Merger By Matrimony

‘It’s Callum Ross,’ she whispered, turning stricken eyes to her father. ‘The man is Callum Ross.’

‘What the…?’

‘Please, Dad. Let me give him the antibiotics.’ But her hand was shaking so much that she couldn’t, and her father swiftly injected him.

She remained with him for the rest of the day, watching the flicker of eyelids over closed eyes, checking him frequently to see whether the tell tale rash that marked the end of the fever was beginning to appear.

‘You fool,’ she whispered, reaching out to hold his hand. ‘What got into your head? Don’t die on me, Callum. I’ll never forgive you.’ One tear spilled down her face and was quickly joined by another. When, later, her father came in to administer the next lot of medicine, she was steady enough to do it herself, and she hustled him out of the door, nodding feverishly when he told her what needed doing.

His body, which had filled every corner of her mind for the past couple of months, seemed vulnerable now that it was under attack. When she washed him, she could see the signs of wasting already beginning to set in. He wouldn’t have eaten for days, and the stubble on his face was beginning to resemble the start of a beard.

‘I could shave you,’ she said, speaking to herself, because thus far she had had no response from him. ‘Would you trust me to do that? Why couldn’t you have stayed put?’ she demanded, swerving away from the subject and glaring at him. ‘If you’ve put yourself in danger because of a couple of questions you wanted to ask about the business, then I’ll kill you, Callum Ross. Do you hear me?’ No, of course he didn’t, but she carried on talking anyway, all through the night, until sleep finally overcame her.

She was awake at the crack of dawn, leaving him alone only long enough to freshen herself and grab something to eat. She was barely aware of her father’s battery of questions and offered no explanations.

When she returned to the room, it was to find that Callum at least had changed position on the bed. He was no longer on his back, with his grey face upturned, but on his side, even though his eyes were still closed.

And his breathing seemed easier as well, although she was well aware that that was probably her imagination. It was easy to become accustomed to the varying patterns of an illness until you imagined that they were less severe than they had been at the outset.

She propped him gently up and tried to spoon some liquid food down him.

‘Have I told you that you’re a fool, Callum Ross?’ she said, growing accustomed to the sensation of making conversation into silence to someone who couldn’t hear what she was saying. ‘Didn’t I tell you about the mishaps that happened to tourists who took risks?’

She heard the tremor in her voice. ‘Dad’s asking a million questions about you and I don’t know what to tell him. He wants to know why I’m insisting on doing everything for you when I’ve explained to him what an arrogant, irritating thorn under the skin you are. He wants to know why I’m running around like a headless chicken and looking like a washed-out rag over someone I told him doesn’t matter. He can’t understand what you’re doing in this part of the world. As usual, I’m in a mess because of you.’

She expertly took his temperature and logged it on the frightening chart that was now clipped to the top of the bed, then she sat back and looked at the man lying on the bed in front of her. ‘You risked your life…for what? Some papers I may have forgotten to sign? You stupid man.’ Her voice was beginning to sound unnatural again, and she breathed in deeply in an attempt to control it.

She was slowly realising that, even though she’d come back to Panama, even though she’d told herself that Panama was her country and she would remain there for evermore, doing what she’d always done, even if she died a sad, old spinster, a part of her had still believed that one day she would see him again. Because miracles happened. If Callum died now, then there would be no miracles.

Over the next day, she continued with her routine, mopping him, feeding him in a ritual that could take anything up to an hour, watching and waiting and waiting and watching, barely sleeping herself.

All she wanted was one word from him, a signal that he was on the mend.

‘He’s not going downhill, at any rate,’ her father said on the third day, as he stood next to her and performed a number of routine examinations. ‘In fact, the fever’s beginning to let up a bit.’ Instead of leaving the room this time, he walked slowly across to the window and stood there with his back to it.

‘And I want some answers from you, young woman.’