Once more seated in the waiting area, I was beginning to feel liked the dreaded distant relative who comes to visit for a couple of days, but then makes no apparent move to go home. The four of us were slumped in our respective chairs, although Desi had resumed her earlier position of laying down and curling up on a couple of seats, resting her head on Tish’s knees. I sat beside Desi, with Alexander on my right.

I consulted my mobile phone, checking the time on the screen. It was 2:46am and we were still waiting to find out what had happened to Michael. The only information the nursing staff had been able to share with us (over an hour ago) was that Michael was to undergo a CT scan. That had been at 1:20am.

A young and fresh-faced nurse appeared at the doorway of the waiting room. Judging by the crispness of her uniform and disposition, I deduced she’d just started her shift. She called out Tish’s name and in seconds all four of us were on our feet.

Tish went to the nurse while we hung back anxiously. They exchanged a few words before Tish turned to us and signaled for us to follow. The nurse then led us down the corridor in the direction of the consulting rooms.

As we made our way, I spied yet another familiar face; Jason Naylor, in his nurse’s uniform, passed us in the corridor, going in the opposite direction. He caught my eye and his face registered surprise, quickly followed by a narrow-eyed curiosity. Once he’d passed us, I glanced behind to find him looking back at us.

’Crap,’ I thought to myself. ’Of all the people…! What shitty luck….’ In my mind, I could picture Jason Naylor scampering off to the nearest private location, jumping onto his mobile phone and calling his best friend, the odious and thoroughly unlikable Queen from Hell, Sevastian Von Dhal.

Both guys, in the early to mid-twenties, were regulars at The Depot, so I’d known them – in a manner of speaking – for some years. Jason was harmless enough; an ineffectual toadying lackey, always at his master’s side. It was Sevastian who was the real problem. I could only imagine his delight to learn that one of ‘us’ was hospitalised at the Alfred. No doubt, Sevastian would positively salivate once he found out the details, and the news of Michael’s suicide attempt would be all over the gay grapevine within the hour.

The young nurse paused by the door of one of the consulting rooms, gesturing for us to go in, and closed the door after us while she remained outside.

In the small room we found a male doctor with a kindly face sitting behind a small desk, looking over a series of documents contained within a manila folder. There were two chairs across from him, and looking up at us, he wordlessly gestured for us to sit. The girls took the seats and Alexander and I lingered by the examination table, leaning against it for support.

“I’m Dr. Bay,” he announced, looking up from the file in his hands, taking in each of us with his large, bright blue eyes. “I’ve just been going over the results of Michael’s CT scan,” he informed us.

“What did you find?” asked Tish. “Anything that explains the seizure?”

“We’re still running tests,” Dr. Bay replied, which I took to mean ’We don’t have a bloody clue’. “A MRI has been schedule for later in the morning. That should help clarify matters,” he said. “But the CT did show up something of interest.”

My gut was telling me that it was going to be bad news; things found in scans that are termed ”interesting” are seldom good for the patient concerned, regardless of how fascinating those in the medical profession might find them.

“Now as I understand it,” Dr. Bay began, “one of you spent most of the day with Michael, looking after him while he was unconscious…? Is that correct?” His keen eyes settled on me, until Alexander spoke up in a faltering voice.

“Um… y-yeah, that was me,” Alexander said. Dr. Bay nodded thoughtfully and his gazed now fixed on him.

“What time did you find him?” Dr. Bay inquired.

“Um, I got home about 11:40am,” he replied.

“And when you first saw Michael, where was he?”

“Um… Michael was on the bed... he was just lying there, on the bed…” Alexander told him.

I wondered where all of this was leading to, feeling myself growing annoyed with the doctor for wasting precious time with this Q & A session.

“And is that where he remained for the rest of the time? Until the paramedics arrived?” the doctor inquired, making notes on the file as he interrogated Alexander.

“Yeah... he was out of it – unconscious. He didn’t move,” Alexander replied, before quickly adding: “But I thought he was just sleeping… I didn’t realise – “

“Yes, yes, of course” Dr. Bay cut in, nodding and silencing Alexander with a wave of his hand. “So at no time did he leave the bed? At no time, while you were present, did he roll off the bed, for example…?”

Alexander frowned and shook his head.

“Ok, ok,” Dr bay said, making more notes. When he was done he looked up at us. “Well then… the CT scan, as I said, has shown us something interesting. It would seem that your friend has suffered trauma to the spine, specifically in the lumbar region, resulting in herniation of the L5 disc,” he remarked.

Only Tish really understood what any of this meant – although it was possible, given his studies, that Alexander was following this information, too. But to me, it meant very little.

“Is it bad?” I asked.

The doctor cocked his head, his eyebrows raised. “Well, it is unusual,” he replied. “The extent of the damage is more in keeping with something we’d expect to see in a patient who’s been in a motor vehicle accident.”

“Jesus,” whispered Desi with alarm.

“I don’t understand,” I said, frowining. “Alexander just told you – Michael was laying down on a bed all day; how does something like what you’re describing happen…?”

At this juncture, Dr. Bay shrugged. “I’ve frankly no idea. But it is quite clear that your friend suffered a severe physical trauma to his spine, be it from a blow or from pressure exerted upon him, I cannot say. But the damage is done – to what extent? Well, we hope to have more details once the MRI has been carried out. But at this point, it looks as though a series of nerves adjacent to the effected region have been badly damaged, possibly even crushed…”

“Oh God,” cried Desi. “Are you saying he might not be able to walk when he wakes up…?” she cried.

“No, no, not at all,” Dr. Bay said hastily. “It is far too early to speculate on such matters. But it had been our hope that you,” he said as he looked around at us individually, “may have been able to shed some light on how this injury was inflicted. But as you cannot, we will just have to treat it as best we can,” he said, giving a reassuring smile. “Do not be too concerned. We see injuries such as this all too often. He will recover from it, but it will take some time…”

My mind turned down the volume on Dr. Bay’s voice, as it then proceeded to flick through the recent images from Michael’s bedroom; the footprints on the carpet, the butts in the ashtray, and the recollection of Leo’s messages to Michael in the early hours of the previous morning. More and more, I was growing certain that Michael’s suicide attempt was not as it appeared.

Alexander shifted in his seat, then stood up and stretched before he looked around at us. “I’m going to have to head home,” he announced. “I’ve got to be in at the lab by no later than 9:30am,” he said. “Don’t think I can hang here much longer and then head straight into work…” he explained apologetically.

“Hey, that’s fair enough,” I said, as he seemed to be expressing feelings of guilt for (in his mind) abandoning us. “How you getting home?” I asked him. “Taxi?” There was a taxi rank right at the doors of the hospital. A cab could have him home in under ten minutes.

He shook his head. “Nah… think I’ll just walk,” he replied. A trek from the Alfred Hospital to the apartment in East St.Kilda would probably take him around thirty-five minutes. He wouldn’t get home until 4.30am or thereabouts.

Tish, who had raised her head from the magazine when Alexander stated his intentions, spoke up and offered to drive him home. He thanked her but declined. “I could really do with the walk,” he explained. “Just to clear my head…”

I understood where he was coming from. And so we exchanged good-byes; Desi got up and gave the quiet, shy giant a bone crunching hug, her face pressed up against his belly (well, almost). Tish gave Alexander a more reserved embrace, offering her thanks for all that he’d done and for being there with us.

In an awkward gesture, I stepped up to Alexander and put my arms around him, patting him on the back. He was not one for public displays of affection, of any kind. But when the need arose, he tried to respond appropriately, though invariably he came across as someone who simply had no idea, or who was just downright uncomfortable with intimacy of a platonic variety.

“We’ll phone you when we hear more news, ok?” I told him, and Alexander nodded, thanking me. “OK, well… we’ll see you later…?” I said, questioningly.

Alexander nodded again. “Sure... yeah,” he replied quietly. He turned away and, with his broad shoulders hanging low and heavy, pushing in his chest inward, he shuffled out of the waiting area and towards the ER’s main doorway and the world that lay beyond.

Desi walked into the waiting area, returning from her foraging of the hospital’s cafeteria, arms laden with a newspaper, three Styrofoam cups and two pieces of some kind of slice or cake, individually wrapped in Glad Wrap. She dropped into a seat beside me, waking Tish in the process, and handed me one of the cups, advising it was tea for Tish. I duly passed it onto her, along with three subsequent sachets of sugar and a popsicle stick to stir the tea with.

Desi and I hopped into the coffees with gusto – a vast improvement on the tar-like beverage we’d been sucking out of the vending machine, and then we nibbled on our respective pieces of cake as Desi handed me the newspaper.

Opening the Herald-Sun newspaper I checked the weather forecast on the second page. My interest was not so much in the prediction for Melbourne’s weather that day, but an account of the thunderstorm which struck the city the previous morning.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the information I sought. Aside from the dry, factual and practical report of how much rain had fallen, as indicated in the weather report details, the storm itself had made news with an article on page three. A couple of black and white photographs depicted damage brought about by the wild winds; a gum tree had crashed through the roof of an apartment building in Prahran (no one was injured, the article reported with a palpable sense of disappointment), as well as a colour shot of lightning strikes flashing against the city skyline.

According to the newspaper, the storm had hit at 6:27am and had lasted about fifteen minutes, during which time heavy rainfall had been reported in the inner city suburbs of St.Kilda, Prahran, and South Yarra, with flash flooding occurring in parts of Richmond. But the water had dried up fast, under the light of a new summer day and its accompanying high temperatures.

I considered the muddied footprints on the balcony and on Michael’s bedroom floor. Now knowing the time of the storm, it gave me a better idea of when they’d been made – but not by whom.

Leo was a distinct possibility. After all, he had last phoned Michael a couple of minutes before the storm had hit. So was it possible then, that Leo had - in lieu of a response form Michael – turned up at the apartment building? And was there anyway of finding out if he had?

Unfortunately, while Michael’s apartment block had a security entrance, it did not possess closed circuit TV monitoring. Instead, visitors to the building pressed a numbered buzzer at the entrance. Occupants picked up an old telephone-styled handset, spoke to the would-be visitor and then pressed a button that released the locking mechanism on the front door, thus permitting entry.

I reflected on what little I knew about Leo Clarke; aged in his mid-twenties, he was an alcoholic with a foul temper and ‘anger management’ issues; he remained in love with Michael and possessed a paranoid and jealous personality. And I knew he was capable of violent acts when drunk out of his gourd, for I’d seen Michael wearing the ugly picture postcards of Leo’s visitations.

When Michael turned up to The Depot to work his shift with a black eye and a swollen lip, I asked him what had happened. He’d tried to lie – not something he’d ever been particularly skillful at. Suspecting the truth, I called him out on it and he admitted that Leo had punched and kicked him the previous night.

While I ranted and raged, demanding he call the cops and press charges, Michael very calmly refused. “He’s not a bad guy, Puck,” he’d told me, his swollen face filled with a sincerity of belief that conflicted markedly with the evidence. “He’s just … he’s just got some problems…”

“No shit,” I spat furiously. “I’ll give him a few more fucking problems if he ever goes near you again,” I warned, and then asked him if that had been the first time it had happened. Michael shook his head. It had happened three or four times previously in their (almost) six month old relationship, but that particular incident had been the worst.

“It’s over,” I told him. “You’re not seeing that fuckwit again,” I informed him. “Call him now, Michael, and tell him: it is so-fucking-over!”

We were alone in the staff room; a small ‘box’, inaccessible to patrons and opposite what staff referred to as the ‘top bar’ on the ground floor level, as there was a second, larger bar that ran off it, but which was sunken be a couple of feet, thus making it the ‘bottom bar’.

I grabbed Michael’s phone out of the pocket of his cargo pants and, despite his protests, managed to locate Leo’s number and dialed. I then held the handset towards Michael as it rang. “Tell him, Michael.”

He took the phone form me, tenderly chewing on his bottom lip, as he was inclined to do when anxious.

“Hello…? Leo…?” he said into the phone. And so, somewhat hesitantly, Michael managed to inform Leo that their relationship was over and that he never wanted to see him again. I stood back, prickly with indignation and self-righteous rage, arms crossed over my chest. At some point, I snatched the phone off him and held it up to my ear.

“Leo… it’s Puck,” I said with clenched teeth. “Got a pen? Then jot this down,” I told him sarcastically, scarcely allowing him time to respond. “You so much as look at Michael again and I’ll make sure The Depot’s security boys and I, and a few other friends of Michael’s, pay you a visit and give you a bloody good dose of your own shit. Get all that down, you fucker? Good!” I disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Michael.

“Wow,” Michael uttered, staring at me with wide eyes. “Who’d have thought you could be so butch?” he said teasingly.

“You think that was impressive…?” I asked with a lazy smile. “Honey, that was nothing! You should see me when I’ve got my period!”

Quite wisely, Leo kept his distance from Michael – well, for the most part. Although he did hound Michael via sms and periodic, alcohol-induced phone calls. But when I indicated to Michael I’d make good on my threat if these activities persisted, Michael pleaded with me to hold back and let him handle it. And so I did.

Thinking back on Leo as I sat in the waiting room with the girls, I recalled that he was a manager at a supermarket located in Prahran. I wondered if perhaps it wasn’t time to do some shopping…

The three of us all looked vaguely unhappy at the suggestion of leaving the hospital, viewing it as an act of betrayal against Michael. But as if sensing our thoughts, the nurse assured us that if there was any change in Michael’s status – no matter how minute – we would be contacted immediately.

It was Tish, who knew the system so well, who nodded and acknowledge the good sense behind the woman’s idea. The nurse smiled pleasantly, nodded and then took her leave, while the three of us reluctantly rose from our seats, bones creaking, muscles aching.

“So… um, what do you want to do?” I asked them. Both girls had already phoned their respective workspaces and advised they wouldn’t be coming in due to a personal emergency.

“Eat,” Desi mumbled.

“Shower,” Tish added, sniffing, as if catching a whiff of her own body odor and finding it repugnant.

“OK,” I replied, nodding. “Sounds like a plan. How about we go back to my place? Grab some breakfast from Maccas on the way…?”

The girls wholeheartedly approved of my suggestion, so we ambled out of the hospital into the fresh, new day and wandered down to Commercial Road where Tish had parked her car, a metallic green Hyundai, in one of the parallel parking spaces.

I sat in the rear passenger seat, sprawled out, savoring the comparatively comfortable cushioning of Tish’s car, while Desi sat in front of me. The three of us said little as we drove down Commercial Road, towards the McDonald’s Restaurant located near the corner of Malvern and Williams Roads.

We ordered via the drive-though, our demeanor resembling that of socially challenged zombies, before resuming our journey to my apartment. We traveled in a southerly direction down Williams Road, towards East St.Kilda and Balaclava. After crossing High Street, my phoned bleated and I found a sms from Drew. While Tish looked at me via the rear-view mirror, Desi turned about to face me.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Drew,” I said quietly, skimming over the message.

Desi smiled. “So what does it say?”

“Aw, nothing much,” I replied.

Desi made a sound of annoyance. “C’mon, Puck! Amongst all of this stuff that’s going down, there’s got to be some bright spot,” she cried. “And besides – you and Drew look so cute together!” Desi gushed and I saw Tish’s lips turn up in a bemused expression.

Despite my tiredness and low mood, I found myself grinning crookedly. “Look, I’m not talking about it until I’ve had a shower and have got some clean nickers on, ok?”

“Oooh!” gasped Desi. “Clean nickers, eh? And why – pray tell – do you need clean nickers so urgently, hmmm?”

In the front seat, Tish let out a chuckle, but I turned my head in a petulant attitude, to stare out at the passing traffic as we approached the busy Dandenong Road intersection. Desi giggled and sat back round in her seat, commenting to Tish that I must indeed be tired if I couldn’t even manage a smart arsed reply to that comment.

But the truth was that it wasn’t mere tiredness that rendered my otherwise razor-sharp tongue flaccid; it was the uncertainty that descended upon me when I thought of Drew Ducharme; the uncertainty and the flood of feelings and anxieties that filled me as I stood on the brink of realising a dream: loving Drew Ducharme for the rest of my days.

<< - >>

Enjoying the Story? Then Pimp Me!




Super Sleuths since
September 24, 2005:-

Click to join The Robin Goodfellow Adventures!
Copyright Jay Kerin
All Rights Reserved.
All original images & written content
remain the property of the author.
The use and/or copying, in full or in part,
of images and/or written content,
without the author's expressed permission, is strictly prohibited.
Any infringement of the author's copyright
will result in litigation.