The Garden of Lost and Found

by Harriet Evans

  She had not left Sandy since they arrived at the hospital ten or so hours ago, except when the doctor had called her into the side room and explained how serious it was, as if she didn’t know already. The room was decorated with soothing photographs of Greek monuments, and there were fake, dusty flowers, pink-tinged lilies, in a gel-filled vase on the shelf next to her. Bleeding on the brain. A broken arm and tibia. Condition grave. Brain scan. Intensive care. All these words, which she had to convey to Matt when he arrived, as accurately as possible, and she found when she repeated them to him they didn’t make sense. She didn’t know exactly what a tibia was but she hadn’t asked – what question to ask, when there were so many?

  Matt arrived at ten, and the girls cried. Juliet could not cry, she found. She did not know what to do beyond the sense that she must be happy and smiling when Sandy woke up. He had until recently been such a happy, smiling boy: it would distress him to see her unable to cope, keening, sobbing. And until she knew more about how he would be, that was her reasoning.

  Matt couldn’t drive the girls home, not yet, he said. He wanted to stay at the hospital, and neither of them wanted to leave.

  At midnight Juliet realised she could actually ask for help, that this was a time to reach out to other people, say what she needed. So she called Honor’s landline as she had no mobile signal at the barn, but there was no answer. She left a message, telling her what had happened, asking if someone could come and take the girls home, then she called Frederic, and said the same. But there was no answer there, too – of course not. Everyone was asleep.

  They had put Sandy back into a medically induced coma, to allow the brain to rest and not over-exert itself, to minimise tissue damage. The girls were allowed in once. It was absolutely freezing in the intensive care ward, and Juliet did not realise how cold she was until she left to get the coffee and once in the warm lift, began to shake. The lift to intensive care took you straight up, missing out all the other floors, that was when you knew it was serious, too.

  Sandy’s little plump hand, with the dimples where knuckles should be, was awfully cold. The other hand was bandaged, so this was the one bit of him she could touch. She kept telling them that. ‘Isn’t he freezing? It can’t be good for him, being that cold.’ But they didn’t care, or they pretended to, the nice nurse who was assigned solely to him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Don’t worry about it.

  This was what life really was, pain and loss and endless suffering; she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it for so long. Most people denied it too, she supposed, until they were confronted with it. They lived their lives in the sunshine, ignoring the shadows that hovered around the edge . . .

  ‘Ju?’ A soft tap on the shoulder made her jump. ‘Ju? Can you hear me?’

  She turned in the queue and blinked at the figure next to her. ‘George. Hello.’

  George, in a hoodie, five o’clock shadow grazing his face, hugged her awkwardly. ‘I heard the phone then I went back to sleep instead of listening to the message. I’m so sorry, Ju. This is awful. How is he?’

  She leaned against him. ‘I don’t know. They say he’s had a large bleed to the brain. He’s broken some bones but it’s the blow to the head they’re most worried about. He banged it on the stone shelf when he fell then on the floor of the studio and I—’ Her voice broke but she cleared her throat. No. ‘It’s my fault. I was rowing with Bea – with Bea!’ She winced, as sharp tears pricked her eyes. George looked at her, his face an agony of sympathy, and rubbed her arm, then looked down at her scraped skin, dotted with gravel, and winced, but she shook her head. ‘You take your eyes off them for two seconds . . . They always say that . . . Oh God . . .’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘What if he dies? Or what if . . . What was I doing?’

  George didn’t tell her what to do, or try and give false bluster. He patted her shoulder and said, ‘I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault, you know, Ju. Now, what can I do?’

  ‘Can you take Bea and Isla home, stay with them?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Put Isla to bed, make sure Bea’s OK. If they want to go to school, it’d be good for them to carry on as normal until we . . .’ She trailed off.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said George. Someone else tapped her arm – it was the blank-faced barista.

  ‘Please collect your coffee, madam.’

  ‘I won’t go,’ said Bea. ‘I want to stay here.’ She glanced from Juliet to Matt and then awkwardly at George. ‘I don’t want to – please.’

  ‘You don’t have to go to school,’ said Juliet. Isla, asleep in Matt’s arms, shifted slightly, as though she had heard this. ‘But, Bea, I need you at home, not here, my love. George will stay with you. I promise.’

  ‘I’m not going into the Dovecote. I can’t.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘The doll’s house – it’s broken, all over the floor, I don’t . . .’ She folded her arms and looked down, her slim shoulders shaking, hair falling over her face. ‘I said he couldn’t play with it.’

  Matt carefully handed Isla over to George, who hitched her on to his slight frame. She murmured something. Matt took Bea in his arms, and hugged her. ‘Hey . . . sweetheart. This isn’t your fault. Don’t worry about the doll’s house, about any of that,’ he said. ‘Mum will sort it all out. But I think you should go home. Let George take you and I’ll be over later. We’ll have news then. Good news, I know it, Bea, darling. It’s a bad bump, that’s all. They’re very cautious with children, they have to be. OK? Promise. You mustn’t worry.’

  And he kissed the top of her head like he always had done and Bea nodded, and walked down the corridor, without another word, George following behind, carrying Isla, and Juliet and Matt were alone in the waiting room again.

  ‘Shall we go back in again?’ said Juliet, taking a sip of coffee.

  ‘Sure. Juliet—’

  The door banged open again and Juliet looked around to see what had been left behind, but it was the young doctor again. He shut the door, carefully. Juliet felt bile rising in her throat.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, looking down at his notes. ‘Now, are you Sandro Taylor’s dad?’

  Matt held his hand out, eyes wide, terrified into formality. ‘Yes, I’m his father. What’s the latest?’

  ‘Look, we are fairly concerned at this stage, I have to be honest. There are signs of contusions on the brain, and his blood pressure is very low, which indicates there may be increased intracranial pressure. That’s when the brain tissue swells. We’re worried about the neurochemical function, too. He’s not responding well, he’s very confused . . . His skull is cracked, that’s part of the—’

  There was a loud beeping noise, and the doctor looked at the beeper on his belt. ‘Ah. Excuse me.’ He stood up.

  ‘Is that Sandy? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, I’m sure,’ he said, as though their son wasn’t in intensive care with a head injury. As though it was something mundane, a lost toy, a scraped knee. And he opened the door. Juliet followed him out, Matt behind her. They reached the swing doors, the blast of cold air hitting them. ‘Excuse me,’ said the young doctor. ‘Could you please just stay here?’

  ‘Is it him? Or is it someone else?’ Juliet called, but he’d disappeared, the door banging behind him.

  ‘There’s a—’ she heard the nurse say, and some machine sounded, even louder.

  Matt’s arm went around hers. ‘We can’t stay here. Let’s go and sit back down in that room.’

  ‘Yes we can,’ Juliet said, quietly. Her voice was thick in her throat. ‘We’ll just stay here, until they come out and tell us something.’

  She knew then that he might die. That this was it. That close shaves and recoveries didn’t happen in real life. He was so small, that was all, and he still had his fluffy, twining-floss baby hair, and the chubby arms and legs of a baby. He had direct blue eyes and a perfectly round head and he loved cheese. And Octonauts, and tigers. Loved tigers. And Bim, his teddy �
� Juliet shuddered at the thought that Bim was at home. Bim should be here. Sandy was so small but so strong and vital, it was so strange to think he might die. The violence required to snuff a life like his out, when he was not frail, failing. She swallowed, kept swallowing, because she might be sick.

  They stood leaning against the wall, in silence, as the beeping continued.

  How long they were there for Juliet didn’t really know. But a face appeared on the other side of the door that led out to the lifts and she stared at it. Then it appeared again. Juliet went out and opened the door.

  ‘George,’ she said.

  ‘Honor’s at home with the kids.’ His thin face was hollow. ‘I just came back to give you something and to say – look, the thing is, I know I don’t know you as well as Frederic but . . . my mum died when I was fourteen and I remember—’ he broke off. ‘God, that’s not the right thing to say. I brought you this. I forgot to give them to you before.’ He thrust a paper bag into her hands. ‘It’s sandwiches. And Lucozade. And some other snacks. And a thermos of coffee. And some magazines. Some of them are Frederic’s antiques ones and a bit dry but you’re into that stuff.’

  Juliet looked in the bag, then back at Matt, who was staring curiously down the corridor at them. She looked back at George. He pursed his mouth up and shrugged.

  ‘What I meant about my mum is, she was in hospital and I didn’t eat anything for ages and it was bad. You need to eat. You’ll fall over.’

  ‘George—’ she began, and he leaned forward, and gave a huge hug. He was bony, and his elbows dug into her too tightly, but he was steady, and firm. She buried her head against him, and he patted her hair.

  ‘Juliet . . .’ Matt was calling her. ‘Juliet . . . They’re taking him somewhere . . . We have to go.’ He was standing by the door, gesturing with his hand.

  ‘Go,’ said George, instantly breaking away from her. ‘Before I forget,’ he said, sniffing loudly and smiling, ‘Frederic’s downstairs in reception. He came with me. He’s got his car and he’ll wait in case you need someone. Don’t worry about him. We love you. Bye then.’

  He turned away, as did Juliet, to see the doctor was in the doorway of the ward talking to Matt, beckoning her, fast. She ran towards them.

  ‘Mrs Taylor,’ he was saying, and she didn’t understand, because that wasn’t her, not any more. ‘I have to tell you . . .’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘His manner is atrocious. They should send them on a course.’

  ‘I think they do.’ Juliet was stroking the cool softness of Sandy’s cheek.

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘If he hadn’t recognised the severity of the bleed and operated it might have been different,’ Juliet said, trying not to sound snappy. ‘He’s clearly not an idiot.’

  ‘I’m going to have a word with him, anyway. The way he treated us, as if he’d died—’

  ‘He nearly did die—’ Juliet broke off. ‘Don’t Matt, please. Can you shush, just for once. What’s that?’ She turned away from him as Matt stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘What did Sandy say?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything, just dreaming,’ the nurse said, coming over and looking at the vast computer screens which tracked Sandy’s pulse and pressure and oxygen levels. ‘Now that Mr Mirzoyan has operated and his blood pressure and neuro-function are improving he’s more stable and hopefully becoming more alert. So he may sound very confused when he comes out of this. We’re really very fortunate the doctor realised that was the problem.’ Juliet blinked, then rubbed her face. The nurse said, kindly, ‘Look. He’s out of immediate danger now, we just have to wait to see what the long-term damage is.’

  Juliet kept staring at her broken, bruised little boy, his face puffy with steroids and bruising from the emergency operation to relieve the pressure on his brain. One chubby arm was swept out to his side, bandages over his head.

  ‘Mmm,’ Sandy said, trying to move in his sleep. ‘Mimmmm.’

  ‘He’s saying Mum,’ said the nurse, pleased.

  ‘He’s not.’ Juliet knew it wasn’t that. ‘He still calls me Mama, not Mum. He’s saying something else.’

  ‘I do think it’s Mum, mum,’ said the nurse, firmly, and Juliet gave up and turned to Matt.

  ‘Do you feel like going to get some more coffee?’

  They had eaten all of George’s sandwiches, which were absolutely delicious – egg mayo and cress, and chicken and ham, the egg from the local chickens which gave beautiful bright orange yolks, well seasoned with pepper and cress and butter. The chicken and ham was delicious, thinly sliced, the chicken lightly flavoured with fennel and garlic, in a soft mustardy mayo, both fillings between George’s sourdough bread. There had been crisps, and the first strawberries, sweet and plump. Of all the strange, terrible things about that night, for the rest of her life, Juliet would remember the taste of those sandwiches, after the longest, darkest night imaginable, and the kindness of friends.

  ‘Frederic!’ she said suddenly, with a start. ‘He’s still downstairs, poor old boy. I wonder if he’s given up the ghost and gone home.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘George’s boyfriend. My grandmother’s old friend, you know . . .’ Juliet trailed off: Matt’s tired eyes had glazed over. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll call him – or maybe I should just pop down . . .’

  ‘Mimmmmm,’ said Sandy, suddenly, from his bed, and she jumped. ‘Mimmmm. Mama. Mama.’

  He started crying, a thin, wailing creak. Juliet stroked his forehead, very gently. ‘Darling,’ she said, as the nurse sprang towards her charge. ‘Sandy, darling, you fell over. You’re in hospital. You banged your head and hurt your arm and leg so all of them will hurt for a bit, sweetie. OK? But you’re going to be fine.’

  He stared past her, blankly.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ she said, fear worming across her gut.

  ‘Mama.’ He blinked, and looked past her. ‘Mama.’

  He wasn’t looking at her, but at a point on the ceiling. ‘Can he see me?’ she asked the nurse. She peered at her name badge. ‘I’m sorry. Gabriella. Can he see me?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to check,’ Gabriella said. ‘I’ll ask the doctor.’

  ‘Mama,’ said Sandy again. ‘My mama.’ Then he began to cry again, as Matt leaned over.

  ‘Mate!’ he said. ‘Little mate. It’s OK.’

  ‘Mimm,’ said Sandy. ‘My want Mimm.’

  ‘Bim?’ She nodded. ‘Bim, darling?’

  ‘Mmmmm.’

  He gave the softest, saddest cry, reached out with his one small hand for Juliet’s fingers and he closed his eyes again, and in a minute was fast asleep.

  ‘I’ll go and get Bim, make sure everything’s OK at home,’ Juliet whispered, half an hour later to Matt, who looked up from his phone.

  ‘What? You’re leaving him?’

  ‘I’ll go home and get Bim. And some clothes, and books. I think it might help him to have some things around. And I want to make sure Isla and Bea are OK, the house . . .’

  ‘You and that bloody house!’ Matt was smiling. ‘It’s a joke. Are you seriously leaving your son to go back home?’

  She stared at him. ‘I just told you. I’m going to go and get Bim. They don’t want Sandy getting agitated. If there are toys and clothes from home that make him feel secure so much the better. I’ll have to go home at some point. It’s a twenty-minute drive. I’ll be back in an hour or so. I will have a shower, kiss the girls, grab an apple—’

  ‘Say hi to your best friend George—’

  ‘Jesus, Matt.’ Juliet ground her jaw, and then closed her eyes, briefly. ‘Honestly, let’s not fight. We’re really tired. I’ll bring back some snacks. Maybe you could call the nursery again, explain—’

  ‘Do you have the number?’ Matt slid his phone out of his jeans pocket.

  ‘I do but actually I’ve emailed and texted it to you loads of times as you’re the second emergency contact. If you look on your phone you’ll find it.’ She stood over
him, hoisting her bag on to her shoulder. ‘Is that OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  When Juliet descended to the ground floor of the hospital again she felt as if she had lived eight more lives in succession. And there, in the middle of the row of mauve chairs, the morning sunshine dappling his nodding pate, sat a dozing Frederic, his wrinkled hands placed neatly palms down on his spotless twill trousers. Affection for him swelled within her – here he was, waiting for her.

  She sat beside him and, just for a few seconds, allowed herself to feel the sunshine on her arms, to stretch out her tired legs and feet. Her neck crunched as she rolled her head around. She felt dizzy with exhaustion.

  He snorted suddenly and jerked upright, wide awake, and stared at her.

  ‘My dear.’ He blinked, rapidly. ‘What news? How is he?’

  ‘He’s conscious. We don’t know if he’s suffered brain damage. But they’ve relieved the pressure on the bleed. We have to wait and see. He’s calling for me and he wants Bim. I thought I’d pop back to the house and get some of his things and have a shower, check on the girls.’ She stood up. ‘Will you drive me?’

  ‘But of course,’ said Frederic, and he offered her his arm, and they walked out into the sunshine to the car park. He helped her into the warm car, as though she were the child. Juliet dozed on the drive back to Nightingale House, waking with a gasping start as her phone buzzed. ‘Jesus.’ She shook her head. ‘I – sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Frederic. ‘Don’t be sorry for anything.’

  They were five minutes from home. Juliet looked down at her phone.

  Taken Bea to get some fresh air and to pick up Isla. Isla went off to school OK but I expect she’s pretty tired now. I’ve swallowed my resistance to carrots as she wanted some. A magnificent frozen shepherd’s pie and lasagne have been left on the doorstep in a freezer bag. I’ve cooked the shepherd’s pie and left it to cool in the fridge. Planted some lupins and foxgloves by the way. Love to Sandy. Take care of yourself darling. Honor