The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  As he sipped his drink he looked out over the grounds of the nursing home in Sussex. She had been transferred here two months previously. They had agreed that he would be more or less resident in the room with her.

  Richard had a small Z-bed that he slept on at night and in the day he did pretty much everything for Cathy. He washed her and changed her clothes. He brushed her hair, massaged her limbs and sat holding her tiny hand in his large meaty one.

  Cathy looked awful. The scars on her face and body were horrific, still a vivid red, raised up and sore-looking. No one who saw her there would ever have believed that this woman had once been beautiful.

  There were no photos to remind them; no photos in case she woke and saw herself and remembered. There was no mirror in the room either. Richard had seen to that.

  As the nurses went about their business they heard the low drone of his voice, constantly talking to her. He talked all the time: telling her that he loved her, relating how well her daughter was doing, promising that they would have great times once she was on the mend.

  It broke their hearts.

  The big bald man, with his heavy belly and sad blue eyes, had become like a mascot to them. They had all got to know him, and all liked him. Even the more grudging members of staff sometimes secretly wondered what it must be like to have someone who loved you so much. They had all seen coma patients left for months without visits once the initial shock wore off for family and friends. But not Cathy Pasquale.

  She was very thin now, just skin and bone. The doctors had administered a glucose drip to try and fatten her up. She was in a state of semi-coma, neither dead nor fully alive.

  She could stay like that for ever. The doctors had diagnosed her as being in a vegetative state. But it was a lottery with brain injuries. As Richard Gates tirelessly pointed out, people had been known to wake up after years had passed. They knew there was no way this patient was being left to die: ‘in her own best interests’. There would be no court consulted for permission to starve Cathy to death.

  Richard sipped his coffee and talked to her. ‘Kitty will be here later with Desrae. They’ve been away to Lanzarote. Desrae has a few friends out there. Remember Joanie? Well, he’s bought a great bar there apparently. We’ll all go when you’re better.’

  Her tiny birdlike hand was cold in his and he held it tighter. He gazed out of the window as he chatted to her, trying to ignore the tears that blurred his vision.

  ‘I thought we’d have something nice for dinner. I got in some pasta. They let me use the kitchens here, as I’ve told you before, and I’m doing us all a meal, me and the nurses. Hope they live to tell the tale.’ He laughed gently.

  ‘All the girls at the club send their love, and Susan P is dropping by this afternoon to see you. She’s bringing you in some clean nightclothes. The laundry here leaves a lot to be desired, and somehow I hate seeing your lovely things taken away in a trolley, your name taped inside like a school kid’s.’

  His voice was louder now and he thought of the indignities she daily suffered. ‘She’s going to wax your legs as well. You know what she’s like - if her legs ain’t waxed, she won’t leave the house.’ He chuckled though his face was shadowed with sadness still and his shoulders were stooped. Worry and the full force of his desperate, impotent love for her had aged him.

  He put his cup on the bedside locker and picked up her hairbrush. When he looked down at her he was stunned into silence.

  Cathy’s eyes were open and she was looking at him.

  Those deep blue eyes he had dreamed of for so many years were actually looking into his. Her scarred, destroyed face had been brought back to life. It was as if he had witnessed a miracle.

  He held his breath. There wasn’t a sound in the room. He could hear the whirring of the overhead fan in the hallway, and the clatter of cups as the tea lady made her rounds. Outside he could hear a car pulling up, the sound of people chatting underneath the window, their voices so normal, so everyday, they made him want to cry.

  Cathy’s eyes were open. She was looking at him still. She blinked just once before closing them again, as if the effort had been too much for her.

  Sitting in his chair once more, legs weak from shock, a cold sweat covering his body, Richard took her hand in his again. It felt cold still, like a baby’s hand, lost in his huge paw.

  ‘I know you can hear me, I’ve always known. Please come back, Cathy, I’m begging you now. Come back to us all. Kitty needs you, I need you, Desrae needs you. You’ve left such a gaping void in all our lives. Please, Cathy, if you can hear me, let me know. Squeeze my hand, blink, anything.’

  He stared at her drawn face, the scars livid against it though he didn’t see them. To him she would always be his lovely Cathy. She was still his Cathy, her eyes had shown him that. Opening his own eyes wide, he tried to hold back the tears. Looking out at the summer sky he felt the sadness of a man who had wished devoutly for something and believed he had been given it.

  They had said this could happen.

  He had been warned about it.

  As he held back the tears he swallowed deeply. It was like summer outside. October and the weather was glorious. An Indian summer they were calling it. He didn’t much care what time of year it was if only Cathy were here to enjoy it with him.

  He gave way to the tears. Thick and salty, he let them roll freely down his face. There was no one to see them, after all.

  ‘Stop crying, Richard, please.’

  He looked at her hard, unsure if she had really spoken or if he had imagined it.

  Her eyes were still closed.

  ‘Cathy? Talk to me, Cathy, please.’

  He stared down at her then like a man demented, the tears still rolling down his cheeks, his eyes blurred and stinging.

  ‘I’m thirsty. What time will I get a drink?’ Her eyes were open again and he could see she was fully conscious. She knew what she was saying. She was back with him once more.

  He gathered her into his arms and held her to him. ‘I love you, girl. God help me, I love you so much.’

  She smiled gently, her skin feeling oddly tight, not like her own face at all. ‘I know you do, Richard, but all I want is a drink.’

  He kissed her on the forehead then, a big wet smacking kiss. ‘I’ll get you a drink, darling, I’ll get you whatever you want. All you have to do is ask.’

  ‘I know, Richard. I know.’

  He knew then that she had heard him, heard every word of love he had spoken over the last months, and his heart soared with the knowledge.

  Cathy had a long road ahead of her, but with his help, and Kitty’s, and Desrae’s and Susan’s, she would come through it all.

  She’d had a life that most people would have given up on long ago. Her start had been rough, she’d made some wrong choices along the way, but she had always done what she had felt to be right.

  She had loved too well and almost been destroyed.

  Now, though, he would see to it that she led a life of complete happiness. He would take care of her as a man should take care of a woman: protect her, love her, cherish her.

  Most of all he would cherish her.

  They smiled at one another then, as if Cathy had heard his thoughts and was silently answering them.

  He hoped in his heart that that was the case. It was what he wanted more than anything in the world.