‘Cardiomyopathy,’ Ginny whispered, dazed. ‘How on earth?’

‘The local police sergeant’s been through the car. There was a full medical history on the back seat. She must have travelled with it accessible-just in case. Plus she travelled with an oxygen supply. Plus enough medication to stock a small dispensary. She was desperately sick.’

‘Then why on earth was she travelling?’

‘Looking for one Richard Viental.’ He hesitated, his eyes meeting hers and holding. ‘Would that be…your Richard?’

‘My Richard?’ Ginny shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You think I do?’ Fergus sounded weary, as if he’d taken in too much information for one man to absorb. As maybe he had. He’d lost a patient under his hands less than an hour ago-a young mother who by rights should have lived for another fifty years. No matter how long you were a doctor-did anyone ever get used to it?

‘This letter was inserted as the first page of the medical history,’ Fergus said, after a break while they all seemed to have trouble keeping breathing. Tony was winding leftover bandage, but after he finished he automatically started rewinding. Without the spool.

Fergus was holding a sheet of notepaper-a letter handwritten in a spidery hand that scrawled off the page.

‘The police sergeant’s read this,’ he said, sounding apologetic and unsure. ‘I’ve read it, too.’ He sighed and looked down at the bed, where the little girl lay huddled in exhausted sleep. ‘It’s addressed to Richard but maybe you should read it as well,’ he suggested.

‘I… Should I phone Richard?’ Ginny whispered, and he shook his head.

‘Just read it.’

Dazed beyond belief, Ginny lifted the paper.

It was addressed to Richard. She shouldn’t read it. But…

She read.

Dear Richard.

I hope you don’t have to read this. I hope I can tell you myself. Please God, I haven’t left it too late. I’ve just kept on hoping, hoping…

By now you might hardly remember me. We were in hospital together, five years ago. You were in for check-ups after your lung transplant, just overnight for tests, and I remember being jealous. I was being assessed for a future heart transplant, and I thought wouldn’t it be great to have it over. Like you had. But then the doctors told me I’d get another couple of years from my old heart. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? A couple of years… Five years and one baby later, it’s still thumping. Just. Which is just as well, as there’s no new heart for me.

Anyway, five years ago we were released from hospital together. We went for a drink and I remember you looked great. I was feeling almost normal, high on the knowledge that I didn’t have to face a transplant quite yet. Women were looking at me with you-and me thinking they looked jealous. Maybe I got a little bit drunk.

Maybe we both did.

The next day I was a bit worried about pregnancy. But I remember you laughing, bitter but laughing all the same, saying, ‘No worries.’ Sterility, you said. No kids ever, you said. I looked it up on the internet later, thinking you’d been lying, but you had grounds for thinking you were right. Ninety-eight per cent sterility, the article I read said for you.

Madison must be the result of the two per cent that got through.

Should I have told you?

Well, maybe I should, but by the time I realised I was pregnant I’d done more research on what I was facing and I guess I was…running? Everyone was saying I should have an abortion-put my health first, they said. I thought if you wanted me to have one as well I couldn’t bear it. And I hardly knew you. You had so many plans-what to do with your new lungs. To tie you down with a sick woman…

No.

You know, maybe I thought that having Madison would kill me and maybe I even welcomed that.

Was that sick? Dumb? Maybe.

Anyway it didn’t work. I made it through the pregnancy. Afterwards, when I realised what a wonderful thing we’d done-how special it is and how wonderful Madison is-I tried to ring you. But-your sister is it?-was at the address you gave me. She said you were back in hospital and there were problems with your transplant.

I hung up without telling her why I was calling. The last thing you needed was a daughter.

My mother said we’d be fine. My mother would always be there for Madison.

Only of course there’s never a happy ending. Mum died last month of cancer and, what with the strain and everything, I had a cardiac arrest. They only just got me back and I’m on oxygen now and I know I’m failing. I shouldn’t drive but…

I rang your apartment again-shades of desperation, huh?-and the caretaker told me you’d moved to the country. To your parents’ farm. He gave me the address and I thought please let you be well, and even if you’re not, you’re at home with your parents, on a farm. A farm! Madison loves animals. Richard, she needs someone so much. I know I should see the social workers again and organise something for her and not hope for everything from you, but the last time I was ill she was in foster-care. It didn’t work. She was so unhappy. I can’t bear it.

Richard, you’re her father. Please take care of your little girl.

If you get this letter it means…

I can’t bear to think what it means.

Please love her to bits for me.

And thank you for giving me the gift of a daughter.

Yours with love-and with gratitude,

Judith Crammond

Ginny stared at the letter. She stared at it some more and the words blurred before her eyes.

‘This can’t be right,’ she whispered at last, and Fergus hauled up a chair and sat beside her. He flicked a look up at Tony, and Tony gave an imperceptible nod and disappeared.

She was suddenly the patient, Ginny thought. She was about to be counselled.

‘No,’ she said blindly, and Fergus took the letter from her lifeless fingers, folded it carefully and put it on the bedside table.

‘It seems crazy,’ he said softly. ‘But it seems that it’s right. Judith was driving with a car full of medical paraphernalia. How she thought she was going to get here… Our local police sergeant, Ben Cross, has been in to see me. When Ben found the medical notes in the car, he rang the hospital on the letterhead to confirm we had the right woman. He brought the information straight in, thinking it might help.’

‘It didn’t,’ she whispered.

‘There was no way we could get her back,’ Fergus continued, talking almost to himself. ‘I couldn’t believe what I was hearing when I put the stethoscope on her chest. I was waiting for her to arrest-I couldn’t believe she hadn’t done so already. Maybe it was just sheer willpower, to make sure her daughter was safe. Once she knew she was here she simply slipped away.’

‘Her daughter was hardly safe,’ Ginny whispered, and unconsciously her hand reached out to touch the little one’s hair. This was…her brother’s child? Her niece?

‘The medical notes are from Sydney Central,’ Fergus was saying. ‘The hospital staff told Sergeant Cross there was no way Judith should be driving. They said she was far too sick. They’ve attempted to organise foster-care for the little girl but it’s been refused. There are any number of their staff deeply concerned for the two of them.’

‘Not enough to follow up.’

‘There’s only so much help you can force anyone to take,’ Fergus said softly. ‘This was Judith’s little girl. She had to sort it out her own way.’

‘She’s sorted it out now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fergus said. ‘Has she?’

‘No.’

‘This Richard. The man the note’s addressed to.’ He hesitated but then asked what he needed to know. ‘He’s your brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then would you like to tell me his side of the story? Or what you know of it.’

Ginny took a deep breath. And swallowed.

‘Tell me, Ginny,’ Fergus said, and he took her hand. It was one warm link in a world that had suddenly turned bewilderingly cold.

She had to tell him. She had to say it.

‘Richard has cystic fibrosis,’ she whispered at last. ‘The lung transplant Judith talked about-yeah, it worked, but just for a while. Not for long enough. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re both here. This is where we were kids together. Richard’s come home to die.’


There were medical imperatives to be got through.

Medicine had always been a retreat, Ginny thought as she moved on. Her studies and the resulting medical imperatives had been the means to block off the reality of the outside world for a long time, and they helped her now.

Oscar had to be got to bed.

‘Though the way you have him wedged, he’s safer on his door,’ Tony said admiringly, and Ginny even managed a smile. Oscar was deeply asleep, snoring so loudly the glass Tony had set on the bedside table was vibrating. The Ventolin was taking effect. His breathing was easier and there was no trace of pain on his face as he slept.

‘I guess this gets to be our happy ending for the afternoon,’ Ginny told Tony, trying to make her voice sound normal.

‘We need one.’ Tony looked at her fingers as she tried to adjust the drip rate and suddenly the big nurse was moving to take the equipment away from her. Her fingers were shaking and she couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

So much for burying herself in medical imperatives.

‘I can manage here,’ he told her. ‘You’ve done enough, Dr Viental. Go find Dr Reynard.’ Then he smiled, a great footballer’s smile that totally enveloped his face. Pushing her to cheer up. ‘Hey, we’ve gone from a tiny nursing home with no doctors to two doctors on staff. How great is that?’

‘I’m not on staff.’

‘You look like you’re on staff from here,’ he told her. But then his smile died. ‘Ginny, I know about your family. I’m so-’

‘Leave it,’ she said roughly.

‘Go and find Fergus,’ he said gently. ‘Go and do what needs to be done.’