images didn’t mesh and Matt didn’t have time to get his head around it. The boy’s leg was dreadfully fractured, the blood supply had already been compromised and any minute a sliver of bone could compromise it again. Or shift and slice into an artery.
‘You have my permission,’ Kelly said, her voice not quite steady. ‘If it’s okay with you, Jessie?’
What kind of mother referred to her kid for such a decision? But Kelly really was deferring. She had hold of her son’s hand, waiting for his decision.
Jessie. This was doing his head in.
Maybe he should pull away; haul in a colleague. Could he be impersonal?
Of course he could. He had to be. To refer to another surgeon would mean a two-hour transfer to Brisbane.
No. Once he was in Theatre this would be an intricate jigsaw of shattered bone and nothing else would matter. He could ignore personal confusion. He could be professional.
‘Matt, Jessie’s mother is Dr Kelly Eveldene,’ Beth was saying. ‘She’s an emergency physician trained in Hawaii.’
‘Mr Eveldene and I have met before,’ the woman said, and Matt’s world grew even more confused.
‘So it’s not a coincidence?’ Beth said. ‘Matt...’
Enough. Talking had to stop. History had to take a back seat. These toes were too cool.
‘Jess, we need to get you to surgery now,’ he told the boy. There was no way to sugar-coat this. ‘Your leg’s kinking at an angle that’s threatening to cut off blood supply. Caroline Isram is our vascular surgeon and she’s on her way. Together we have every chance of fixing this. Do we have your permission to operate? And your mother’s?’
Finally, he turned to face her.
Kelly Eveldene had been a half-starved drug addict who’d been with his brother when he’d died. This was not Kelly Eveldene. This was a competent-looking woman, five feet six or seven tall, clear, grey eyes, clear skin, shiny chestnut curls caught back in a casual wispy knot, quality jeans, crisp white T-shirt and an official surf tour lanyard on a cord round her neck saying, ‘Dr Kelly Eveldene. Pro Surf Medical Director.’
Mr Eveldene and I have met before.
‘Are you a long-lost relative?’ Jess asked, almost shyly. ‘I mean, Eveldene’s not that common a name.’
‘I think I must be,’ Matt said, purposely not meeting Kelly’s eyes. ‘But we can figure that out after the operation. If you agree to the procedure.’
‘Dr Beth says you’re good.’
‘I’m good.’ No place here for false modesty.
‘And you’ll fix my leg so I can keep surfing?’
Something wrenched in him at that. Suddenly he heard Jess, long ago, yelling at his father over the breakfast table. ‘All I want to do is surf. Don’t you understand?’ And then saw Jessie arriving home from school that night, and finding his board in the backyard, hacked into a thousand pieces.
But now wasn’t the time for remembering. Now wasn’t the time to be even a fraction as judgmental as his father had been.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, holding Jessie’s gaze even though it felt like it was tearing him apart to do so. ‘Jess, I won’t lie to you—this is a really bad break, but if you let us operate now I think you’ll have every chance of hanging ten or whatever you do for as long as you want.’
‘Thank you,’ Jess said simply, and squeezed his mother’s hand. ‘Go for it. But take a picture for Facebook first.’
* * *
She’d been a doctor now for nine years, but she’d never sat on this side of the theatre doors. She’d never known how hard the waiting would be. Her Jess was on the operating table, his future in the hands of one Matt Eveldene.
Kelly had trained in emergency medicine but surfing had been her childhood, so when she’d qualified, she’d returned. Her surfing friends were those who’d supported her when she’d needed them most, so it was natural that she be drawn back to their world. She’d seen enough wipe-outs to know how much a doctor at the scene could help. Even before she’d qualified she’d been pushing to have a permanent doctor at the professional championships, and aiming for that position after qualification had seemed a natural fit.
But she’d spent time in hospitals in training, and she’d assisted time and time again when bad things had happened to surfers. She knew first-hand that doctors weren’t miracle workers.
So now she was staring at the doors, willing them to open. It had been more than three hours. Surely soon...
How would Jess cope if he was left with residual weakness? Or with losing his leg entirely? It didn’t bear thinking about. Surfing wasn’t his whole life but it was enough. It’d break his heart.
And Matt Eveldene was operating. What bad fairy was responsible for him being orthopaedic surgeon at the very place Jess had had his accident? Wasn’t he supposed to still be in Sydney with his appalling family? If she’d known he was here she would never have come.
Had she broken her promise by being here?
You keep yourself out of our lives, now and for ever.
She’d cashed the cheque and that had meant acceptance of his terms. The cheque had been Jessie’s insurance, though. Her husband’s insurance. Surely a promise couldn’t negate that.
The cheque had saved her life. No, she thought savagely. Her Jess had saved her life. Her husband. Her lovely, sun-bleached surfer who’d picked her up when she’d been at rock bottom, who’d held her, who’d made her feel safe for the first time. Who’d had demons of his own but who’d faced them with courage and with honour.
‘We’ll get through this together, babe,’ he’d told her. ‘The crap hand you’ve been dealt...my black dog... We’ll face them both down.’
But the black dog had been too big, too savage, and in the end she hadn’t been able to love him enough to keep it at bay. The night he’d died...
Enough. Don’t go there. In a few minutes she’d have to face his brother, and maybe she would have to go there again, but only briefly, only as long as it took to explain that she hadn’t broken her promise deliberately. She and Jess would move out of his life as soon as possible, and they’d never return.
* * *
It took the combined skill of Matt Eveldene, a vascular surgeon, an anaesthetist and a team of four skilled nurses to save Jessie’s leg.
‘Whoever treated it on the beach knew what they were doing,’ Caroline muttered. Gold Coast Central’s vascular surgeon was in her late fifties, grim and dour at the best of times. Praise was not lightly given. ‘This artery’s been so badly damaged I have no idea how blood was getting through.’
She went back to doing what she was doing, arterial grafting, slow, meticulous work that meant all the difference between the leg functioning again or not. Matt was working as her assistant right now, removing shattered
