How To Save a Marriage in a Million (5 page)

He spent an hour with an eight-year-old and his parents, explaining stem-cell transplants and answering their many questions. Then he’d been called to deal with a teenager who had developed a dread of her chemotherapy and, for the last two treatments, had started intractable vomiting the night before her three-weekly sessions, in anticipation. She was on the verge of refusing to continue despite an excellent response and it took a lot of persuading to get her to consider coming into the ward as an inpatient to tailor strategies to help her cope. There’d also been two new admissions he made a special effort to see before he left for a hurried, late lunch.

Joanna had been busy with her own duties and,
though he’d been aware of her presence, they hadn’t actually spoken again and Richard’s afternoon had been a full on session in clinics.

Now he was heading home.

Home…

He’d stay in the apartment until at least the weekend, when he hoped he’d have time to shop for food and the essentials like bed linen that weren’t provided as part of the package of his new home. He was looking forward to moving in.

Alone.

If only things had been different.

He drove into the underground car park and headed for the lifts. It wasn’t long before he let himself into his apartment and faced the prospect of a long evening with the only company his own. He dumped his briefcase on the coffee table, opened the blinds, exposing a vast expanse of glass and an impressive view of the ocean opposite, and went to the fridge.

He knew exactly how Old Mother Hubbard felt.

There was enough milk left in the half-litre complimentary carton to make a cup of coffee—but he’d used all the coffee. A lonely bottle of mineral water stood next to two bottles of beer,
the remains of a six-pack he’d bought on the weekend. Apart from a loaf of stale raisin bread his cupboard was indeed bare.

He reached for a beer, opened it and threw the cap into the bin, the bottle tilting as he did so and dribbling part of its contents onto his hand and the cuff of his shirt. He pulled a couple of tissues from the box on the kitchen counter at the same moment his phone rang.

‘Hello, Richard Howell.’ He gave the automatic greeting.

‘Hi, Dr Howell. It’s Jodie.’ She paused. ‘Remember me? We met this morning.’

Richard’s initial response was annoyance. He couldn’t think of any reason a member of the administrative staff would ring him at home on his mobile.

‘Yes, I remember. Is there a problem with the house?’

It was the only reason
he
could think of for her after-hours call.

‘No, it’s nothing to do with that.’

‘What, then?’

He thought he could hear the rumbling of voices in the background and then she giggled. He had
the fleeting thought it might be a prank and it was the last thing he needed at the end of a long day.

‘I know you’ve only been back at work two days…’

It sounded like she was about to ask him a favour and he took a deep breath.

‘Go on.’

‘And you may not know that my dad is James Francis and he said he’s known you since you were an RMO and that you used to be a member of the hospital jazz band.’

He heard her take a deep breath and tried to make sense of a conversation that was becoming increasingly vague and convoluted. So Jodie was the daughter of Mr Francis, the paediatric surgeon, and, yes, he’d known her father for a long time and they’d jammed together a few times. But when he’d commenced his specialist training at the Stirling then married Joanna within the year, Richard had found the commitment to regular band practice and the occasional charity performance hadn’t fitted with the long hours and hectic schedule of a paediatric registrar with a pregnant wife. Most of the other band members had been either old enough to be grandparents or young
and unattached. He’d given away music almost completely, although he still had his saxophone.

‘And?’

‘Um…There’s a charity concert planned for the Easter weekend and the band is without a sax player. Dad suggested contacting you. I know it’s over two months away but—’

‘No. Thanks for thinking of me but I don’t play any more. Even if I wanted to it’s been so long and I doubt I’d have the time for regular practice. I was never any good.’

He’d first met Joanna through his music. She’d been in the Stratton University choir and he’d continued to play in what had jokingly been called the Lady Lawler Big Band—more to do with its size than the type of music they’d played, which could range from pop rock to classical as well as traditional jazz. The good old days…

The last thing he needed at the moment was to be reminded of a time in his life that was in his thoughts nearly every day. Playing the saxophone was a rare, solitary activity these days.

‘That’s not what Dad says. He reckons you’re the best saxophone player the band has ever had. Are you doing anything Friday night?’

‘Er…’ Lord, this woman was pushy, just like her father. He tried to picture the oncology after-hours roster. ‘I’m on call.’ He was fairly certain Friday and Sunday were his rostered days.

‘Perfect. We’re having auditions in the B J Cohen Lecture Theatre so if you get a call you’ll already be at the hospital.’ He heard her clear her throat. ‘Not that you need to audition, but it will give you a chance to meet the crew and assess the new talent. What do you say?’

The woman was wearing him down and the idea of getting back to his music had some appeal. Maybe it was meant to be, all part of his new start. There was also the possibility of rescuing his social life, which he’d thought he’d lost for ever.

‘Okay. I’ll come on Friday, but it doesn’t mean I’m committing to playing.’

‘Great. Seven-thirty, and bring your saxophone.’

Then she hung up, leaving Richard wondering how she’d managed to persuade him to do something that he really didn’t want to do.

* * *

The next few days flew by in a blur of ward rounds, clinics, lectures and med-student tutorials.
Richard’s only contact with Joanna had been on the wards in her capacity as an extremely dedicated and efficient paediatric nurse. There was no doubt in his mind she had a special relationship with her patients and she gave so much more than expected from the job description.

He certainly hadn’t had time to think about getting the ball rolling with their divorce but he would try and at least make a couple of phone calls, including one to his solicitor, on his afternoon off the following week.

He packed his briefcase with some paperwork he wanted to take home and then slung his stethoscope on the top before he clicked the case closed.

Friday already.

The reality of committing to even a brief appearance at the concert audition night had been intermittently interrupting his thoughts through the afternoon and now he longed for a quiet evening at home, with a glass of wine, listening to his favourite mood music…
with Joanna snuggled up beside him on the couch
.

An impossible dream.

He sighed as he walked out of Matilda Ward at the end of his first working week. In many ways
it was good to be back in Australia; his only disappointment was that the grieving process was beginning again—this time not only for his son but for the demise of his marriage.

* * *

Joanna hated being late.

By the time she arrived, there were only a couple of stragglers in the foyer of the lecture theatre—a middle-aged man she didn’t recognise who was carrying a cello case and one of the new intake of medical students dressed as an outrageously eccentric clown.

She laughed. The young student stopped and turned around. He’d only been working at Lady Lawler for a few weeks but already had a reputation for his cheeky sense of humour and the occasional practical joke.

‘Guess what role I’m up for tonight?’ he said in a ridiculously high-pitched voice, but managed a deadpan expression. He waited for her to catch up with him.

‘Wow, that’s a hard one.’ She chuckled. ‘It’s a long shot but I am guessing it could be the stand-up comedian slot?’

His animated, black-painted lips drooped in an
exaggerated expression of despondency as a bright blue tear trickled down one cheek. He whipped out a flamboyant bunch of daisies from somewhere in his baggy trousers and began waving them about as if he were conducting a full symphony orchestra.

‘I was hoping for the job of choirmaster.’

Joanna burst into laughter again. He would make a wonderful kids’ doctor. An off-beat sense of humour, as long as it was combined with sensitivity, made for ideal qualifications in an aspiring paediatrician.

‘Seriously?’

His face lit up again with a grin.

‘Seriously,’ he repeated, as he made an overstated gesture inviting her to enter the theatre before him. She walked in with a smile on her face, looked around and made her way over towards the section of stage with ‘CHOIR’ written in broad felt-tip pen on an upended cardboard box. It was part of a disparate set, which seemed to have done the job to guide the hopeful performers to different parts of the stage, depending on their abilities and aspirations.

She waved at the student as he headed towards
the section designated ‘MISCELLANEOUS’. He was obviously enjoying the attention.

‘Good luck,’ she called.

But then she stopped dead in her tracks.

She’d been aware of the discordant sound of the various band instruments tuning up but she picked up the strains of a saxophone playing ragtime out of the din. It was a popular Scott Joplin composition but she couldn’t remember the name.

Oh, God!

The memories came flooding back.

Why was the saxophonist playing the song Richard had been playing when they’d first met? It must be simply a cruel twist of fate, she thought as she looked over to the crowded band section to see who it was. It certainly didn’t sound like Steve, the hospital’s long-time player. It wasn’t his style.

She scanned the group, telling herself it was simply an unusual coincidence.

Then she saw him.

Richard’s unruly hair flopped over his forehead but Joanna could see he had his eyes closed, concentrating fully on the music. He’d always had the ability to focus totally, blocking everything out
but the sound of his own instrument. When he finished the lively tune, he stopped and took a deep breath before playing the soulful opening bars of an old traditional jazz ballad called ‘Sunset of Sadness’. It was a melody with lyrics about aching hearts, broken promises and shattered dreams. She knew the song by heart. The hummed melody had been a lullaby for Sam during his illness when he’d had trouble getting to sleep. And then, after it had all ended, the song had been comfort for her and Richard when there’d been no other way to express their grief.

Joanna began to mouth the words and then something strange happened. One by one the other instruments silenced and the rumble of conversation gradually ceased until all that could be heard was the clear, poignant sound of Richard’s saxophone. He seemed oblivious to what was happening around him, totally absorbed in the music.

But it was too much for Joanna. The memories stabbed at her heart and silent tears ran down her cheeks. She suddenly felt claustrophobic and had to leave. She stepped off the stage and, head down, walked quietly towards the exit.

But then, in her haste to leave, she stumbled.
She grabbed hold of the nearest thing to steady herself. Unfortunately it was a fold-up chair—the top one in a stack leaning against the wall. She fell backwards, taking at least half a dozen metal framed chairs with her.

The music stopped.

The entire occupants of the theatre seemed to take a collective breath before…all hell let loose.

How humiliatingly embarrassing.

The first person to reach her was Richard, closely followed by the clown. At least a dozen concerned faces drifted in and out of her field of vision.

‘What happened…?’

‘Are you okay…?’

‘You’ve cut your head…’

‘Does it hurt anywhere?’

‘Did you faint?’

Joanna knew they were well meaning but all she wanted to do at that moment was to escape to somewhere quiet, on her own.

‘I’m sure she’s okay and I’ll take care of her.’ Richard’s authoritative voice silenced the curious and concerned. ‘I think it’s best you get back to the auditions.’

With a firm but gentle grip he lifted her to her feet, conveying the message with his eyes that he understood she needed time and space to regain her composure. It was her pride that was injured, not her body. To add insult to injury, she’d exposed her weakness in times of stress, not only to everyone in the lecture theatre but to Richard.

She sniffed, wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and untangled herself from Richard’s protective grasp.

‘I’m all right. You can go back now,’ she said in a voice as unsteady as her wobbly legs.

‘What are you going to do?’
His
voice was as steady as a rock.

‘I can’t stay.’

The expression in Richard’s eyes told her he knew why.

‘I’m sorry…’

She swallowed, clearing her throat of tears and the rawness of her emotions.

‘Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t even know I was there.’

‘No,’ he said quietly.

She wanted to go home and she also wanted Richard to go away and leave her alone. She felt
the shell of her control coming dangerously close to cracking. The way she’d managed her grief and protected herself from painful memories had been to block them out. She couldn’t return to that aching place full of sorrow and guilt that had imprisoned her for so long after Sam’s death.

She hadn’t thought Richard coming back would have this effect, though.

‘I’m going home,’ she said, reaching up to run her fingers through her hair—before she realised her scalp was covered in less than a week’s stubble, and there was something sticky and warm near her ear. She quickly dropped her hand to her side, hoping Richard hadn’t noticed. As she turned to leave, Richard grasped her wrist and pulled her around to face him.

‘Where do you live? I don’t think you should drive. And you need someone to deal with the cut on your head.’