Du Rose Prophecy Read online

  “It’s ok, Mr Du Rose,” the young nurse said with kindness in her face. “Your wife’s waiting for you in the day room. I’ll show you where it is.” She came around the side of the desk in soft soled shoes which made a dull squeak on the carpet. They entered a room which looked as though it could feature in a Homes and Gardens magazine.

  Hana Du Rose sat in a high-backed chair watching television without registering anything happening on the screen. She was rake thin and her clothes hung off her like curtains. The usually pretty face was colourless. Her emerald green eyes were listless and had temporarily lost their twinkle. Curly auburn hair was pulled away from her face in a loose ponytail, which Logan could tell someone else did for her. Tendrils escaped and hung around her face like a curly halo.

  At the sound of the nurse, Hana turned to face her with a serene smile that didn’t reach her eyes. But when she saw her husband, it lit up like sunshine on a mirror and she was beautiful. She struggled to her feet and he half-ran to her, frightened to grip her in his usual firm embrace. Instead, he held her as though she was fragile china, feeling the bones through her fleece and chastising himself for his neglect yet again. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. He used his thumbs to brush the hair gently off her forehead and kissed her there, keeping his lips pressed to her skin for as long as he dared with the nurse still looking.

  Hearing the attendant’s shoes squeaking as she left the room, he moved his lips onto Hana’s, enjoying the familiar taste and feel of her. He drew her into him, trying hard not to hurt her against his body, but needing to show her how much he needed her. Logan breathed in the scent of her hair and the accustomed smell of her skin, centring himself and trying to regain some semblance of security, realising his nerves were frayed and jangling. The underlying scent of disinfectant and cleaning fluid ruined it.

  Hana let him hold and kiss her, needing the physical contact. Her husband felt so strong and invincible, it gave her a needed sense of safety. Every incision or needle mark on her paper thin skin hurt, leaving a continuing ache which wore her out. “Where’s Phoe?” she asked. “I need to feed her.” Hana’s chest hitched at the unexpected relief of finding Logan alone and guilt made her tone rough.

  “At home,” Logan’s voice was muffled through Hana’s hair. “It was too hard yesterday. Everything will be all right, but we need to be patient.”

  “Yeah, it was hard. She waved her arms around, grabbing hold of anything within reach,” Hana acknowledged. It was exhausting, trying to feed the seven month old baby and keep the tiny hands away from the stitches, the drip wire and everything else of interest. In the end, Logan swaddled the baby in a blanket to pin her down and the little free spirit had not enjoyed the experience.

  Hana sighed, laying her cheek against Logan’s chest. She slipped a hand up the back of his tee shirt and savoured the feel of his smooth skin under her palm. He smelled like he always did, of fresh hay and summer sunshine. It gave her comfort and peace which translated into a long relaxing exhale.

  Logan misread it, stiffening in panic and dropping so he could catch his wife behind her knees and lift her bodily off the ground. His strong biceps tensed and her lightness terrified him. Hana stifled the groan which almost escaped as the stitches pulled in her chest. She snuggled her face into his soft neck. His hair tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze. “I want to go home, Logan,” she begged plaintively. “Please take me home?”

  Logan spun on the spot, trying to find somewhere to put his wife down so he could talk sense into her. Finding nowhere instantly appealing, he plonked himself down in a comfy armchair and snuggled her into his lap. Hana resisted, as though taking part in a silent protest and Logan relaxed and drew her into him, savouring the normality of the embrace despite the distinctly abnormal surroundings. He stroked Hana’s hair and kissed the top of her head numerous times, his brain practicing sentences of negation.

  “The doctor said I could go,” Hana persisted. “I’ve got a discharge notice with instructions and a prescription for pills. Please can I come with you?”

  “I’m not sure,” her husband answered truthfully. “We’re a long way out if something goes wrong and it’s not the easiest place to land a chopper.”

  Hana sat up and looked at him in dismay, betrayal in her green eyes. “You don’t want me to come home.” Anger and astonishment curled her upper lip in a pout. She shoved herself off his knees and stalked away, her slender back rigid and her ponytail swinging. “If you don’t have faith in me, then what’s left?”

  Hana saw only personal rejection. She had accepted the discharge notice, convinced rest and familiar surroundings would aid her recuperation. The insurance company wanted her out, her room had been reallocated, and her few belongings were behind the nurses’ station. Now she had nowhere to go. Hana went to the immaculate bathroom half-way down the corridor, shut herself in and sat on the top of the toilet seat in tears. If Logan wouldn’t take her back to his hotel in the mountains, she would need to find an alternative destination. “Because I’m not staying here!” she sobbed.

  Hana contemplated her options, which were limited. They included getting a taxi to her house in Ngaruawahia, or even back to the staff unit at the Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys where she lived during term time with her teacher-husband and baby. The major flaw in the plan centred on her heart attack and emergency airlift not including her purse or handbag. “I’ll call Tama then,” she chuntered stubbornly to the empty bathroom. “He’ll fetch me.” Her chest hurt with the realisation that if she dragged her nephew into the miserable situation; it had the potential to fracture his relationship with Logan and they would both blame her. Besides which, she couldn’t go anywhere without Phoenix.

  Hana continued to run through her list of friends and possible rides out of the hospital, counting them off on her fingers. Her daughter, Izzie was in Invercargill at the opposite end of the country with her three young children, but her son was an hour and a half away in Hamilton. Their relationship was not the best, but he might be willing to drive up and get her if she begged him. “No house keys!” Hana wailed to herself, hearing her pathetic voice echoing back to her from the wall tiles.

  “Mrs Du Rose, are you all right?” asked a soft voice through the door after the owner of it knocked gently. Hana recognised the nurse who cared for her over the last few days.

  “I’m fine,” she sniffed, blowing her nose loudly and not wanting the nurse to open the door on her.

  “Your husband’s here. He’s concerned about you. Could you please open the door?”

  “No,” Hana said sullenly, blowing her nose again. “Tell him it’s fine, he can go. I’m organising a lift for myself. I need to find a way to get my daughter off him and then I’ll be sorted.”

  Hana heard whispering outside the door and ignored it. She enjoyed the rare power self-pity fuelled for her after four days of being constantly under someone else’s control. She leaned sideways on the toilet seat and looked at her face in the mirror. “Ugh!” It was blotchy and pinched-looking with a smattering of tears on her drawn cheeks. She squeezed a few more out easily and looked again. She already felt like a geriatric and now she looked like a pathetic one as well. A sad geriatric whose husband won’t give me a ride home from hospital. Hana hiccoughed and the tears ran freely then at her pitiful situation. She tugged at the roll of toilet paper and the last three sheets detached themselves, leaving an empty cardboard cylinder dangling from the metal hook.

  The whispering outside the door stopped and the handle turned and clicked. Hana watched as it opened slowly and Logan appeared in the doorway. She screwed her face up in exasperation; forgetting his ability to break in anywhere. “Get lost!” Exhaling crossly, Hana turned away, swivelling on the toilet seat and hearing the hinges emit a dreadful creak. The nurse looked in at her through the gap between Logan’s arm and the door, satisfying herself the patient hadn’t collapsed. Hana pressed the fragile squares of tissue against her eyes and tried to mop herself up, hea
ring the door click shut again. She wondered if her husband had gone away but couldn’t peek, as one of the tissue pieces had stuck to her eyelid.

  Standing up, Hana felt for the sink, only able to see through one eye. The water was cold as she splashed it over her face and she spluttered as some of it went up her nose. A paper towel dispenser hung on the wall to her right and she reached out and snatched towels from it, rubbing the hard material over her face. When she looked at herself in the mirror again, she was pleasantly surprised to find the cold water had reduced the puffiness of her eyes and the frantic rubbing had given her cheeks colour. Her husband’s grey irises met her refection as he stood watching patiently for his wife to finish her ablutions. “I’m organising a lift,” she said facetiously at him. “You can go now.”

  The livid scar underneath Logan’s right eye twitched slightly as Hana stared at its reflection in the mirror. It was back to front and looked wrong. Without removing his gaze, Logan leaned back against the smooth wall and put the sole of his boot against it, bending his knee and settling in for a long wait. Hana’s nerve began to leave her, knowing she would inevitably lose this game. She wanted to get out of her claustrophobic self-imposed prison, feeling trapped by the giant male blocking the doorway, his muscles bulging through the white tee shirt. Logan studied his wife with interest as he settled into a comfortable position. Stalemate. A tiny smirk lifted the corner of his lips and he folded his arms.

  The battle of wills began and it was familiar and safe, re-establishing their dynamic as a couple. Hana’s fragility terrified her husband. He fell in love with a feisty redhead and very much wanted her back, regretting the foolish doubts he shared out loud. It was selfish and possibly a little cruel. He was ready to say sorry, but wasn’t sure if Hana was ready to hear it. She unnerved him and so he waited, treating her like a horse he was in the process of breaking, exercising his never-ending patience and inviting her to test his iron will for herself. Hana huffed and puffed and sat back down on the toilet seat, determined not to give him the satisfaction of beating her. Again. Deadlock.

  The sound of shuffling made them both look round as an elderly man pushed the door open. Dressed in a fluffy green dressing gown, he walked with difficulty, pushing along a metal walking frame. He looked uncomfortable. “Oh, terribly sorry,” he said seeing Logan standing to the right of the door and Hana sitting on the toilet. “There’s a problem with my ensuite and the other one’s engaged.” He tried to turn his walking frame and almost toppled sideways, saved by Logan shooting out his strong forearm.

  Hana rose from the toilet lid, her face laced with guilt and called after the retreating white hair, “It’s fine. I’m done here. You can have this one.”

  Logan helped the old man shuffle through the toilet door, listing like a stricken tanker. “Thanks so much.” He looked grateful, “I don’t think I’d have made it.”

  Hana bolted, hoping to escape the bathroom before her husband but wasn’t nearly quick enough. Clamping his big hands around her upper arms from behind, he pushed her in front of him towards a cupboard door on the opposite side of the corridor. Finding it unlocked, he forced her in one-handed and shut the door behind him. Hana opened her mouth to speak, the metal shelves digging into her back but Logan put a finger over her mouth to stop her. “Firstly, I never said you couldn’t come home. You jumped to conclusions. I have valid reasons for being worried, but I’ve talked to the doctor now and I’m fine about it. They’ve given me an emergency number to call and an advice line I can access if you get sick again.”

  Logan leaned in close to Hana and placed his right hand against the shelving unit above her. He towered over her and she felt tiny in comparison, looking at his shirt buttons at close range to avoid the penetrating grey eyes reading her like an open book. One of the little buttons was coming adrift, its cotton threads protruding dangerously. They fluttered comically in her breath.

  “So how do we play this?” Logan asked, sounding tired of Hana’s amateur dramatics. She shrugged like a sullen teenager and shook her head. “Will you stop being difficult and get in the car with me, or do I carry you out kicking and screaming?”

  Hana smirked, relieved he hadn’t suggested leaving her there to fend for herself. She felt grateful it wasn’t even on the list of options. She hung her head and feigned contrition. Logan ran his fingers down her damp cheek and lifted her head to look at him. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered, his voice laden with emotion. His mouth was warm and luscious against Hana’s dry lips and she drank in the kiss with enthusiasm. The wounds on her chest ached as the familiar feeling plummeted through her stomach, desire and lust reviving her tired body. She pushed her hands under his shirt and felt the solid muscles either side of his spine and the tautness of his body, wanting more. Clattering in the corridor disturbed them and Logan pulled away first, indicating the door with a jerk of his head. “Stop being an egg and get your nono in that car!”

  Hana slipped out from under Logan’s arm and scooted, rattled by the loud beating of her heart in her ears. Logan stirred something latent within her and the new pacemaker responded, channelling the heightened blood flow caused by passion. Hana hoped it would be able to cope with the responses the beautiful Māori invoked, every time his feather light touch dusted her porcelain skin.

  Chapter Three

  Hana wept bitter tears in her room for half an hour after her father; Robert McIntyre left for the airport and his arduous flight back to England. She cried over the twenty- six wasted years, having truly believed he hated her for her accidental teenage pregnancy. The Scotsman found her in McDonald’s in Hamilton, of all places on the earth and the reunion was eventually healing. But the parting was bittersweet, her heart attack robbing them of further precious hours in his short visit. The sight of her strong father in tears at their good-bye was something Hana knew would haunt her until her dying day.

  The melodramatic side of her nature told her she would never get over it, while the rational, sensible side wrestled and argued and urged her not to be silly. It was enough to set her off crying again, conjuring up that image in her mind of his steady blue eyes fighting the terrible inner pain of leaving his daughter. Especially now. She recalled his trembling hand waving up at her on the balcony as Logan stuffed his belongings into the boot of the Honda. What if I never see him again?

  Robert had been so brave, holding it all in until the last minute, but that final look up at her had done it for them both. Tears coursed down his crinkled face like a burst dam and he struggled for control, knowing he was upsetting her further. Even from the distance between them, Hana saw the glassiness of his eyes and the emotions there. His soul seemed to cry out to her, I don’t want to leave and hers answered painfully, then don’t.

  Elaine, his second wife, belted him into the back seat like a child as Tama climbed into the front. Robert wiped his eyes on the back of his hand and waved in the general direction of the balcony, but he couldn’t look at Hana again. Another glance at her agony on display would break him open for sure. Even Logan didn’t look at his wife as he backed the car out and drove towards the gates and Hana felt unacknowledged and invisible.

  She stood watching for a long time after the sound of the wheels on the driveway dulled to nothing and the Honda treacherously bore her parent away from her. The wind got up and caused Hana’s red hair to stream out behind her, buffeting her thin frame relentlessly and making her feel even more of a victim. Her life felt like a bad movie; one where everything went wrong for the heroine and while the innocent cinema goers waited patiently for a happy ending, the credits rolled and the heroine stayed dead or alone. A sick feeling rose up in her chest and she struggled to name it so she could send it away, but it refused to be called by any label that might help. So she stayed feeling sick, unsettled and lost.

  “I want to come with you,” Hana wept to Logan the night before. “I need to say goodbye.”

  Logan shook his head and denied her. “No way, Hana. The journ
ey here was too much for you. I’m not taking you to the airport. Stay here and rest.”

  Hana was inconsolable, crying before daybreak at the injustice of it all. Surely at the very least, they could have let her squish in the back between her father and his wife and not denied her that last hour of comfort. “Why’s Tama going?” she had sobbed.

  “He’s signing his contract at the Fire Department headquarters in Auckland.” Logan was resolute and immovable and Hana pouted at the memory of his strong jaw and the determined set of his shoulders. He held her while she cried and protested, unmoved by the enormous tears that ran down his shirt and speckled his arms.

  “I hate you,” she wailed and he had laughed at her then.

  “No you don’t.”

  Hana regretted all the wasted hours when she could have sought her father out and made the most of his presence on her side of the world. She should have hugged him, kissed him and told him she loved him until he knew for sure she meant it. She should have stopped him going sightseeing, made him stay in her company the whole time and not told him he deserved a holiday. She should have been selfish and kept him all to herself.

  Even as she worked through those feelings, Hana knew they were irrational and childish. Robert McIntyre knew his daughter loved him. The greatest resentment in Hana’s muddled emotional shopping list was that the heart attack and subsequent surgery robbed her of precious time with her dad. It forced her to sleep often and seem tired and unenthusiastic in these last days. She hated her body for subjecting her to that. And therein lay a huge part of the problem. She no longer trusted her body. She was forty-six years old, not ninety-six and yet it hobbled her as thoroughly as if she was. The cuts on her chest and the invasive pacemaker were a constant reminder of her own mortality, her inability to predict anything about her life, not even the next heartbeat.