Chapter 4
Tara managed to stay away from Brodie for almost the whole day before she gave in to her concerns and returned – somewhat reluctantly – to his private room on the second floor of the hospital. Walking along the corridor to his room she met a grim-faced nurse exiting the room, arms full of clothing.
Tara’s eyebrows shot up.
The nurse recognised her and halted for a moment. Tara thought if the little redhead became any angrier she would have steam coming from her ears.
“Maybe you can talk to him! He might just listen to you!” The Ulster accent was rich with indignation.
“I – I’m sorry?” Now Tara was confused.
“He only tried to get out of bed and get dressed! I caught him before he did himself any real damage, the idiot! There he is, not supposed to move that leg, and I find him clinging onto the bed for grim death and trying to haul on his pants! The fool thought he could just discharge himself and go home. The fact that he’s still running a temperature and managed to burst a good few stitches into the bargain obviously didn’t matter! Let alone what damage he did to his leg - ”
“I’ll talk to him, I promise.” Tara hastened to reassure the little Irish nurse before she had an aneurysm.
Her tirade nipped in the bud, the nurse turned concerned green eyes to the young woman before her, noting the outline of dressings over scrapes and cuts under the new shirt she wore.
“He needs to rest, Miss Matthews. I don’t have to tell you that he’s pretty close to the edge at the moment and he’s been through a lot – I know, I know … so have you,” she hastened to add, seeing the spark in Tara’s eyes.
“But let me tell you something. I was raised on the Shankhill Road in Belfast during the worst of the Troubles, and I’ve seen pain and heartbreak all my life. And I’m not talking Irish against Brit here – I’m talking about seeing a soldier sitting weeping on the side of the road after watching his pals get blown to pieces by a bomb. I’m talking about a young mother grieving the loss of three of her kiddies caught in the crossfire between two bunches of lads who are both supposed to be on the same side, whatever that means. I’m talking about a Catholic priest holding a young Protestant lad whose guts are hanging out after the petrol bomb he was throwing blew up in his hands. And that man in there,” she indicated Brodie’s room with a short jab of her chin, “Has more pain in him than all of ‘em put together. I can see it in his eyes.”
Tara was stunned by the little nurse’s outburst.
“But … but what can I do - ”
The green eyes looked up at her, sharp and knowing.
“A short, sharp kick up the arse wouldn’t come amiss. But failing that, just having someone beside him who gives a damn will help. It may not seem like it to begin with, but it’ll mean a lot to him. And to you, I’m thinking.”
Tara reddened. Was she that obvious?
The Belfast accent came softer now.
“Help him channel some of that anger into something useful – like getting that leg working again. It’s too soon to know the extent of the damage, but exercises will go a long way to improving its function. He doesn’t think so though – as far as he’s concerned he’s crippled. So I’d sort him out if I were you. And pretty damn’ quickly at that!”
Tara’s face became thoughtful.
“When do you think he can go home?”
“Home??? He’s not even going to get out of that bed for a few days until we get that infection under control!”
Tara smiled as the elfin little Ulsterwoman looked about ready to pop a blood vessel.
“Seriously – let’s give him something to aim for. A goal, a … a reason to keep going if you like.”
The nurse shifted the clothes in her arm – evidently she regarded the removal of Brodie’s clothes from the closet as a simple but effective way of keeping him under control.
“Well, it’s up to the doctors of course … but two weeks, maybe?”
Tara frowned. “No earlier?”
“Depends … if we can get the infection cleared up and his stitches out … ten days?”
“What if he could come back to get the stitches removed?”
The nurse smiled, seeing where the conversation was leading.
“I wouldn’t advise it – he lives alone, he says, and he’s quite simply not going to be able to cope. On the other hand, if he had someone staying with him, making sure he took his medication, rested the leg, that sort of thing. Maybe someone with medical training? That would be ideal.”
Tara couldn’t contain the look of surprise that crept onto her face.
“How did you know?”
The nurse smiled.
“Mr Brodie mentioned you kept him alive on that island. He respects you, and he likes you – and by the look of it, he doesn’t do either very easily. Work with him, Miss Matthews – keep him going long enough until he can take up the slack; all he needs is some support for a while.”
Tara smiled at this little woman who had figured Brodie out probably from the first moment she saw him.
“I’ll do my best, I promise, Nurse …”
“Dervla. Dervla Monaghan. Dervla will do just fine.” Dervla grinned at the young woman.
“Right. Dervla. I’m Tara.”
“Well, Tara, I wish you luck. He’s a stubborn idiot.”
With a parting wink, Nurse Dervla Monaghan turned and marched purposefully down the corridor, as Tara eased open the door into Brodie’s room.
****************
Frank Brodie was exhausted, angry and very sore.
His efforts in trying to get out of bed and get dressed had taken more out of him than he could have imagined, and he had managed to burst a couple of stitches in his shoulder into the bargain. His two broken ribs made breathing a nightmare, and his leg … Brodie closed his eyes. He didn’t want to even think about his leg. His crippled leg.
He heard the door ease open, God, what was it now?
“Go away.” The growl in his voice was unmistakable.
“Not this time, Frank.”
Brodie’s eyes snapped open. Tara. She was back.
“What are you doin’ here? Thought you’d gone home.”
Tara came to sit beside him on the bed, noticing the sweat-sheened chest and the tired features. The effort of getting himself out of bed had worn him out. He didn’t look at her, and seemed to be taking a great deal of interest in the cannula in his wrist.
“Where would I go, Frank? I gave up my room just before I left for the island. I have nowhere to go to even if I did leave. Other than back to Chicago, and there’s nothing for me there now. Anyway, I want to make sure you’re fixed up and okay before I think about leaving.”
She leaned over and clasped his hand, and Brodie watched her long fingers curl around his. Why? Why was she doing this? Why did she even want to bother with him? They’d made it off the island alive – wasn’t that good enough for her? But he didn’t move his hand away. He had to admit her touch was a comfort to him. He finally looked up into her dark, dark eyes, eyes filled with concern. Or was it pity?
“I want to go home.”
Tara smiled, understanding his need to be away from the hospital, away from the reality of his situation. If he went home, he figured, everything would be back as it was. The leg would heal up and he would be fine … just fine.
“You can’t go home just yet Frank.” Tara felt she had to explain everything to him as though he was a petulant child. “You still have a temperature and you need to finish the course of antibiotics. Then there’s the physio on your leg - ”
“The leg’s gonna be just great. Let me go home and I’ll work away at building up the strength in it, and it’ll heal up well enough.” He was determined to make her understand that he could manage on his own, that he really wasn’t that handicapped by the damaged leg. It would be okay in time, he knew.
“Frank … look at me, Frank.” Tara watched as reluctant azure eyes returned to study her face. She fervently hoped she could keep her worry for him out of her voice, as she knew he would misconstrue her intentions as pity. “The leg isn’t going to be fine, you know that. It’s never going to be fine. But it can be improved, and that is what matters. But you’re not going to be able to manage alone – you need help.” She saw him take a breath, ready to protest. “No, Frank – listen to me. I’m telling you how it is, and you can’t ignore it, not now. If … if, they let you go home early, I’m coming with you. Just for a little while, until you get onto your feet.”
Brodie frowned, confused by her offer.
“There ain’t much room. And I’m not one for keepin’ house.”
Tara nodded.
“That’s okay, Brodie – I’ve probably seen worse.”
His eyebrow arched.
“You think?”
Tara grinned at the sarcasm.
“Yeah Brodie – I think I have.”
The pair of them were silent for a few moments as Brodie weighed his options. Then he made his decision.
“Okay. But just for a few days until I’m back on my feet. But I’m not staying here any longer than I have to, you understand?”
Tara’s heart missed a beat with relief.
“I hear you, Frank. Just give it a few more days, let yourself recover a little and then we’ll see, huh? Oh, and do the exercises they give you – it’ll give you a head start before you go home, and it’ll stop the leg from deteriorating. You don’t want to end up with a leg that won’t bend, do you?”
Brodie had to grudgingly admit she was right – the last think he wanted was a stiff, rigid leg with no movement in it at all. He laid his head back on the pillow, exhausted. He hadn’t realised how sick he really was, and he now had a thumping headache, probably due to the infection and the trauma of the simple act of trying to sit up and get out of bed. He closed his eyes, letting his body relax into the mattress. He was so tired …
A finger soothed the hair back from his brow, and he pried open an eye to look at this young, determined woman who for some unearthly reason seemed to give a damn about what happened to him.
“Get some sleep Frank – you’ll need it. The physiotherapist is coming in tomorrow morning, and I aim to be here and learn about all those exercises you’re going to do. And then, once you’re well enough, I’ll have no mercy, you’ll see.” Tara studied the big man in the hospital bed, her chest tightening at the vulnerability in him.
Brodie finally allowed a wry, lop-sided smile to creep across his face. His voice was a mere whisper.
“Slavedriver
…”
The blue eyes closed as he drifted off into sleep.
Tara watched him for a few moments, checking him over, secretly delighting in the long, well-muscled lines of his body. Yes, if she could just keep him going, keep him focused on his recovery, then she would be happy. Anything after that would be a bonus.
Sighing, she stood up and made her way out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Yes indeed, she thought. No mercy at all. She grinned. Frank Brodie, you’re going to get over this if it kills me …
She wandered back down the corridor and went in search of something to eat.
********************
Brodie lasted five days before he finally had had enough of all the poking and prodding. No more catheters, cannulas, thermometers, bed baths – oh, the sheer indignity of that little exercise in humility – no more bad food, bossy nurses, especially that little redhead with the strong Irish accent, and smarmy physiotherapists. This last fiasco had been the clincher.
The oh-so-wonderful physiotherapist had turned out to be a spotty young man with bad teeth, who made Brodie swear with pain and frustration as he forced the injured man to gently work damaged muscles. It hurt. A lot. The young man was unrepentant, though, and urged Brodie to keep the exercises going at regular times through the day, as ‘we don’t want our tendons to shorten, now do we?’ Brodie’s answer was brief, insulting and unrepeatable.
On the morning of the sixth day, he had decided it was time.
Uproar ensued.
Doctor Recillos was adamant that Brodie wasn’t fit to leave the hospital. Brodie told him he didn’t care. Recillos tried another tack, and said Brodie still needed a huge amount of support as he recovered, and this could only be given whilst he was in hospital. Brodie told him in no uncertain terms where he could put his support. Recillos retired to lick his wounds, then sent in Dervla Monaghan.
Dervla spent five minutes trying to convince Brodie he needed a few more days, at least until the stitches came out. Brodie listened to her stonily, and then told her he might – just might – come back to the hospital for her to remove them. If he hadn’t already done so himself. And anyway, Tara said she would help him out, Brodie told her.
Dervla Monaghan smirked to herself in triumph, told Brodie she would convey his decision to Dr Recillos and informed a hovering Tara outside in the corridor that Brodie would probably be allowed home that afternoon if she could talk Dr Recillos into letting him go. Dervla had no worries on that point – Recillos, although deeply concerned about Brodie, knew he would be happier and more inclined to rest if he was at home. Besides, his staff had had enough of Brodie’s foul temper and threatened dire consequences if he stayed for much longer.
At precisely ten minutes after four that afternoon, Brodie was impatiently sitting on the edge of his bed waiting for Tara to arrive and help him out to the taxi. His new shirt chafed the still-raw wounds on his shoulder and chest, his ribs were killing him and his heavily-strapped left leg was sending sheets of agony through him from ankle to hip, the irreparably damaged nerves protesting at the abuse. But Brodie didn’t care – he was finally getting out of this goddamn hell-hole.
The door opened and Tara whirled in pushing a wheel-chair. She looked at him expectantly.
“You ready, Frank?”
Brodie glared at her.
“I’m walkin’ out of here on my own two feet. No way am I gettin’ in that thing.”
Tara glared back, unfazed.
“Frank – you can’t walk. Let’s get that straight right now. The leg won’t support you, and probably won’t for a while. Do you want to try walking? Because you’ll probably end up on the floor, and then I’ll have too get the nurses in here to pick you up, and you’ll have to stay in the hospital because they think you’re a moron and can’t be trusted to take care of yourself. Do you want that to happen?”
A sullen silence was his answer.
Tara raised a haughty eyebrow.
“So - just get in the damn chair.”
Brodie tried a last-ditch attempt at unnerving her with his steely gaze … then got in the chair, secretly relieved because he was already exhausted with the effort of sitting on the side of the bed. He wasn’t looking forward to the ninety-minute drive back to San Miguel and home. Sitting put an incredible strain on his back and hip, and he knew he would be in severe pain by the time he got back to his little apartment.
Tara dumped his bag of clothes on his lap. Then she handed him a plastic bag full of bottles and packets of pills and other medication, and Dervla had handed Tara a package containing saline, gauze, bandages and other medical supplies to help care for Brodie’s many wounds once he was home.
Last of all came the dreaded, hated walking aid. It wasn’t one of those uninspiring, ordinary, plain old walking sticks that old people used. Oh no, it was worse than that. It was one of those contraptions made of sturdy metal with a brace at the top where you shoved your arm through and gripped the handle. It was one of those things that handicapped people used. Brodie loathed it. He loathed it because it was a symbol of his own weakness, his uselessness. It reinforced his view that he was a gimp; a crippled, drunken useless gimp.
But Tara didn’t give him too much time to think about it as she wheeled Brodie out of the room, down the corridor and into the elevator.
Moments later, he was sitting outside at the front of the hospital in warm, balmy sunshine as Tara helped the cab driver pack luggage in the trunk, and then she came around the car to help Brodie into the rear seat. It took a bit of manoeuvring, but they made it, and he sat slightly sideways on the seat with his leg propped up to ease his back and hip.
The drive home was a nightmare.
Twice the driver had to stop and let Tara help shift Brodie into a more comfortable position, but the pain was agonising by the time they stopped outside the steps of his home.
The next forty-five minutes were even worse. The wheelchair had been too impractical for Brodie to bring home, so he had to rely on the hated stick and Tara to help him up the steps and in through his front door. After much sweating and swearing, he finally stood in front of his home, fumbling for the key and blinking perspiration out of his eyes. God, he was bushed! All he wanted was to lie on his bed, have a good swig of tequila and a smoke. Bliss.
Tara got tired of waiting and took the key out of his hand, noticing with concern that it was shaking with weariness, slipped the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door.
The smell was atrocious.
“Jeez, Brodie …”
Even Brodie had to admit his home stank. He managed to reach in through the doorway and switch on the light, and Tara blenched at the scene. Partly-eaten pizzas lay on the low coffee table, empty tequila bottles littered the furniture. The place was an unholy tip, filthy, with gummy flypapers covered in ancient insect corpses hanging from the ceiling.
Brodie grimaced.
“Told you I wasn’t much for keeping house …”
Tara looked up at his gaunt face with amazement.
“And you hounded the doctors to let you come home to this??”
Brodie shrugged, even though the movement hurt like hell.
“Hey – you don’t have to stay. Nobody’s forcin’ ya.”
“Goddamit, Brodie …” Tara cursed quietly to herself as she helped the big man into the revolting room and eased him down into a battered soft chair. Straightening, she looked around for the bedroom and noticed the doorway in the corner.
Leaving Brodie to his own devices for a moment, she took a deep breath and checked out the bedroom. It wasn’t as bad as she thought it might be, but the bed needed clean sheets and pillowcases, and she began rummaging in the closet in the hall. Finding some old but relatively clean bedclothes she changed the bed and dumped the dirty ones in a bag in the disgusting kitchen. She didn’t even want to think about the bathroom – she would face that problem later, once she had Brodie settled.
Returning to Brodie she found him cleaning out a glass on his shirt and reaching for a half-full bottle of tequila he had unearthed from the junk on the floor.
She snagged the bottle just before he could grab it. Blue eyes snapped in anger at her.
“HEY!”
“No Frank – no alcohol, not with all your medication. Anti-inflammatories and booze don’t mix, you know that.”
Brodie was incensed.
“Who the hell d’you think you are, girl? This is my home, and I’ll do what the hell I like in it - ”
“Frank …” Tara’s voice was gentle, but very firm. “You know you can’t do this – not at the moment, anyway. Do you want to get sick because you screw up the medication? Do you really want to end up back at the hospital?”
“No, but - ”
“Good. Come on now, let’s get you into bed. I want to check out your wounds and change a few dressings, okay? Then I can cook you something if you like, or you can get some sleep. Or both.” She added with a smile.
Tara didn’t let him reply as she helped him lever his tired and very sore body out of the chair, and with the help of his stick she got him into the bedroom.
Brodie didn’t realise until that moment just how glad he was to be home … and how glad he was that Tara was there to help him. She sat him on the bed and gently helped him undress, then she eased him into the clean, comfortable sheets. For the next thirty minutes she checked his wounds and changed out gauze dressings, her fingers lingering on the flat muscles of his belly and side as she checked a deep bite wound. Then she counted out his pills and made him take them one by one, ensuring he swallowed them all.
Brodie was drifting now, the pain-killers taking effect and deadening the terrible pain in his back and hip and subduing the burn in his leg. It had been an almighty bitch of a day … but at least he was home. Maybe he would sleep for a while … he could eat later. Yeah – that sounded like a great idea …
Tara watched as Brodie slipped into sleep and sighed. Well. Here she was in this disgusting hole he called home, and she had to figure out where she was going to sleep for the night as Brodie only seemed to have one bedroom. The sofa looked comfortable, even though she could hardly see it under the dirty clothes and pizza boxes. God! The pizzas!
Leaving Brodie to sleep, she went back into the living room and studied the mess. There was no way she could leave it the way it was and sleep among all that crap. Something had to be done, and done now.
Decision made, she rolled up her sleeves and began to clean.
********************