A Special Relationship by Douglas Kennedy Page B

swollen to twice its normal size and had turned a slightly purplish colour. Both eyes had been blackened, and the areas around the eyelids were also discoloured and puffy.
    ‘A nose injury always appears worse than it is,’ she said, immediately aware of my distress. ‘And it always clears up very quickly. Give it three, four days, and you’ll be back to your beautiful self.’
    I had to laugh – not simply because I never considered myself beautiful … but also because, at the moment, I looked like I belonged in a freak show.
    ‘American, are you?’ she asked me.
    I nodded.
    ‘Never met an American I didn’t like,’ she said. ‘Mind you, I’ve only met two Yanks in my entire life. What you doing living here?’
    ‘My husband’s English.’
    ‘Aren’t you a smart girl,’ she said with a laugh.
    She lowered me into the warm water and gently sponged me down, handing me the wash cloth when it came to the area around my crotch. Then she helped me back up, dried me off, and dressed me in a clean nightgown. All the while, she kept up a steady stream of trivial chat. A very English way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation … and one which I liked. Because, in her own gruff way, she was actually being gentle with me.
    By the time she wheeled me back to the ward, the soggy sheets had been stripped away and replaced with clean linen. As she helped me into bed, she said, ‘Don’t you worry about anything, luv. You’re going to be fine.’
    I surrendered to the cool, starched sheets, relieved to be dry again. Nurse Howe came by, and informed me that a urine sample was needed.
    ‘Been there, done that,’ I said laughing.
    I eased myself out of bed again and into the bathroom, filling a vial with what little pee I still had on reserve. Then, when I was back in bed, another nurse came by and drew a large hypodermic of blood. Nurse Howe returned to tell me that Tony had just called. She’d informed him that Mr Hughes would be here at eight tonight, and suggested that he try to be at the hospital then.
    ‘Your husband said he’d do his best, and was wondering how you were doing.’
    ‘You didn’t tell him anything about me wetting the…’
    ‘Don’t be daft,’ Nurse Howe said with a small laugh, and then informed me that I shouldn’t get too cosy right now, as Mr Hughes (having been alerted to my condition) had ordered an ultrasound prior to his arrival. Alarm bells began to ring between my ears.
    ‘Then he does believe that the baby’s in danger?’ I said.
    ‘Thinking that does you no good …’
    ‘I have to know if there’s a risk that I might mis—’
    ‘There is a risk, if you keep getting yourself in an anxious state. The high blood pressure isn’t just due to physiological factors. It’s also related to stress. Which is why you fell on your face last night.’
    ‘But if I’m just suffering from high blood pressure, why is he ordering an ultrasound?’
    ‘He just wants to rule out …’
    ‘Rule out what?’ I demanded.
    ‘It’s normal routine.’
    This was hardly comforting. All during the ultrasound, I kept staring at the vague outline on the foetal monitor, asking the technician (an Australian woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty-three) if she could see if anything was untoward.
    ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine.’
    ‘But the baby … ?’
    ‘There’s no need to get yourself so …’
    But I didn’t hear the last part of that sentence, as the itching suddenly started again. Only this time, the area most affected was my midsection and my pelvis … exactly where the ultrasound gel had been smeared. Within the space of a minute, the itch was unbearable, and I found myself telling the technician that I needed to scratch my belly.
    ‘Not a problem,’ she said, removing the large ultrasound wand which she had been applying to my stomach. Immediately, I began to tear at my skin. The technician looked on, wide-eyed.
    ‘Take it slow, eh?’ she