If You Knew Her

by Emily Elgar

  Jack’s thoughts are jumbled but when he talks about his wife, his voice softens. He talks about her with a simplicity, a clarity, that only comes with real knowing, true intimacy. I remember my best friend Jess saying David’s voice gets softer when he talks about me.

  ‘So you think she didn’t know, about the baby?’

  Jack looks up at me. ‘Of course she didn’t know. She’d have told me if she knew, I’d never have let her go after the dog and none of this shit would be happening.’ He seems to realise the truth in his words as he’s saying them; all this could have been avoided.

  ‘Well, pregnancy surprises a lot of women. It’s important though, Jack … I mean it will be important to the ethics committee when they meet that Cassie wanted to be a mum. That’ll mean her interests are aligned with those of the baby. A consultant will be talking to you more about this, but if Cassie wanted the baby, it should mean the pregnancy can continue without further discussion, assuming that’s what you want as well?’ I’d read up on protocols and NHS ethics committees, and where the mother is unable to make an informed decision about her pregnancy, decisions are deferred to the father.

  Jack looks blank again.

  This time, I nudge him forward. ‘Is that what you want, Jack? For the pregnancy to proceed?’

  Jack nods. ‘Yes, yes, of course it is, yes. Cas wanted to be a mum, more than anything.’

  I’m surprised by how relieved I feel to hear him say it. Cassie’s baby is a bit safer.

  ‘That’s good to hear, Jack.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Just like Mr Sharma said, we look after Cassie as we would any other patient here, being more mindful of the drugs she has, of course, and we monitor the baby. There may be some meetings about it higher up the hospital food chain, but I wouldn’t worry about that. As the father, if you want the pregnancy to proceed then that is what will happen.’ Jack nods at me, and tears pool in his eyes. On the table in front of us Jack squeezes his hands together. ‘God, of course. Of course I do.’

  I smile at him.

  ‘I just keep wishing she’d wake up, so I can tell her I love her, tell her I’m so sorry, sorry I didn’t know, I should have guessed about our baby.’

  I hand him a tissue. ‘Jack, none of this is your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  He nods as he wipes his eyes.

  I wish I could ask him more about Cassie, about their lives.

  But then he raises his head to me, calmer suddenly. ‘Where do you think Cassie’s “gone”, Alice … in her coma, I mean.’

  ‘You mean her consciousness?’

  Jack nods his head. His eyes don’t leave my face; they want answers. I think they want good, positive answers.

  ‘Well, we don’t know for sure. Every patient has a different experience, of course. Sometimes people don’t remember anything, their coma like a long, deep sleep. Others report lucid dreaming and others say they go back to their lives, relive key experiences. It totally varies.’

  ‘I really hope she’s not scared,’ Jack says.

  My heart thumps; he’s like Jonny, terrified of Cassie’s fear. I wish I could hold his hand, think of something to reassure him, but Jack suddenly raises his hand to his heart.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, before he pulls his phone out of his pocket, clears his throat and looks at the screen.

  ‘It’s Mum, she’s just arriving. I’d better go and meet her. She was pretty shaken up when I told her.’ He picks up the scan images from the table and stands.

  ‘Thanks for the chat.’

  I get up as well. ‘Any time, Jack. Really, any time.’

  We smile at each other before he leaves.

  I have a sandwich on my own in the canteen, and afterwards I try to settle down at my desk. I’ve got a pile of admin, patients’ notes to check and close, order forms to process, but I can’t concentrate.

  My eyes blur whenever I look at the computer screen, my mind a mess of all the things that could happen to Cassie and the baby: organ failure, miscarriage, an infection. The thoughts force me out of my chair and I look through the square window in the door that looks directly onto the ward. Cassie’s curtain is drawn around her bed; Jack left about twenty minutes ago. Sharma told him about Jonny, said it wouldn’t happen again. I watched as Jack gave the healthcare assistant on reception a weak little wave as he walked past. He didn’t see me in the nurses’ room as he walked away. The phone rings. I let reception answer it and walk onto the ward.

  Charlotte’s silvery head is facing the wall behind Cassie’s bed. She’s holding a slab of Blu-Tack in one hand and a bundle of photos and cards in the other. Her clothes are as before, slightly too large for her, her navy-blue jeans bag a little and she’s wearing another unfitted striped blue shirt; she’s still in emergency mode. She’s decorated around Cassie’s bed a colourful shrine of photos and cards. Jack said Charlotte cried when she heard about the baby. I remember my mum cried the first few times I was pregnant. She hasn’t for the last few, as if she’s saving her tears for a few weeks later.

  Charlotte turns towards me and smiles. ‘Oh, hello, Alice. I hope you don’t mind,’ she says, gesturing towards the wall. ‘I did ask one of the other nurses.’ I close the curtain carefully behind me.

  ‘No, no of course not. It looks lovely.’ Charlotte puts the Blu-Tack and photos she’s holding onto Cassie’s bedside unit, before I add, ‘Can I have a look?’

  She rests a hand on the metal frame of Cassie’s bed. It makes her look frail suddenly; hospitals age even the most robust visitor. ‘Of course, please,’ she says with a nod, and gestures to the wall.

  They’re all of Cassie and Jack posed with arms around each other in different settings: at Christmas, in wellies on a walk, on a beach next to a palm tree somewhere exotic.

  ‘Beautiful,’ I say.

  Charlotte stands next to me, smiling at the photos. ‘Yes, yes, I know. She really is. One of those people who could light up any room. I can’t believe their wedding was only a year ago.’ Charlotte looks towards a framed photo from their wedding day. Cassie laughing and beautiful in a tight white-lace wedding gown, Jack, his head slightly tilted back, proud and smart, grinning at his new wife. She doesn’t look like the kind of woman who’d scare easily. It’s a solid silver frame, expensive and at odds with the clinical surroundings. I imagine their home is full of stylish frames from happy times. I’ll have to move it later though; if someone nudges the bedside unit, it could fall onto Cassie.

  ‘It looks like it was an amazing day,’ I say. I should suggest we go to the family room for more privacy, but I don’t want to stem her flow; she looks comfortable here.

  Charlotte nods. ‘In some ways, it’s even more devastating for Jack.’ I think she’s talking about the fact Jack and Cassie were married so recently, but she turns to me then and says, ‘You see, we lost Jack’s dad, Mike.’ She breathes in deeply; she wants to talk, needs to share with someone. ‘He had congenital heart disease. Typical man, he was terrible at taking his medication, always forgetting. Jack found Mike collapsed on the floor. I was out doing the weekly shop.’ She pulls a tissue out from her sleeve.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Charlotte.’

  She shakes her head a couple of times, and pinches her nose with the tissue. She doesn’t want me to be sorry for her. Charlotte takes her time as she continues, taking me arm in arm, strolling through her thoughts. ‘I fell apart, of course, couldn’t imagine life without Mike, being a single parent and all that. But it was much harder for Jack. That’s why we moved to Buscombe, for a fresh start. I was told the countryside would be good for him. It’s pretty much the most damaging thing, you know, for a fourteen-year-old boy to find the dad they worship stone dead.’

  I nod. ‘I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.’

  ‘We muddled through fairly well though, just Jack and me for twenty-one years, a tiny family of two, up until last year, of course.’ She looks briefly at the wedding photo befo
re turning back to me. ‘It’d break him all over again to lose her,’ she says with a whisper.

  I want to turn the conversation, to make her feel better, more positive, so I say, ‘It sounds like they have a happy marriage.’

  Charlotte breathes out. ‘Oh god, yes. They were always full of laughter. I’ve always adored Cas, knew she was the one for Jack the moment I met her.’

  We both turn towards some footsteps outside the curtain, Sharma perhaps, on his way to Ellen. Charlotte waits for them to pass before she glances at me, suddenly shy. She shakes her head at herself and pats my arm.

  ‘Sorry, Alice. God, you don’t want to hear all this when you must be so busy.’

  I place my hand gently on top of hers where it rests on my arm.

  ‘No, please, it’s really good to talk. I like finding out a bit more about Cassie.’

  Charlotte glances down at Cassie before she turns back to me, as if she doesn’t want Cassie to hear. ‘She wanted to be a mum so much,’ she says quietly.

  My heart shakes a little; I’ve overheard my mum say the same about me.

  ‘I was holding my breath for a baby, especially after the miscarriage.’ She looks up at me. ‘Jack said he told you.’ I nod, and let her keep talking. ‘We were close, you know, Cas and I. We’d talk about everything. She told me about her irregular periods, that she was worried it wouldn’t happen for them again. I just said they had to keep trying, be patient, let nature take its course. All the stuff people always say.’ Charlotte pauses for a beat before she adds, ‘To think she’s twelve weeks and didn’t know!’

  Charlotte lifts her hand from my arm to wipe a tear with the balled tissue in her hand. It’s easy to imagine Cassie talking to Charlotte over tea or a glass of wine. A rare sense of calm surrounds Charlotte, a gentleness I imagine makes people feel safe, confessional with her. She’s clearly ruffled by everything that’s happened, but she hasn’t lost her balance; she’s too well grounded for that.

  More footsteps and voices outside Cassie’s curtain crack our delicate moment, and Charlotte heaves the smile back onto her face as she turns back to me.

  ‘I’ll let you get on, Alice. Jack said you’re going to tell the other nurses about the baby today –’ she glances at her watch ‘– and there’s a bus that practically drops me outside my door in twenty minutes so please don’t worry about me.’

  I must look surprised; I can’t imagine Charlotte on a bus.

  ‘You don’t drive?’ I ask, reflexively.

  Charlotte shakes her silvery head, her hair catching the light.

  ‘No, but I get along fine with buses, trains and the occasional taxi.’ She picks up her bag from the visitor’s chair and says, ‘Poor Maisie will be desperate for a walk by now anyhow.’

  ‘Oh, have you been left in charge?’

  Charlotte nods. ‘Poor thing, I think she was quite shaken up. She’s a rescue; Cas had only had her for a few weeks. She told me once that she’d wanted a dog ever since she was a little girl, but she grew up in a little flat in Brixton so she never had one …’ Her words run out as she looks down at her hands.

  I had thought I might tell her about Jonny Parker coming onto the ward, but as I watch her put the now-shredded tissue in her pocket, I know now is not the time.

  She’s had all she can take today. She raises her hand to her mouth again as she says, ‘God, I am going batty. I almost forgot; I’ve got a few other bits and bobs here for Cassie from home. It was Jack’s idea.’ Charlotte hands me a small, leather, overnight bag.

  ‘He didn’t want her waking up and not having some of her things with her.’ It always moves me when relatives bring things in from home. How hopeful they must be when they pack the bags that their loved one will brush their own teeth again, send a text, bend to put on their old slippers. I’ve seen relatives bring in condoms, old newspapers and arm weights before, but here, in this dehumanising space, they’re nothing but mementos from a lost life.

  I take the bag. ‘That’s thoughtful. We’ll keep it in the nurses’ room so it’s there if you or Cassie need it.’

  Charlotte nods, and I’m about to leave when she says quickly, in a flurry, as if she shouldn’t ask, ‘What do you think about the baby, Alice?’

  ‘To be honest, I think it’s the closest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen.’

  A smile breaks over Charlotte’s face.

  I worry I’ve been too honest so temper my next comment. ‘But we need to keep our fingers crossed. It’s still all very uncertain.’

  Her smile fades only slightly; she breathes out. ‘You’re right. You’re right. Still, all being well, Jack said the baby could be with us in June?’

  I nod. ‘That would be great but we will be preparing for the baby to arrive earlier, just in case it becomes risky for either of them. Only time will tell at this stage.’

  She nods and gives me a little wave goodbye before she turns back to Cassie and I leave them, the old Cassie in the frame, angelic, smiling down at her new broken self.

  I’m home just after 7 p.m. David’s running trainers are not in their usual place by the back door. He didn’t take Bob with him this time. Bob wags his tail, delighted he avoided the run, curled up and warm in his basket.

  It’s cold, so I start running a bath; maybe David will hop in with me when he’s back. My body feels slow and doughy; I must be about to get my period. I take my clothes off and put on my bathrobe, look at my phone to try and figure out the dates, whether I’m due this week or next. I count the dates twice. I definitely had my last period when we went to the carol concert in Brighton, which means that, yes, it’s already a week late. Since we agreed to stop trying, I stopped logging the days until my period in my phone. I was surprised it didn’t feel like a wrench; it felt like a relief, no longer monitoring day by day every hormone fluctuation, changes in temperature. But now, now I am late, eight days late.

  I know there’s still a test stored under the bathroom sink. I don’t let myself think too much. The water filling our old Victorian bathtub thunders. I rip open the packaging and leave it on the floor for now; I’ll hide it deep in the bin later. I’ve done enough of these things to ignore the instructions. I know this moment, know the sting of fear and sharp contours of anticipation. I have to focus on slowing my breath and stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before a small trickle starts to daintily fill the cistern, I move the wand into the stream and when I’m finished, I pull up my jeans and sit on the edge of the bath, feeling surprisingly calm as I wait for the letters to spell out the future.

  Slowly, magically, the letters take shape and I read ‘Pregnant’ over and over again and I start laughing and I must call out because a worried little black face noses the door open and even though he knows he’s not allowed upstairs, he senses immediately my whooping was for something good, not for something bad, so his tail starts wagging and he trots towards me, his head low, knowing he’s crossed the boundary line, but sensing I won’t care. I hold his solid body and put my face in his muscly shoulder and it’s as if I feel my heart take a huge breath in, and for one brief moment I let my hope soar.

  After a few seconds, Bob pulls away from me and I look back at the dates on my phone. I’m only about three weeks. This is the most dangerous time for me; I’ve never got beyond nine weeks. I think of Cassie at twelve weeks, and try and imagine my own stomach, swelling, stretching around new life. Bob lies down in the corner, his head turned away as I do another test. I’m pregnant. I have an urge to call my mum; we haven’t spoken for a while. I know she’s busy helping look after Harry and Elsa but I long to hear her sound happy for me, long to make her proud. But I’ve done that before too early; there’s nothing worse than hearing your own mum cracking inside in agony. No. It’s too early.

  I turn the bath off, hide the tests in their own plastic bag and drop them into the bin. Bob follows me lazily into the office. I don’t know what to do. I feel fluid, new, shocked by joy. I wish I had someone to hug, wish I could tell someone w
ho wouldn’t be frightened for me. I wish it could be like the first time again, David spinning me around the room, Mum laughing with happiness down the phone. For one mad moment I think about driving back to the hospital, telling Frank and Cassie.

  Instead, I sit in the office chair, and Bob collapses on the floor again by my feet. I turn the computer on. I suddenly want to see photos of Cassie, feel like I know her, as if knowing her – this woman whose baby survived against all odds – will help the tiny life in me.

  I usually avoid Facebook, too many photos of babies and toddlers, I was going to close my account, but now I’m pleased I haven’t. I find the search box and type ‘Cassie Jensen’ before clicking on the magnifying glass search icon. I feel a bit foolish but remind myself that my sister Claire says everyone looks at everyone on Facebook; it’s legitimate stalking.

  I scroll past a few other Cassie Jensens until I stop at a photo I recognise from Charlotte’s display behind Cassie’s bed. Jack is tanned and smiling; Cassie, less familiar to me out of a hospital bed, is wearing a bright-blue sarong. She’s less brown than Jack but she looks just as happy with Jack’s arm around her shoulders, her hand touching his stomach. Her face is ablaze with sun freckles and her fair hair wavy with sea salt. I click on the ‘photos’ icon and lean in towards the screen. The most recent photos were posted by Jack, just a few days after Christmas. Judging from Cassie’s stark page, and lack of any security, Jack is a bigger Facebook user than his wife. Jack’s Christmas album has thirty-four ‘likes’; Sara Baker has commented, ‘The perfect couple!’, and Steve Langley asks, ‘Can I come next year?’ My heart fractures as I read Jack’s reply; he must have been so certain there would be more Christmases to come: ‘Cheers, Sara! Steve, mate, you can come see us any time!’