Phoebe parked the ambulance in the curve of the driveway. A blast of hot wind caught her in the face as she opened her door. Tiny particles of dust and pollen blew into her eyes, forcing their way behind her sunglasses. She narrowed her eyes as she and Steve grabbed their gear and headed for the porch, the crunch of gravel underfoot barely audible over the roar of the wind. The light was eerie, glowing with the colours of fire, bright in contrast to the backdrop of a dark and ominous sky.
The front door opened and a man stepped out to meet them, shaking their hands in a distracted fashion, looking not at them but at the smoke looming over the bush.
‘Malcolm Watts, Benji’s dad. He’s through here,’ he said, beckoning them in and casting a last look in the direction of the fire. It was still out of sight but they all knew it was just over the hill. ‘The wind’s all over the place, I don’t like the look of it.’
Phoebe had to agree and when the front door slammed shut behind them, closed by the force of the wind, she shuddered at the finality of the sound. Malcolm led the way into a sitting room where a toddler was lying wan and pale on the couch, his blonde head on his mother’s lap. The child’s skin was almost translucent in the way of infants and young children and his mother was stroking the damp yellow curls back from his forehead. Her focus was entirely on her son. She was oblivious to their arrival.
And it was too much like Joe. This could have been her. That had been her, her cheek resting on the velvet roundness of another’s little cheek, running fingers through sweet-smelling, soft curls, heart swelling with the impossible sweetness of such a love.
Come snuggle Mumma, Joe. How much do I love you?
Mostly it was OK. Mostly the past didn’t rush at her like this, making her breath catch in her throat, her lungs constrict with sudden remembrance. But sometimes…
‘Phoebe?’
Steve was already at Benji’s side, calling to her, casting a glance to hurry her along.
It wasn’t Joe and it wasn’t her. She’d had that life, a long time ago. She had a new one now, she was another person to the one she’d been. There was no turning back the clock. Sometimes her memory didn’t obey the rules, but she had to. And she always did.
She didn’t miss a beat, heading straight over to introduce herself to Benji’s mum, Marg, noting at the same time how the little boy’s eyes were ringed with dark circles, each exhalation a struggle with a tight wheeze. Steve was already setting up the oxygen cylinder, slipping the mask into place, adjusting the straps until he had the fit right over Benji’s nose and mouth. As he moved on to the physical exam, speaking softly to the child, Phoebe questioned Malcolm and Marg about Benji’s health history. Benji appeared unfazed by Steve, a stranger, rolling up his top and pressing a stethoscope against his chest. It was a further sign he was a very sick little boy.
‘Definite obstruction of the airway, difficulty exhaling.’ Steve announced his findings as he continued the examination.
‘You say he’s been sick these last few days? Wheezing getting worse?’ Phoebe asked.
Malcolm nodded and Marg said, ‘We didn’t take him to the doctor because last month he had the same thing and they said they couldn’t do anything—it was just a cold and a slight upper respiratory infection, nothing major. But then this morning he started to wheeze a lot. It’s been getting worse. He was crying and now he’s settled, but he still can’t breathe.’
No point now in explaining he’d not settled but become exhausted. His condition had deteriorated, not improved. ‘The wheezing hasn’t happened at all before? Your doctor hasn’t mentioned asthma?’
‘No, nothing like that. We thought he had a cold and we’d stick it out here. We’ve done it before and it’s always been fine. But we didn’t have a child then.’
‘We should have left. The smoke’s made him worse.’ Marg’s voice cracked with barely restrained feeling as she spoke. ‘What’s wrong with him? Is it asthma? Is it the smoke?’
‘The hospital will have to give you the answers, but it’s likely he has undiagnosed asthma. The smoke or the harsh wind whipping up the pollens and dust are all likely triggers. Wheezing in small children is more likely to be from a cold induced by a virus rather than asthma per se, but Benji’s symptoms suggest it’s much more than a simple cold.’
Steve was continuing to monitor Benji on the oxygen. ‘He’s not responding as quickly as I’d hoped.’ Phoebe looked at Benji, whose lips were now faintly tinged with blue.
‘Nebuliser?’
Steve nodded and Phoebe extracted the nebuliser equipment, setting it up with well-practised hands, running the Ventolin with the oxygen. The ventolin rose, smoke-like, up through the mask and Benji inhaled it, submissive throughout.
‘We’ll need to take him to hospital.’
‘Aren’t we meant to stay put?’ Marg asked. ‘That’s why we called the ambulance and didn’t leave before.’
‘Yes, theoretically, and for the same reason we weren’t meant to come out in the first place, but the best place for Benji is the hospital. One of you can ride with us or you can both follow. That is, if you’re coming.’
‘Of course we’re coming,’ said Malcolm, adding, ‘Do you want to grab some things, Marg?’ He touched her on the arm, the gesture of intimacy and affection jabbing Phoebe in the heart, although she covered it by packing up their equipment. She’d had that, too, that closeness with someone, that sense of being on each other’s side.
Or had she? Had it really been like that with Adam before it had all fallen apart?
Malcolm called after his wife, breaking into her thoughts, ‘Bring the fire-box, too, just in case, honey.’ Marg’s eyes widened at that. It seemed that in her anxiety over Benji she’d forgotten for a brief moment about another danger lurking on the horizon.
As Marg collected her thoughts and left the room a new sound intruded.
‘Sirens.’ Steve and Phoebe spoke in unison.
‘It’s the CFS siren. The fire must be getting closer,’ Malcolm told them. Phoebe shot a look at Steve, wondering if they’d been foolish coming here. But it was too late to worry about that now. They needed a new plan.
‘Where’s your phone, Malcolm?’ Phoebe asked him. ‘I’ll just let the hospital know we’re coming in.’
‘The phone lines are down. We just managed to call 000 before they went and we don’t have mobile reception here.’
‘I’ll use the ambulance two-way, then,’ Phoebe said, leaving in what she hoped was an efficient manner, trying to quell the mild panic fluttering about in her belly. ‘Back in a moment.’
As she stepped from the house, the first thing she was aware of, after the screaming of the siren, was the hot wind blasting her left side. It had swung around.
Windy days had always unsettled her and coming out into this gale was extremely unnerving. The wind had increased in intensity and buffeted her as she struggled across the driveway. Trees were being bent double by the force of the wind and she made herself keep walking, leaning into the wind, fighting her instinct to return to the safety of the house. She had to find out what the situation was—they couldn’t afford to be trapped on the road.
The howling of the wind was battling with the shrieking of the siren, the cacophony of noise clashing in Phoebe’s head and making her want to scream in frustration.
She made