by Jane Shemilt
14. November
Eve
The pediatric intensive care ward is hot and brightly lit. Eve is getting used to the background hum: nurses at the desk and the doctors on their rounds, the never-ending bleep of machines. She’s learned to ignore the constant movement around the beds. From time to time there are muffled gasps of someone weeping. She focuses on Sorrel’s fingers lying curved on the sheet; the crusted blood has been washed away. She holds her hand, the small palm lying motionless against hers, and watches the rise and fall of her chest under the sheet.
Sorrel’s brain scan was normal. The blood tests showed early starvation and dehydration, nothing that can’t be reversed, the nurse tells her. Her name is Annie. Her voice is pleasant, the rhythm sings. She is from the south of Ireland and has creamy skin and black curly eyelashes, one of those kind, brisk girls whose quiet way of moving inspires confidence. Annie’s glance plays constantly over the machines by Sorrel’s bed, her fingers adjust the rate of the IV drip and the height of the pillows, she smooths strands of damp hair off her forehead. Eve watches to see if Annie is on shift, and once she is, Eve allows herself to doze.
Eric tells her to go home, but what if she misses the moment when Sorrel’s eyes open? Eve has hardly moved from her bedside for three days, not even to brush her teeth. Eric holds Sorrel’s hand; he is polite but more remote than ever. She wonders if Melly let slip about her relationship with Martin. She can’t ask her; they haven’t talked since Sorrel was found, she has no energy to cross the little gap that has opened between her and Melly.
The affair with Martin seems irrelevant now, like a film she saw long ago, with an actress taking her part, playing a character she hardly recognizes. It’s impossible to tell what thoughts lurk behind Eric’s brooding face opposite hers or whether he knows; only that he seems to have gone as far away from her as she has from him.
He brings Poppy to the ward after school; she’s allowed ten minutes at a time. Her auburn hair and the bright splash of her freckles shine against the beige of walls and beds. Eve holds her, breathing in her health, her fresh-air scent. Poppy doesn’t twist away anymore but her glance moves rapidly over the immobile bodies on the beds around them; it takes in the IVs, the catheters and machines, the electrodes placed on small chests.
“Can I bring Noah to see Sorrel?”
“I wish you could, darling, but things in here have to be very clean.”
“Noah’s clean.”
“I mean sterile clean, in case of germs; some of these children are very sick.”
“Is Sorrel very sick?”
“She’s tired. Too tired to wake up properly yet; she didn’t have anything to eat or drink for nearly two days, remember.”
“Was she scared?” The tone shifts higher.
The thought of Sorrel’s terror is like a flame that burns Eve’s mind. Those soft fingers scrabbling at the lid above her face, the despair as she wet herself, how her voice must have sounded as she lay calling for her mother in the dark. The admitting team told her there was no sign of sexual abuse, a life jacket in a sea of horror.
“You know, Pops, I think she was asleep most of the time.”
“You mean she was unconscious? Like now?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he do it—Izzy’s dad?”
“I don’t know, darling.” She looks at Poppy’s hands stroking Sorrel’s. Poppy’s fingers are ink-stained and pink; Sorrel’s skin is yellow next to her sister’s, even her nails are pale. Eve touches Poppy’s hair gently; it’s longer now and falls forward as she leans over the bed. “We’ll probably never understand completely,” she tells Poppy, “though we might find out more in court.”
“Izzy’s still my friend, though,” Poppy says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s not her fault. I feel sorry for her, actually.”
She seems to have made up her mind in that generous way children often do, pity being better than anger, easier to bear. They can’t abandon Paul’s family, Poppy is saying, none of this is Izzy’s fault. Eve watches Poppy root around in the bedside dresser for a hairbrush. She’s right. It isn’t Izzy’s fault and it’s not Melly’s either, but she can’t help wishing Melly had found the strength to stand up to Paul sooner. If she had escaped or even fought back, Paul wouldn’t have been part of their lives; Sorrel would have been safe. If she’d shared what was happening with her friends earlier on, they could have helped her leave him behind. She watches Poppy brush her sister’s hair off her face with gentle strokes and thinks of Melly’s bruised face as she last saw her. Melly was Paul’s victim too, she reminds herself, long before Sorrel was; she must have been terrified of defying him, what that would bring down on herself.
“Izzy wants to come and see Sorrel.” Poppy leans forward over the bed to touch her mother’s hand.
“The nurse said only family, my darling.”
“Izzy’s family.”
“Let’s wait and see.”
In the end she misses the exact moment when Sorrel opens her eyes. Eric had taken Poppy home for supper by the time the specialist arrived on a late ward round. Dr. Ari comes every day, a small man with a rapid walk, a little bent, perhaps from the years of study and examining patients. There is a quietness about him that he carries into the room. Eve is watching his face as he listens to Sorrel’s chest when the expression of pure delight breaks on his hawklike features, drawing her eyes instantly to her daughter. Sorrel is staring at the man in front of her, her eyes blank with surprise. Eve’s tears come instantly. She takes Sorrel’s hand and presses it to her cheek, her heart hammering with joy. “Sweetheart, you’re awake!”
Sorrel turns to her; her eyes widen before the lids flutter shut again.
“A good sign?” Tears run down Eve’s cheeks.
“An excellent sign.” The skin around those dark eyes creases in a smile.
Eric is there when Sorrel opens her eyes again later that evening; she smiles at her father. His mouth tightens in an effort not to cry. When he leaves that evening he presses his lips against Sorrel’s forehead. Eve stands up, thinking he will kiss her too, but he nods without smiling and leaves the ward.
Dr. Ari comes to the ward the next day; by then Eric has arrived. He ushers them both into a side room. Eve reaches for Eric’s hand but he hunches forward to listen.
“So it seems our little Sorrel was lucky,” Dr. Ari begins.
“Lucky?” Eric frowns.
“The oxygen deprivation was only partial. A small amount of air had continued to circulate in the chest.”
She and Eric have read a copy of the police report: the magnetic seal in the freezer had become faulty in the damp shed over time. Sorrel, pushing desperately at the lid, must have managed to lift it a fraction. The thought of Sorrel struggling for her life is unbearable; beside her Eric shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“Her speech?” Eve asks, dreading the answer.
“Speech should recover fully; memory might take longer. I should warn you some memories may never come back.”
The specialist’s face is set in tired lines despite his cheerful voice. He has two days’ growth of beard; he might have been working all that time. He is watching their faces as he talks, as if to check how they feel about the information he’s given them. He might have a little girl Sorrel’s age at home; he seems to know exactly how they are feeling.
“The hippocampus is a small area of the brain responsible for processing memory. It’s particularly sensitive to lack of oxygen.”
“Are you saying that there’s some microscopic damage to the brain despite her normal scan?” Eric glares at Dr. Ari as if he blames him for what has happened.
Eric’s upset, Eve wants to explain to the specialist, angry at what’s happened to his daughter, not with you, but Dr. Ari is experienced, he has probably seen this reaction before.
“‘Damage’ is a misleading word,” Dr. Ari says gently. “A child’s brain has a great recovery capability. You should think in terms of months o
r a year. In the meantime, we’ll be moving her to the general pediatric ward where she’ll be for two or three weeks of rest and monitoring.”
“Recovery capability,” Eric repeats contemptuously in the hospital cafeteria later. “If he means she’s really brain damaged he should just tell us.”
“He didn’t mean that at all.” Eve sips the weak tea; it’s late, they are the only people in the cafeteria. “He was telling us she’s likely to recover. In the meantime, it’s a blessing. Who’d want her to remember that hideous incident?”
“The police.”
“Paul’s in custody. They’re not looking for anyone else.”
“The police are bound to come sooner or later,” he replies. “They’ll want to talk to Sorrel. There was none of his DNA on her.”
“Of course there wasn’t. Paul’s cleverer than that. Grace told me he was still wearing gloves when he arrived at the house the evening he took her. I thought you knew.”
A day later Sorrel is moved from intensive care to the pediatric ward. Disney animals scamper over the yellow walls, the atmosphere is cheery, there are fewer machines. She is able to sit up and sip fluids. She has just taken a few mouthfuls of orange juice from a glass when the policewoman enters the ward, a pretty woman with a tilted nose and thick fair hair drawn off her face. She sits down and smiles at Sorrel. Eve takes the glass away gently.
“Hello there, Sorrel, my name’s Donna. We’ve met before.”
Eve glances at her, puzzled.
“You were in hospital when I talked to Sorrel the last time,” Donna says softly.
The day Ash drowned; Eve takes Sorrel’s hand. Sorrel stares at the policewoman without the slightest hint of recognition.
“Do you know why you are here?”
Sorrel’s forehead wrinkles; it’s as if Donna were talking in a different language, one she has never learned.
“We want to find out what happened to you before you were brought to hospital; is that all right with you?”
No answer.
“Do you remember going to Izzy’s house recently?”
The blue eyes close.
“I was wondering how you got there.”
Sorrel turns her head away.
“Who were you with, perhaps you can just tell us that?”
Eve wants to tell Donna to leave. There’s no point in these questions right now. She must see that her daughter doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to remember anything at all.
“Well now, Sorrel.” A light sigh. “Have you any questions for us?”
The eyelids flicker open. Sorrel’s eyes meet Eve’s.
“Where’s Ash?” she whispers.
Grace
“Can we see her?”
“That’s the tenth time you’ve asked me.” Grace is squashed between Charley and Blake on the sofa. The television is on; they are watching the news. There are three pairs of bare feet on the table. They had sausages and beans for supper, the children’s favorite. Grace is making an effort to be relaxed. It’s easier than she thought it would be, up to a point.
“Please?” Charley takes another bite of her apple and turns beseeching eyes to her mother.
“Family only, I told you already.”
“She’s getting better; they’ve just said so.” Charley gestures to the screen with the apple. “And the police are allowed, so why not us?”
Grace shakes her head. “The doctors say she needs lots of rest.” She’s explained all this before.
“When, then?”
“She’ll be allowed home soon enough.”
“In time for Christmas?”
“Maybe.” Grace puts an arm around her daughter and pulls her in, kissing the crown of her head. It could have been Charley trapped in that freezer. Paul came so close to them all; thank God he’s been apprehended now. “The main thing is she was found and she’s recovering,” she continues cheerfully. “Let’s focus on that.”
“Yeah, it’s amazing.” Charley rests her head on Grace’s shoulder.
Blake gets off the sofa and bounds up onto the chair on the other side. His cheeks are bulging in a grin.
“Blake, how many times—”
“When’s Dad back?” Charley interrupts.
Blake jumps to the floor and waits, poised for the answer.
“The tutorial ends at eight, so half an hour after that maybe?” Martin’s in demand, the agency calls most days. He doesn’t seem to mind. At least, he doesn’t say that he minds, but he doesn’t say much these days. He might even be relieved to escape.
“So, you and Dad . . .” But here Charley’s bravery forsakes her.
“I’ll text him to bring home a cake from the co-op; he passes it on his way back. We can celebrate Sorrel’s recovery.” Grace picks up the plates.
“Mum?” Charley follows her to the kitchen with the knives and forks.
“Yeah?” Bracing herself.
“You know those blokes who used to hang around by the bins?” Charley puts the cutlery in the sink.
“What about them?”
“The landlady said they’ve gone, she said to tell you.”
“Since when have you been talking to the landlady?”
“She came out today when Melly dropped us off. She’s nice, she’s got a cute dog. She told me to say they won’t be coming back. Can I watch Neighbours ?”
Grace stares at her daughter. What else does the landlady know? What did she see?
“Mum?”
“Homework first.”
She’ll take the landlady a bunch of flowers tomorrow, maybe a box of chocolates as well. She feels warmed, the way you do when you realize you’ve got a friend you hadn’t known was there, someone who’s been on your side all this time.
There’s a brief scuffle at the door as Charley leaves and Blake enters, pushing past his sister. He roots noisily in the cutlery drawer while Grace runs hot water over the plates.
“What are you looking for?”
“A knife.”
“Jesus, Blake. What d’you want a knife for now?”
He bangs a jar of strawberry jam down on the counter and grins. “Lid’s stuck.”
She takes a coin from the few that have reaccumulated in the tin, slides it under the lid, which gives with a little pop. Blake laughs.
This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, she tells herself. Things have calmed down, Sorrel’s out of danger. Go on, now, while he’s in a good mood. She reaches into the cupboard behind the bucket and mop for the blue-handled knife she hid in her largest saucepan four days ago.
“I found this.” The rusty stain along the edge of the blade is now a faint pinkish line. She can tell by the way his face has fallen that she has only a few seconds to talk. “Whose blood is this?”
“What were you doing in my backpack?” The tone is belligerent; the good mood has vanished.
“What if I showed this to the police?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
He tries to snatch the knife but her fingers close tightly around the handle. “I’d do anything to stop you from ending up like that lot in the parking lot.”
His eyes darken with anger.
“What have you done, Blake?”
No answer. She picks up her phone. “I’m phoning the police, right now.”
He watches in silence as she punches the keypad three times, then waits. They stare at each other across the kitchen.
“Police, please.”
After a few seconds, his breathing becomes wheezy; she hands him the inhaler from the shelf as she waits.
“Ah, yes, good evening. I’m phoning to report possession of a bloodstained knife—”
“Rabbits,” he mutters.
“What?” She lowers the phone.
“Rabbit blood.”
“How come?”
No answer.
“How come, Blake?”
He grabs the jam and walks out of the kitchen without the knife. Rabbits, for God’s sake
. It’s crazy enough to be true; there must be lots of rabbits in Eve’s place. He might catch them and skin them for supper; she can see Eric teaching him, skillful, unsentimental. She hopes Charley didn’t see. She puts the knife back in her saucepan; she’ll give it to Eric next time she sees him; it’s probably his. She hadn’t dialed the police, she’d punched three zeros instead and talked into a dead phone. She looks at the dirty plates in the sink. They can wait. She’s tired, as if she’s reached the end of a journey and she’s somewhere better than the place she left, though she’s still not sure where she is.
Martin comes back at nine with a large pack of chocolate mini-rolls, but by then the kids are asleep. They unwrap one each in the kitchen; he makes tea while she tells him about Sorrel’s improvement.
“Thank God.” He passes her a mug. “That terrible man. I thought I knew him. I suppose we naturally believe the best of people; he must have traded on that. He managed to fool us all.”
I thought I knew you. Grace watches him over the rim of her mug. I believed the best of you as well, you fooled me too. She sips her tea. “Charley began to ask about us today.”
“And?”
“She lost her nerve.”
“What would you have said?”
“It would have been difficult.” She puts her chocolate roll back in the silver paper and wraps it up again. “I’d hate to upset her.”
Martin walks to the window. She looks at the familiar way his hair grows in a little whorl at the crown, thinner now than when they met, grayer; his shoulders are more hunched.
“A week ago, my publishers wrote to me about a teaching position in the creative writing masters course at Harare university. It would involve a year’s tutoring, and the pay is excellent.” He doesn’t turn around. “They hope if I’m out there again, the same magic will work. I might even finish my book. The university offered to pay for flights and accommodation.”
He comes back to the table, sits down next to her, and takes her wrist in his hand. “I’ve been mustering the courage to ask what you think and if you and the kids would come with me.”
She could walk those streets blindfolded. She knows the people, the light and the jacaranda trees, the slums and the traffic, the noise, the fights, the dancing in the streets, the whole beautiful city. She can close her eyes and conjure her grandparents’ village in a heartbeat; that smell of dry earth, of eucalyptus trees and roasting maize. She can see the sky. Her heart could open under that endless sky.