“Oh,myGod.”Joshis flattened over the top of me. At any other time, I would be ecstatic, but right now, his hard body is shielding me from the worst of the rain. With a quick look over his shoulder, he turns back to me, taking my arms and helping me to sit up.
“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He runs his hands over my head, across my shoulders and down my arms.
I stare in horror at the enormous old gum tree that has smashed through the roof at the back of the house, less than a metre behind Josh, and hangs suspended centimetres above the floor. The room is littered with plaster, wood, branches and roof tiles. Rain is pouring through the hole the tree has gouged.
I take a moment to assess how my body feels. Apart from being chilled, and a trembling, which could be from cold or maybe adrenaline, I seem to be okay. “No. No, I’m not hurt. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Jesus, what a mess.” Josh slides me across the worn wooden floor to where the rain isn’t reaching and sits next to me, resting his forearms on his bent knees. Which is when I see it. Blood. Lots of it.
“No, you’re not. You’re not fine. Look at your arm.” I gently take hold of Josh’s hand as we look at the jagged gash on his right arm.
“It’s okay. It’s only a scratch.” He tries to draw his arm away. I keep a firm hold, trying to see how bad it is, but the gloom is too deep to get a good look. Blood is mixing with the rain, making it hard to tell exactly how much it’s bleeding.
“No, it’s not. I think it might need stitches. I’ve got a first-aid kit in the car. I can clean it up and bandage it until we can get you to a doctor.” Without waiting for an answer, I scramble to my feet, slipping on the wet floorboards, dash down the hall and out into the rain. Luckily, my car is parked right outside, but I’m already soaked, so it doesn’t matter. By the time I get back into the house, Josh is already on the phone with emergency services, listening to hold music while he waits to give details of the damage to the operator.
“Give me your arm. Good grief, it’s bloody dark in here.” I push Josh onto a rickety old kitchen chair left behind by the previous owner. The emergency services operator comes on the line, and Josh gives her the details of the house while I unpack what I need from my little first-aid kit. It’s pretty basic, but it’ll do the job for the moment.
I flip the light switch. Nothing. “Powers out.” I swipe on the torch on my phone.
“Emergency services will be here as soon as they can, but it could take a while. The storm has caused a fair bit of damage.” Josh studies the gash under the bright light and winces. It looks a mess.
“Okay. You’ll need to hold the phone for me. Can you manage?” I hand him the phone and tear open some gauze to clean the wound. As I bend closer, I notice blood trickling down his temple and into the scruff on his jaw.
“What’s that on your head? Oh, Josh, why didn’t you say you’d been hit on the head?” As gently as I can, I probe the bleeding lump on his scalp. His hair is too thick to get a good look, and the sand left on his scalp from his surf doesn’t help. I’m no expert, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it needed a few stitches too.
I get to work quickly, and it’s not long before I’ve cleaned and dressed Josh’s wounded arm. There’s not much I can do for the cut on his head other than clean it. I’m more worried about the large lump coming up under the cut. There’s a definite risk of concussion, and I want to get him to a doctor quickly.
“You’re not just a pretty face, are you, Florence Nightingale?” Josh jokes, watching me pack up my kit. His face is pale, and his eyes are pinched with pain.
“You can call me Flo.” My grin is more than a little wobbly. Now that I’ve taken care of the practicalities, realisation is starting to set in. “My God, Josh, you could have been killed. If you’d been standing a little further back …” Tears threaten to spill over and run down my face.
“But I wasn’t, and we’re both okay,” Josh soothes, taking my hands. Internally, I want to take his comfort. To hurl myself onto his lap and sob into his shoulder, even though he’s the one who’s hurt. I should be the one comforting him. I take a couple of deep, steadying breaths and think about the next steps.
“Well, I guess the next thing is to get you stitched up. We can leave a note for emergency services in case they come while we’re gone. No arguments,” I add as I see the belligerent look on Josh’s face.
I tear a page from my notebook, scrawl a message for the SES and slide it under the old-fashioned knocker on the front door before I help Josh down the path. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, but it’s not far, and in no time, he’s buckled in.
The storm is already beginning to ease as I make the short drive to the medical centre. Although the rain is still heavy, the wind has dropped. The gutters are running over with water and deep lakes are forming at the sides of the roads, which are littered with leaves and branches. I check the clock in my car and can’t believe less than an hour has passed since we were sitting on the back step discussing the merits of Twisties. Luckily, the waiting room is almost deserted because only an idiot would go out in this weather, and Josh gets seen straight away.
“Someone did a great job of patching you up,” the doctor notes as he cleans up Josh’s arm and checks his head. “Looks like you have a mild concussion. Nothing too serious. No driving. Take it easy for a few days and come back to get the stitches out in about seven days.”
A tetanus shot, some painkillers and eight stitches later, we’re back at the house, where there’s no sign of emergency services.
“I guess we’ll have to wait.” Exhausted, I flop down on the floor in the front bedroom, where the roof is still intact, preparing to wait.
“You don’t have to stay.” Josh slides to the floor next to me, nursing his stitched and bandaged arm in his lap. “It could be hours before they get here.”
“Well, I’m not leaving you here by yourself. For one thing, you can’t drive home with a concussion or that arm—and there’s no way you can stay here tonight. It looks like you’re stuck with me.”
He would never admit it, but I can see Josh is relieved I’m staying. He’s looking quite out of it from the combination of concussion and the painkillers, and I can see by the way he’s nursing his arm how uncomfortable it must be.
“You know what you need? Food. How about I order some pizza, and we have a little indoor picnic while we wait?”
I google the nearest pizza place and order a large meat lovers, along with a cappuccino for Josh, then spread a picnic rug from my car on the floor for us to sit on, rolling up my jumper and the damp towel as pillows so Josh can lie down.
I call Mum and Dad to let them know what happened and have to talk them out of getting in their car and charging to the rescue. The last thing we need is them navigating the treacherous post-storm roads. After a brief debate and a short chat with Josh, they agree, on the promise we’ll keep them posted and call if we need them. I love them to bits, but sometimes they need to back off a little.
“First-aid kits. Rugs. What else do you carry in that tiny little car of yours? It’s like the Tardis. More stuff just keeps coming out.” Josh’s voice sounds a little woozy.
