Page 69 of The New House

I can’t think about her two little boys at home asleep in their beds, confident that Mummy will be there to make them breakfast in the morning. My ability to put my personal feelings aside is one of the things that makes me so good at my job.

Harper isn’t going to thank me for slicing her open from her chest to her abdomen, but whether or not she’ll ever wear a bikini again is the least of my concerns. The visceral segment fenestration surgery I’m about to perform stresses the body in significant ways, bringing risk of major complications including stroke, heart attack, kidney failure, and damage to the colon or other organs if there’s an insufficient blood supply. Harper’s youth and good health reduce that risk, but if a livid scar is all she has to show for her time on my table, she’ll be lucky.

Spreading her ribs, I move asidemultiple organs – lungs, colon, kidney, spleen, pancreas, stomach – in order to reach the part of her aorta that needs to be fixed. I signal to my team to give her medication to thin her blood, and clamp the aorta and major branches feeding the abdominal organs and kidney before starting to repair the damaged section.

For a moment, I literally hold Harper’s heart in my hand.

I’ve just been gifted the perfect opportunity to extinguish any threat this annoying woman might present to my son, my marriage, or my peace of mind. I don’t have to do anything: I just have to perform a little less than my best. No one would ever know.

I’ve never performed at less than my best in my life.

It takes nearly six hours to complete the surgery, and my back aches from standing by the time I’m done. I check the flow in the branch vessels with a Doppler ultrasound, and then instruct my team to reverse the blood thinner medication.

My attending steps forward to close the incision, but I wave him away. He has all the finesse of a blind pathologist when it comes to stitching. After all she’s been through, Harper deserves a little better.

‘Beautiful work,’ the anaesthetist says, when I’m done. ‘Did you do needlepoint at school?’

I ignore him. ‘Let me know when she’s awake,’ I say, snapping off my gloves.

I’ve been on my feet now for more than twenty hours, and I’m due back at the hospital for a transplant surgery in the morning. I don’t want to leave until Harper is conscious, so there’s no point going home; I’ll snatch a few hours’ sleep in one of the on-call bunks. I change out of my scrubs and text Tom as I pass through the deserted waiting area to let him know I won’t be home until tomorrow evening.

A man suddenly lurches towards me and I jump, nearly dropping my phone.It’s 2 a.m. and I’m tired: it takes me a few moments to recognise the man as Harper’s husband, Kyle.

It’s obvious he’s been crying. His eyes are red-rimmed and raw, and his hair stands up in tufts at the back of his head. He looks about twelve.

‘Is she going to be OK, Mrs Downton?’

He sounds like one of Meddie’s schoolfriends. I don’t have the heart to point out that Downton is my married name: at work I go by Lennox.

I glance around the empty lounge, looking in vain for one of my team. I’m really not comfortable dealing with patients’ families. ‘How long have you been waiting, Kyle? Someone should have been through to talk to you—’

‘They said it’d gone well, but I wanted to hear it fromyou.’

I guide him towards a knot of empty armchairs near us. In the small hours of the morning, we’re the only people here: most patients requiring an all-night vigil are upstairs in the ICU.

‘The surgerydidgo well, Kyle,’ I say. ‘It’ll be a while before we know for sure, but the procedure went without a hitch, and I think Harper’s going to make a full recovery.’

He lets out a gasp. ‘Oh God!’

‘I know it’s easy for me to say, but try not to worry, Kyle,’ I say kindly. ‘You should go home and get some sleep while you can. You won’t be able to see her for a while yet, and I’m going to be right here until she wakes up.’

Kyle buries his face in his hands, his huge shoulders heaving. I’m desperate to get some sleep myself so I’m fresh for tomorrow’s surgery, but I can’t leave the man like this on his own.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he hiccoughs, raising a tear-stained face. ‘I know you must be busy. It’s just … such a relief she’s going to be OK. I don’t know what I’d have told the boys if …’

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘No need to apologise.’

‘I know I haven’t been the perfect husband,’ he says, looking down at his hands. ‘I’ve let her down. I know I don’t deserve her. But all this – it really puts things into perspective, you know?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘All this bullshit with your house – sorry. No offence.’

I wave away the apology. ‘No, you’re right. Itisbullshit. Never mind about the house, Kyle. All that matters right now is your boys.’

‘They’re OK. They’re with my mum,’ Kyle says.

I stand. ‘I promise I’ll let you know the second she wakes up.’

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