven-haired, accented doctor, this heat-fest flared inside her. She wanted it to stop.

‘He’s not Spanish. He’s from Argentina.’ William’s face sagged, making him look more haggard than ever. ‘So, the only reason you’re in Bulla Creek is because Marco asked you to come?’

She shrugged trying not to let his palpable hurt touch her. She was hurting too, only her reason was much bigger and more life-altering than his. ‘I’m here to make sure you’re getting the right medical care.’

This time William shrugged and when he spoke his voice held the well-modulated tone of a country GP giving a report to a colleague. ‘You can set your mind at ease immediately. Marco is more than competent and the break wasn’t complicated, but even so he insisted on me going to Geraldton to see Jeremy Lucas, the orthopod. As you can see, I’m doing well and I’ve graduated to a walking stick.’

She wanted to believe him, but evidence to the contrary was in front of them. ‘So why the crutches?’

‘I was tired tonight after more walking more than usual so I’ve been using crutches. If you don’t believe me about the break, you can look at the X-rays if you wish.’

‘Dr Rodriguez wouldn’t let me look at anything.’

He frowned again. ‘You’ve been to the clinic?’

She shifted on her feet realising there was absolutely nothing wrong with her father’s lightning-quick brain. It was a good thing except when it pertained to her. ‘I had to drive past the clinic to get here so it made sense to call in first.’

You’re big on self-delusion today .

She kept talking to silence her conscience. ‘But like I said, he wouldn’t give me any information and he told me in no uncertain terms …” she found herself gently stroking the tops of her arms and dropped her hands away fast ‘… that I had to talk to you.’

‘As it should be.’ His lips twitched. ‘Still, I imagine that would have been very frustrating for you.’ The words held the type of understanding that only came from knowing someone for a very long time, and they held a slight hint of censure.

‘It was.’ She braced herself, expecting him to say something about the fact she hadn’t spoken to him in months.

He cleared his throat. ‘As you can see I’m doing fine and the cast comes off in a few days. Sharon comes in each day to cook and clean just as she has all year, and Sue calls in as well. There’s absolutely nothing for you to worry about.’

William rose to his feet and ignoring the crutches used his cane to rest against. ‘Cup of tea?’

She hesitated, rationalising that he sounded fine and he seemed to have everything organised without her help so she didn’t have to stay.

He doesn’t look fine. He looks tired, old and sad .

She didn’t want to think about that because it tempted her to question the decision she’d made months ago. ‘Um … thanks, but it’s been a long day and … um … I still need to check into the motel.’

‘The motel?’ William’s movement stalled and his face paled. ‘Lucy, you know you always have a room here if you want or need it.’ He stared at her silently, not asking her to stay in words but with his hazel eyes which filled with quiet hope.

She swallowed, trying to hold herself together as the long drive, her horrible last two days and the fracas in the clinic slammed into the comforting scent of bergamot, fresh mint and leather-bound books—some of the many fragrances that defined her childhood. Despite the catastrophic disclosure that had changed everything, despite her anger and confusion regarding William and Bulla Creek, the aromas of yesteryear pulled at her strongly, upending her plan of a quick, clinical visit.

Fatigue clawed at her like sticky mud on boots and the thought of having to deal with the questioning looks of Loretta, the gossipy motel owner, was more than she could bear. She was a grown-up, not a child, and surely she could get through one night in this house with all its ghosts. One night of duty to really make sure William was doing as well as he said.

She sank into the comforting depths of the chesterfield before she could talk herself out of it and said, ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’

Lucy squinted against the bright sunlight which poured into her bedroom through the now thin and faded pink curtains. She flipped onto her side, pulling the pillow over her head, but then the raucous screech of the white cockatoos greeting the dawn shocked her fully awake. As her heart rate slowed, she remembered she was lying in her childhood bed in Haven, back at Bulla Creek.

This time her heart rate stayed normal, but her stomach squirted acid. At this rate, her stress levels were going to seriously injure her. She threw back the covers. Shower first and then food.

Twenty minutes later she padded into the kitchen, totally starving and on the search for breakfast.

She found a note on the pantry door scrawled in William’s trademark black ink and squinted, trying to decipher it. No nib, however fine, had ever improved his doctor’s handwriting. Seeing it drew her back in time to when she’d been a fourteen-year-old girl watching the man she hero-worshipped writing at the old oak desk in the study and telling her that the fountain pen, which had been his father’s, would belong to her one day.

Just think, Lucy, there could be three generations of doctors in the family writing prescriptions with the same pen. Wouldn’t that be special?

At the time she’d thought it would be amazingly special because it meant the need to care and heal ran so strongly in the Pattersons’ veins it couldn’t be denied, and she was part of that destiny.

Lucy gave herself a shake and centred her thoughts on the prosaic present. William no longer wrote prescriptions with the fountain pen because they were computer generated and printed, and she wasn’t certain the pen represented anything any more other than being part of the elaborate fake facade of her life.

She read the note.

I hope you’ll stay for lunch. My treat at the Shearer’s Arms at noon? Either way, please don’t go without a goodbye. Dad x

Last time she’d left Haven she’d run through a veil of tears propelled by anger and the devastating cost of a lifelong lie. Ironically, she was back here not only to check up on William, but because of another lie. Only the loss of Daniel didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as the loss of Jess.

She ran her hands through her hair, missing her friend who she’d always turned to for advice, especially after the death of Ruth when everything had gone so pear-shaped. Now she had no one to talk to.

I give good advice. Not that you listen much .

She ignored her own unsolicited advice and glanced at the huge station-style clock in the kitchen, its black hands showing that it wasn’t even seven. Five long hours until lunch.

Facing William alone over lunch.

She knew he would have booked the alcove table, the one tucked away from prying eyes and flapping ears so they could ‘talk’. She pressed her temples with her fingers. She didn’t want to do that, but then again she really didn’t want to leave abruptly again either. Putting the invitation into the ‘too hard basket’, she filled the kettle and set it to boil before opening the pantry door. She stepped inside its cool walls. The usually groaning shelves were understocked and as she reached for a box of breakfast cereal, her gaze landed on a blister pack of tablets that were slid in next to the breakfast condiments. She picked them up, turned them over and read the name. Anti-hypertensive tablets . She frowned. How long had William been taking blood pressure medication?