Dolphins. Healing. He thought of the hundreds of schmaltzy, New Age healing-type posters he’d seen in his lifetime and he felt ill.
What was he doing here?
‘So your kid’s crook?’ the attendant asked, and Jack flicked the remote. The car windows slid up soundlessly, ensuring Harry couldn’t hear.
Harry didn’t react. He didn’t seem to notice he was being cut out of the conversation. He never seemed to notice.
‘He was injured in a road accident a while back,’ he said. The pump was snail slow and this guy was intent on an inquisition. He might as well accept it.
‘You’re his dad?’
‘His uncle. His parents were killed.’
‘Poor little tacker,’ the man said. ‘But why bring him to Dolphin Bay? What’s the point? You’re being conned, mate. Fishing used to be good round here, but not any more. New Age hippies have even got permission to feed them, encouraging them in from the wild.’
‘How long have they been using them for healing?’
‘Since that Doc Kate came. Before that it was just dolphin saving. The place’s full of animal do-gooders and weirdos who think meditation’s more useful than facing life straight on. If you want to know what I think, the only good dolphin’s a dead dolphin. If they’d only let us shoot …’
But, praise be, the fuel tank was full. Jack produced his wallet with relief. ‘Keep the change.’ He wanted to be out of here, fast. ‘Use it for fish bait.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ the man said. ‘But if I were you I’d book into the motel and take the kid fishing. Much better than messing with hippies.’
That was so much what Jack was thinking that he had to agree. ‘I’d go fishing in a heartbeat,’ he admitted. ‘But I don’t have a choice.’
‘You look like a man who knows his own mind. What’s stopping you?’
‘Women,’ Jack said, before he could help himself. ‘Isn’t that what stops us all?’
Four-year-old Toby Linkler’s death was sudden, heartbreaking—and a deep and abiding blessing.
One minute Kate was watching as Toby’s mother, Amy, stood in the shallows, holding her little son close. Together they’d watched Hobble, the youngest of the trained dolphins, swim around them in circles. The little boy’s face, gaunt from illness, racked from months of chemotherapy, was lit from within. He’d even chuckled.
And then, as Hobble ducked underneath and almost propelled Toby out of the water with a nudge under his backside, Toby’s gaze suddenly turned inward.
Kate was four feet away and she moved fast, but by the time she reached him, the little boy was gone.
Toby’s mother sobbed with shock and horror, but she didn’t move. The dolphin’s circles grew wider, as if standing guard. How much did the creature know? Kate wondered. This moment couldn’t be intruded on and it wasn’t, even by the dolphins.
‘He’s … he’s gone,’ Amy sobbed at last. ‘Oh, Toby. The doctors said … They said he might …’
They had. More than one doctor had predicted seizures with the possibility of sudden death. Kate had studied Toby’s notes as thoroughly as she read every patient’s history. Four years old. Brain tumour. Incomplete excision twelve months ago. Chemotherapy had shown some shrinkage but eventually the growth had outstripped treatment. The last note on the history said: ‘If tumour maintains its present growth rate, prognosis is weeks, not months. We suggest palliative care as required. Referral back to family doctor.’
But Amy hadn’t taken Toby back to her family doctor. One of the other mums in the city hospital kids’ cancer ward had told her about Dolphin Bay Sanctuary’s therapy programme. Kate had had to squeeze to get them in.
Thank heaven she had, she thought now, and her thoughts were indeed a prayer. Toby had spent most of the last few days ensconced in a tiny wetsuit, floating with the dolphins that had entranced him. Kate had four dolphins she’d trusted with this frail little boy and in the end all four had been allowed to play with him. They had played too, making him laugh, nudging his failing little body as he’d floated on water-wings, tossing balls high in the air so they’d landed near him, retrieving them themselves if he hadn’t been able to.
He’d still needed painkillers, of course, and anti-seizure medication and drugs to try and stop the massive buildup of calcium leeching from the growing tumour, but for six glorious days he’d been a little boy again. He’d experienced fun and laughter, things that had had nothing to do with the illness and surgery he’d endured and endured and endured. At night he’d slept curled up with Maisie, Kate’s therapy dog. With his mum by his side, he’d seemed almost joyous.
Today he’d woken quieter, pale, and his breathing had been shallow. Kate had known time was running out. In a normal hospital she might have ordered blood tests, checked the cancer wasn’t sending his calcium levels through the roof, maybe even sent him for another MRI to check how large the tumour had grown, but given his history there was little point. Toby’s mother had made her choice and, weak as he’d been, Toby had been clear on the one thing he’d wanted.
‘I want to swim with Hobble.’
He had, and as his mother had cradled him Toby had felt the rush of the dolphin’s sleek, shining skin as he’d circled.
‘He’s my friend,’ he’d whispered.
And now he was gone.
There was nothing to be done. There was no call for heroics here, no desperate attempt at resuscitation. There was just the searing agony of a mother losing her child.
It was gut-wrenching. Unbearable. A void never to be filled.
But: ‘I’m so glad,’ Amy managed to whisper, as her racking sobs finally eased, as Kate stood waist deep in the water and gave her all the time she needed, and as Toby’s body settled deeper into death. ‘I’m so glad I brought him here. Oh, Kate, thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ Kate said, hugging her close and drawing her gently out of the water. ‘Thank my dolphins.’
‘Dr Kate’s running late.’ The pleasant-faced woman in Reception was welcoming, but apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ she said, and Jack felt a jolt of surprise. The woman was addressing his nephew instead of him. ‘This is Maisie,’ she told Harry, gesturing to a great bear of a golden-haired retriever snoozing under her desk. ‘Maisie, this is Harry.’ She prodded Maisie with her toe and Maisie looked up in polite enquiry. Me? You mean me?
‘Maisie,’ the receptionist said sternly, as one might chide a recalcitrant employee. ‘Say hello to Harry.’
The dog rolled onto her back, stretched, sighed, then lumbered up, strode across the room, sat in front of Harry—and raised a paw.
Harry stared. The dog sat patiently, paw outstretched, until finally, tentatively, Harry took it. Jack noticed, with quiet surprise, that his nephew almost managed a smile. It wasn’t quite, but it was close.
‘Dr Kate is in the water, doing therapy,’ the receptionist told Jack as dog and boy shook hand and paw for the second time. ‘She should be finishing now. Would you like to pop down to the beach? Please don’t disturb them but if you stay beyond the high-water mark you’re welcome to watch.’
Jack would very much like to watch. Despite Harry’s instant relaxation—he was now solemnly shaking the big dog’s paw for the third time—Jack’s guard was still sky high.
Why was he here? His home was in Sydney. Harry’s home was in Sydney. What Harry needed was continued therapy for healing leg fractures and a decent child psychiatrist who’d finally crack his wall