Is that what his silence is all about? He’s demonstrating his power and control over me, as a punishment for not saving Annabel? I try to tell myself I’m being paranoid; he was obviously traumatized by his first visit and can’t face another. He was trying to shake me awake, the nurse said . . . he must have been so desperate. So worried. And concerned about inflicting the battered and bruised sight of me on our son, letting him see the scary machines, the wires all over my body . . .
I need to get better fast; I need to get home and find out for myself. But the doctor was right: I’m not fit to go anywhere yet. So far I’ve managed to take only a few short steps, with a great deal of help, across my room to the en suite bathroom, and I feel constantly panicky and paranoid. In just this short space of time I’ve become completely dependent on the doctor’s presence, only feeling safe when he is at my side.
Was I always this needy? I feel like I’ve woken up in a different body, like I’m having to get to know myself all over again. I’ve been asked what music I like to listen to, what food I like to eat . . . I have no idea, and I don’t want to think about any of these things. There isn’t room in my head. It was already overloaded with horror and grief at losing Annabel, and now it’s approaching bursting point as I wonder if my husband has simply left me here to rot.
Meanwhile, I’m still grappling to get my head around the fact that I’ve been asleep all these weeks, drifting backwards and forwards through my life in a dream state. In between my sporadic naps yesterday, Professor Hernandez sat by my side again, patiently explaining that the conversations and incidents I remembered in my coma most likely did actually take place in my past—my unconscious mind was just trying to process them. But how much was true and how much was a distortion of the facts?
I know he’s right that we replay our waking lives in our dreams, but I also understand that our underlying worries color them differently. I know, for instance, that Lucy really has spent hours at my kitchen table over the years, enjoying time with my family—but did she ever flirt with my husband? Or was it just that I always felt secretly jealous of their relationship and in my unconscious, dream-like state that jealous insecurity tarnished my memories, my mind replaying them in such a way that I genuinely believed Lucy and Dom were in love?
I want to know—I need to speak to Lucy as well as to Dom—but when I requested a phone to call my friend, her landline was disconnected and I kept getting a “number not recognized” message on her mobile.
No Dom. No Lucy. No Aidan.
I’m trying hard not to think the worst: that with me stuck here, out of the way, they’ve seized their chance to be together. I force myself to banish images of the four of them: Dom, Lucy, Aidan and Jasper playing happy families without me. Professor Hernandez is right: there will be a perfectly reasonable explanation. I know Lucy has been looking to move out of her rented flat to somewhere bigger. Perhaps she’s found somewhere and has finally moved; perhaps she’s changed her mobile number.
Perhaps, perhaps . . . All these questions with no answers are driving me crazy—but not as crazy as I feel at not being able to see Aidan.
“I just want to see my own son! Is that too much to ask?” I announce to the empty room. The wind chimes jingle; I hear voices somewhere along the corridor outside my room and the revs of a car engine through the open window. I stare at the white walls and long to hold Aidan, hoping that he’s safe, hasn’t forgotten me, doesn’t hate me. I thought I was at home with him and Dom, and that they were ignoring me because of what I’ve done, the terrible choice I made. Tolerating my presence but unable to bring themselves to talk to me. Only I wasn’t really there and—
My heart pounds faster as it suddenly occurs to me that maybe they don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose, that Dom doesn’t. He wasn’t there on the morning of the twins’ birthday; he stormed out after our row and I haven’t seen him since. But Aidan was right there next to me in the garden. What did he see? What did he hear?
Who did this to Annabel, to me?
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, tussling with endless questions. I want to ask Professor Hernandez again, but he doesn’t seem to know anything about my broader situation: he didn’t admit me to hospital, or operate on me. His responsibility is for my rehabilitation alone.
And I get a terrible sinking feeling inside when I think of revealing my guilt to him: the coma may have changed me in some respects, but I haven’t woken up with a conscience wiped clean. I long to talk about Annabel, to tell the doctor how much I regret what has happened, how much I miss her. But I can’t do so without explaining the choice I made, without confessing what a terrible mother I am. I betrayed my daughter, I let her down, and I hate myself for it. I deserve condemnation but I’m not strong enough to bear it. Professor Hernandez’s gentle understanding is all I have; he is my lifeline, the only person keeping me going, and I couldn’t bear it if he too turned away from me in disgust. Then I really would have nothing and no one.
So I remain lost, my thoughts whirling endlessly in circles, only two things completely clear in my mind: being ordered to choose between my children, and then crawling beneath the rose bushes, scrabbling through blood-soaked grass, desperately trying to reach Annabel’s body. They are the two terrible, absolute truths I can hold on to, but as for the rest . . .
TWENTY-FIVE
“Need some help?”
“Oh, hi. I’m fine, but thank you,” I say and do my best impression of someone who can stand upright and walk in a straight line without bouncing off the walls.
Carol returned after my supper with no further news of Dom, and seeing how upset I was she suggested that I have a go at a little walk along the corridor outside my room, just to the water cooler and back. Divert my mind and build up a bit of strength in my legs. The effort this required certainly proved distracting: it’s taken me ages to shuffle only halfway, supported by the kindly nurse. Now she’s left me to take an urgent phone call and I’m stranded here leaning heavily on the wall, gripping on to the handrail that runs along the middle of it, no doubt designed exactly for situations like these.
“You don’t look fine, if you don’t mind my saying. You look knackered. Nice pajamas, though. Navy polka dots are definitely your look.”
I brace my shoulder more comfortably against the wall and turn to look in the direction of the voice. A young girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen is standing in the middle of the corridor, leaning on a stick, tapping one foot impatiently. She has long, dead-straight, silky black hair that Annabel would have envied so badly. I look down at her feet and am amused to see giant fluffy bunny slippers.
“I prefer your look,” I say, smiling at her.
“Mum’s idea of fashion,” she tells me, grinning back. “Or maybe I offended her in a past life. Or this one. Which is entirely probable as I seem to spend most of my time offending someone. I talk too much. I know. I’ve been told. What can I say? I like chatting to people.”
Her voice is quick and loud; she has a strong accent that reminds me of Max’s. She’s from London too, then, I think, wondering if she’s still at school, wondering how Aidan is getting on at his school without Annabel . . .
“Well, speaking as a mother myself, I think your slippers are adorable. So don’t shoot your mum just yet.” Damn, bad choice of words, I think, and my knees almost give way.
“You OK? Seriously, you look like hell. C’mere, lemme give you a hand. You c’n’ave your pick—this one, or this one.” She holds out each hand in turn, swapping the stick from one hand to the other. “This is my best one, though.” She holds up her right hand. “The bones were only slightly crushed in this arm, as opposed to mangled out of all recognition the other side.”
“Oh, gosh, that sounds—”
“Crap. Yep, pretty much sums it up. Although according to my consultant, it’s a miracle I’m even alive!” She imitates an accent and pulls a face. “Even with the facial scarring, speech loss, one useless arm and a permanent limp.”
Ah, I hear the slurring in her voice now. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say gently. “You must be very brave to—Hang on a sec, is your consultant Professor Hernandez?” I ask, the accent and the word “miracle” ringing bells; he pronounced exactly the same verdict on me. How many miracles can there be in this place? Hundreds, probably, I think, realizing there must be lots of other consultants too. I haven’t ventured further than my own room, so I don’t have a sense of the wider hospital world.
“Yep. Spanish dude. A voice that can send me to sleep in a second.” She leans heavily on her stick again, trying to shift her weight from one leg to the other.
I smile. “How funny. We share the same doctor.” It feels good to make a connection, however small, with another person. I’ve started to feel selfish, self-absorbed, wrapped up in my own pain and oblivious to others. Carol and the doctor devote all their energy to caring for me, yet I know next to nothing about them as people. Such self-absorption is unlike me. I think. Or is it? I’m not quite sure what sort of person I am any more; I feel like I left parts of myself behind in the bright-dark.
“He’s leaving soon, I heard. Going back to Spain. I reckon they should try to keep him. I’d have given up by now if it wasn’t for him,” she says, shifting her stick once more to the other hand.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, noticing that she seems in discomfort.
“Yeah. It’s a shame, right?”
“No, I didn’t mean about Professor Hernandez. Though that is a real shame. I meant I’m sorry for keeping you standing here talking. Shouldn’t you be resting? Were you on your way somewhere?” I rest a hand lightly on her arm, hoping it’s not the one she mentioned as having been mangled.
“Nah, just enjoying an evening stroll, the scenic tour, innit.” She winks.
“Very scenic,” I say ironically, looking up and down the empty, windowless corridor.
“My name’s Stash, by the way.” She thrusts a tiny hand towards me.
“Interesting name. I’m Maddie. Pleased to meet you, Stash.” I smile as we shake hands, but I’m feeling tired myself now and really just want to get back to my room, check in with Carol just in case it was Dom on the phone.
“It’s Natasha, really, but my baby sister could only manage to say Stash and it stuck. Mum says it suits me. Read into that what you will,” she gabbles on. “You got kids?”
The walls close in on me; the floor seems to shift and dip beneath my feet. I should have been prepared for this question; I should have had an answer ready. But I’ve been so deeply immersed in my own pain, I haven’t given a thought to the curiosity of others. That’s different, too, I think, wondering how else my personality might have changed. It’s like I fell unconscious as one person and have woken up as another.
But I’m still Aidan’s mum.
Nothing can change that.
It hits me that I’ll probably be asked about the twins as soon as I go home; there can’t be many people in west London who haven’t heard my story. But here at the hospital, miles away from Hampton, I’ve felt anonymous: just another patient recuperating after trauma. No one here knows anything about Annabel. I can’t bring myself to talk about her—the pain, the shame of her loss is far too raw.
When the nurse has talked about her own three children, I’ve spoken only about Aidan. But I gave birth to twins. They are inseparable in my mind; I will never be able to think of one without the other. I’ve read that people who have lost a limb sometimes feel like it continues to itch or ache, as though it’s still attached to them. I still feel Annabel. I still feel that three-way knot of love and need that bonded the twins to me from the second they were born: the knot I tore apart but which continues to wrap itself around me. I never want to be released from it.
Suddenly I can’t hold it in; for ten years I’ve talked about my children almost non-stop. I want that time back—I want them back, I think agonizingly, trying to swallow over the lump in my throat.
“Two. I have two. Boy and a girl. Both ten,” I blurt out, unable to resist indulging the pretense, just for a moment. I can’t bring myself to say that my daughter is dead; I don’t want to admit it to the world and have to explain and watch this young girl’s face crumple in shock and horror. There is something about her that reminds me a little of Annabel—her pretty, pixie-like face and a vivacity despite the awfulness of her injuries. I want to savor the reminder a little longer. I want to enjoy the twins’ names on my lips just one more time: “Annabel and Aidan,” I say softly, and my voice sounds thick and unrecognizable.
“Twins! Hey, cool.”
Stash notices nothing wrong. My acting skills are clearly better than I’d realized. Outwardly I must be giving the impression of being completely normal. How deceptive appearances can be, I think.
“Their friends think so. Twins always stand out, don’t they?” I say.
“I bet they love visiting you here, playing with all the machines, bugging the nurses. They’re a riot, aren’t they?” She still doesn’t bat an eyelid, completely oblivious to the emotions crashing through me. She just winks again and reaches into her fluffy pink dressing-gown pocket to show me a glimpse of a gold packet.
“Scenic route indeed. You’re off to hang out with the secret smokers. Don’t worry, I won’t lecture you,” I say, my heart still thumping in my chest as I realize I’ve spoken my daughter’s name out loud.
“Oh, don’t hold back on my account. Lecture away. Everyone else does. I’ve memorized a whole list of stuff that’s not good for me. Although they probably should have stuck “riding on the back of drunk boyfriend’s motorcycle” at the top. He was always telling me off for smoking, too. But then, you know, he got crushed by a truck changing lanes without indicating. Feels kinda like my last connection with him—the smoking. So I’m not giving it up any time soon.” Her shoulders dip and her long hair falls over her face.
“Oh, Stash. That’s just . . . I’m so sorry,” I say. I push myself off the wall and take a jerky step towards her. “What a horrendous tragedy.”
“Yeah, well, this place is full of ’em. I’m sure you’ve got your own tale to tell,” she says, wiping her eyes.
I touch the tender wound still covered by a light bandage on the right side of my head. I feel so lucky to have escaped the lingering damage Stash is enduring; Professor Hernandez was right to call it a miracle. My thoughts come a little less fast now, and there are still gaping black holes in my memory; I can’t remember if I prefer toast or cereal for breakfast and whether I’m usually so grumpy in the mornings or these mood swings are entirely new—or circumstantial. But I can’t deny that the round-the-clock care I’m receiving is working wonders. I will never take my life for granted again, I think fiercely. Or my son’s.
“Fancy one?” Stash offers, breaking into my thoughts. She pulls the gold packet out of her pocket.
“Not for me. But thanks.” I glance around protectively, wondering if Stash is about to get rumbled. There are “no smoking” signs everywhere.
“Wise woman. Hope your kids don’t, either. I started when I was ten. Mum was always so high on coke that she didn’t notice, and by the time she did, I was addicted. Not to mention pregnant.” She shoves the cigarette packet back in her pocket but continues to fiddle with it.
“Pregnant?” I say, genuinely shocked.
“Yeah. That baby sister I mentioned? Actually my kid. Only we don’t tell the neighbors on the estate. Mum is raising her—cleaned up her act pretty fast once she realized I wasn’t getting rid of it.” Her small, pointy chin juts out proudly, and she looks sideways at me as if to judge my reaction.
“Good for her. And good for you,” I say immediately. “I mean that. From one mum to another.” I rest a hand on her shoulder and she tries to look tough but I can see she’s pleased. I have no doubt that it’s been a rough ride for both Stash and her mum. It makes me appreciate my own home even more. I know Dom has always been ambitious for something bigger, better, more, but all I’ve ever wan
ted is for the four of us to be happy, healthy and . . . safe.
“Introduce me to your kids next time they’re in, yeah?” Stash says, her dark eyes lighting up at the thought. “I’m a walking advert for all the things not to try as a teenager. One meeting with me, they’ll be set on the straight and narrow for life. You’ll be thanking me.”
“Sure,” I say faintly, glad that she’s already shuffling away from me along the corridor so that I don’t have to explain that my daughter will never be able to visit me, and that my husband, for some unfathomable reason, seems to have vanished off the face of the earth—along with my best friend and my son.
TWENTY-SIX
“Please don’t panic, Mrs. Castle; everything is fine. It’s Professor Hernandez.”
I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder as I wake with a start. “What time is it?” I open my eyes and peer groggily at him. I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep.
“Still early. Not much after seven. I’m sorry to wake you. You must have really tired yourself out going walkabouts last night.” He smiles. “You did very well, by the way. Excellent progress.”
“My family?” The doctor is always telling me to rest; he must have a good reason for waking me up, I think, my heart beating faster as I struggle to sit up in bed, wide awake now.
“We’ve managed to get hold of your husband. I thought you’d want to know immediately,” he tells me, helping me prop myself up against the pillows. “I just spoke to him and he’s setting off from London right now.”
“Oh, thank God. And my son? He’s bringing—”
“He coming alone, he told me. To avoid too much drama and distress.”
“Oh. OK. I guess that’s sensible. Thank you.” A burning ache of disappointment tightens my chest. I have to force myself to breathe in, breathe out, in again. I can see Professor Hernandez is pleased to be able to give me some good news, so I try not to spoil it by letting my mood crash.
The Perfect Family Page 14