by K. L. Slater
‘Is everything all right? I ask, a curdling feeling starting in my stomach.
Her face drops. ‘No. It’s not all right at all, really.’ She sighs. ‘But now is definitely not the time to talk about it. You’re exhausted; why don’t you go upstairs for a lie-down and I’ll—’
‘I’m fine,’ I say quickly. The boys are already sitting together watching their promised movie with pizza and milkshake in the other room, so if she’s got something to say, now is as good a time as any. I’m already rehearsing a defence in my mind for the fact I didn’t double-check Kane had his inhaler before leaving the house. ‘You might as well tell me what’s wrong, or I won’t be able to relax at all tonight.’
She thinks for a moment, then nods regretfully.
‘You’d better sit down, Darcy,’ she says softly. ‘There’s something you need to know.’
Seven
The glowing red numbers of the clock inform me it’s 6.30. I’ve been awake for exactly four hours. Long enough to witness the inky black night finally giving way to the weak strains of daylight that lighten my bedroom and herald the beginning of the day.
I got up a few times during the night to check on Kane, but whenever I crept into his bedroom, he was fast asleep. Each time, I stood in the doorway and listened to his breathing, steady and deep. It helped to soothe my restless heart.
After Steph dropped the bombshell last night, she insisted we had a glass of wine together while she tried, unsuccessfully, to convince me that I mustn’t fret, that there really was no need to worry.
I excused myself to visit the bathroom. When I got up there, I was sick in the loo and had to take one of my tablets before I came back down.
When she left at about seven o’clock, Kane had his bath and Harrison a shower. They went to bed early without complaint, both of them exhausted after the trauma at the park.
Alone at last, I turned the television and lamps off. Then I poured myself another glass of wine and sat in the chair, staring out blindly at the velvety night sky beyond. Often I don’t bother drawing the curtains at night. Our street is a dead end, so people don’t use it as a walk-through.
Since I was discharged from the clinic, I’ve got into the habit of going to bed at the same time as the boys. Far too early for most people, I know, but I like reading in bed or watching something on my iPad. Last night, though, I knew I’d struggle to concentrate on a book or film, so I stayed downstairs later than usual.
For years, I’d heard people say that when you find yourself alone, it’s the evenings, the hours when you used to chat about the day with a partner, that get to you. It never meant anything back then, but when Joel died, I found out the hard way that they were absolutely right.
But it’s the thoughts, too. What might have been, what you might have done to stop the worst from happening, different decisions you could have made… night after night, it soon wears you down.
With a couple of kids, it’s easy to keep busy until they’ve gone to bed, and then the loneliness that’s been crouching in the corner like a black widow spider grabs you by the throat. So going to bed early has been a solution that works for me. It cuts out the empty hours when, despite everything he did, a bone-deep ache blooms for Joel’s touch.
But not tonight. Tonight I don’t want to infect my room, my safe place, with these unwanted thoughts.
Every so often, a car passes by, its headlights illuminating the houses opposite. The houses on this road are all Victorian terraces, old but with spacious rooms and reasonable-sized gardens. Some are owned but most, like ours, are rented.
We moved here when I fell pregnant with Harrison. Joel insisted on it. Up until then, home had been my draughty one-bed flat, located in an area on the outskirts of town you wouldn’t want to walk home in after dark. Joel’s preference at the time was to go for a small town house on a new estate being built in Gedling. But I found the properties claustrophobic, built on top of one another with postage-stamp-sized back yards. I couldn’t imagine our little one playing out there, a dog running around, so I managed to convince him that Lenton was the perfect place to build our happy home together.
That was before the area became flooded with students. But I got what I wanted, and for years we enjoyed a happy family life with our boys. The strange thing is, when Joel died, despite the dark, cloying grief and denial that I experienced, I still felt blessed for our life together. My gratitude was strong enough to shine through the worst times.
When I found out the truth of who he really was and what he had done – what she had done – the gratitude died quickly, like a warm, glowing candle that had been callously snuffed out.
I press the back of my head down into the soft cushions of the sofa and stare up at the ceiling.
Last night, when Steph asked me to sit down, I honestly didn’t know what to expect. But I instinctively gathered, from her expression and the tone of her voice, that it wasn’t going to be anything related to Kane’s asthma attack at the park. And Brenda’s pointed look as she left the house added credence to this.
My brain connected these things in a matter of seconds and came up with the past. I did what Steph asked and sat down at the breakfast bar, but my whole body felt heavy and sore.
She leaned against the counter facing me, gripping the edge of it with both hands.
‘Listen, Darcy,’ she began, biting her lip and avoiding my eyes. ‘I realise it’s the worst possible time to have to tell you something like this, after the day you’ve had, I mean. But I want you to hear it from me first. OK?’
‘OK.’ I swallowed hard. Waited. I tried really hard to keep my face impassive, but my heart felt ready to explode with nerves, and the rattle in my chest told another story altogether.
‘Mum got a text message earlier, when we were all still at the park.’
‘OK.’ I felt my breathing regulate a little when I realised this wasn’t to be a blame fest about what happened at Farmer’s that day.
‘I’m telling you because I think you should be the first to know and because…’ She hesitated. ‘I think you’re strong enough to deal with it now.’
‘Let’s have it then,’ I said quietly, recognising her efforts to delay the moment.
Steph puffed out air, looked at the ceiling, looked at the floor and then fixed her eyes on mine and clenched her jaw.
‘It’s Daniela Frost,’ she said simply. ‘I’m so sorry, Darcy… but she’s coming back to live here, in Nottingham.’
Eight
By 8 a.m., I’ve got the boys up and dressed and they are eating cereal perched on stools at the breakfast bar.
Steph’s words are still bouncing around in my head but I just keep batting them back, the way I learned to do in therapy.
‘Don’t wolf your breakfast down, chew it properly,’ I tell the boys, sounding like a broken record. As usual, my instruction falls on deaf ears.
I stand back and consider Kane’s appearance for a few seconds. His cheeks have a healthy pink glow again and his eyes are clear and bright. He seems to have recovered brilliantly from his asthma attack, and I feel relief wash over me all over again.
‘Has Grandad already finished the train set, or is he still building it?’ Harrison asks without looking up from shovelling in his cornflakes.
‘I’m not sure.’ I pour the boys glasses of fresh orange juice and slide them across the counter. ‘Grandma said he was still up in the spare room, so I suppose that means he hasn’t finished yet.’
Brenda had called half an hour ago and asked if the boys would like to go over, as Leonard had been clearing out the loft and unearthed the train set Joel had loved and played with as a boy.
‘They can stay for Sunday lunch and we’ll bring them back at teatime, if that suits?’
It was a rhetorical question. Brenda rarely asks me if she can have the boys; she usually just tells me. Although I took back full-time care of my sons ten months ago now, in some ways, I still feel like Brenda calls the shots. Still, the boys
love to go over to their grandparents’ big house in Ravenshead, with its gaming room and its half-acre garden that’s perfect for all kinds of ball sports.
Brenda and Leonard know exactly how to curry their grandsons’ favour. Yet the touching thing is, the boys couldn’t wait to come back to live at home again. They were so excited to rediscover their cramped bedrooms and watch movies on our small – compared to their grandparents’ at least – television.
‘You’d be welcome to come for lunch too, of course.’ She hesitates. ‘Only… I thought you might appreciate a little time to yourself. A bit of relaxation after yesterday’s upset.’
I suspect she means the news Steph gave me about Daniela, rather than what happened to Kane. But Brenda’s preference is to tiptoe delicately around a difficult subject rather than face it head on.
I’m so tempted to ask her why she insists on keeping in touch with Daniela, after what Joel did.
A big part of me wants to challenge her to choose: Daniela Frost, or me and the boys.
But I really don’t think I’m in a position to make such demands. Brenda and Leonard are still a valuable support in my life and the boys need a full and loving relationship with their grandparents. So instead of voicing my true feelings, I swallow my irritation.
‘I think a bit of free time would be perfect. Thanks, Brenda.’
And just like that, an idea pops into my head. I have a yoga class scheduled for 6 p.m., but I’m free all day apart from that. I know the perfect way to push away thoughts of Daniela and utilise my unexpected pocket of free time.
* * *
The hospital is quieter than yesterday.
I’ve heard that weekends are the worst time to be ill, because the NHS operates with a skeleton staff, particularly on Sundays.
Some wards, I noticed yesterday as I pushed Kane’s wheelchair through the seemingly endless corridors, have all-day visiting. Others operate stricter hours. There don’t seem to be as many people wandering around gazing up at the various signs, so I’m guessing I’ve arrived outside of the bulk of most ward visiting times.
My legwork yesterday is paying off. I navigate the warren of identical pale-green passageways easily, moving ever closer to the urology department, where George Mortimer works – though I’m not expecting him to be here today.
I pass the odd patient or uniformed member of staff, but mostly I seem to be alone, listening to the click-clacking of my own low-heeled shoes on the linoleum floor.
I called at a Tesco Express on the way here and picked up an unfussy thank-you card.
As I draw closer to the area of the hospital I need to be in, I clutch the envelope and a flutter starts up in my belly. This little plan seemed so clever at the time, but now it seems completely stupid and cringeworthy.
I slow down my pace so I can think. There’s a run of glass windows to my right, looking out over a small, neglected courtyard with block paving and wooden benches. It must have been a peaceful space to sit at one time, but now the benches are faded and peeling and it’s littered with weeds and a collection of discarded sandwich wrappers.
It occurs to me that I don’t have to go through with this; I could just go back home. After all, I already thanked him profusely before he melted away into the crowd yesterday.
And yet… I’m here now. I’ve come in on the bus to avoid potential parking problems. I’ve made the effort; it would be silly to waste that.
Admittedly, it was partly to save me sitting in the house thinking about Daniela bloody Frost and the implications of her coming back here. But still, I feel I have to do something else apart from muttering what feels like an inadequate thank-you to George at the park.
‘You OK, love?’ A porter stops striding along with his empty trolley in front of me, and I realise I’ve drifted into the middle of the corridor so he is unable to pass by without brushing against me.
‘Sorry, yes.’ I give him a wide smile, snapping out of it and stepping aside. ‘Just stuff on my mind, you know?’
He nods and presses his lips together in an indication that he knows exactly what I mean. He must see distraught, grieving people every day of the week, and here’s me, worrying about looking silly whilst delivering a card.
When the porter has whisked by me, I pick up pace again.
It’s just a thank-you card. In which I’ve written my phone number and email address. And suggested to George that if he can find a spare half-hour at some point, I’d love to treat him to a coffee and a piece of cake. It’s meant as a friendly gesture, to offer something slightly more than yesterday’s inane words.
I feel my cheeks heat up just thinking about how I wrote it so impulsively, and now… well, I’m squirming at the thought that he might well consider me a bit forward.
But hey, if he doesn’t want to take up my offer, that’s totally fine. I straighten my shoulders a little as I walk, mentally gathering up a few shreds of pride. I’ll probably never lay eyes on him again, but at least I’ll know I tried to show my gratitude.
At last I approach the turning for the urology department. I near the double doors that lead to the ward’s entrance and notice a woman pacing up and down outside.
She looks to be in her early thirties and has lank light-brown hair parted in the centre and a pale, anxious face. She wears black leggings, a baggy pink T-shirt with a smattering of sparkle on the front, and flat shoes. I can’t see a coat or a bag. It’s warm in the hospital but freezing outside and she looks painfully thin, not a lot of padding on her bones to ward off the inclement weather.
She chews the inside of her cheek fretfully and alternates checking her wristwatch with gazing down the corridor expectantly.
When she sees me approaching, she stops pacing abruptly and stares straight at me, her expression darkening.
Embarrassed by this sudden and unwarranted blaze of attention, I avert my eyes and slip quickly inside the double doors.
‘Hello again!’ I spin around at the chirpy voice and recognise the nurse I saw yesterday. She’s bending over the desk, tapping through a screen of what looks like medical supply lists. ‘How’s your son?’
‘He’s great now, thanks.’ I smile. ‘You wouldn’t know he’s been through any trauma at all.’
‘So resilient, aren’t they, kids? Good at bouncing back. I’m so glad he’s feeling better. Must’ve been awful seeing him like that.’
I notice her name badge for the first time, standing out plainly on her navy uniform: Sherry Thomas, Ward Manager. She’s obviously a senior member of staff, and I think about mentioning the woman who’s hanging around outside. Shouldn’t she be aware there’s someone strange lurking? Then Steph’s voice echoes in my ears: You and your imagination! You read too many crime novels, Darcy. Chill out. I decide against saying anything, and instead wave the card in front of me.
‘I called in to drop this off for Mr Mortimer. It’s just a little thank-you card,’ I say sheepishly. ‘Can I leave it with you to pass on to him?’
‘Course!’ Sherry takes it and places it next to her keyboard before hesitating and checking her fob watch. ‘If you hang on another five minutes or so, you can give it to him yourself. He’s due in at eleven.’
‘He’s working on a Sunday?’
‘He’s just popping in for an unexpected patient meeting but he’ll swing by the ward to see that everything’s OK, he’s good like that.’
‘Oh!’ I take a step back, a whooshing sound starting in my ears. ‘No, that’s OK, I have to get back home.’ The thought of George opening the card in front of me and seeing that I’ve included my contact details fills me with pure horror.
She tips her head and considers my reaction with amusement.
‘No worries, then. I’ll make sure he gets it.’ She closes the window she’s been viewing on the screen, says goodbye and heads back into the ward.
When I emerge from the double doors, the woman is still there. She’s stopped pacing now and is leaning against the glossy wall with her arms folded,
as if she’s been waiting for me to come out.
As soon as she sees me, she pushes back and stands up straight, dropping her arms down but never taking her eyes off me. My Britishness prickles under her bad-mannered stare, and I begin to move, eager to escape her overt gaze. There’s something in her expression I can’t quite pinpoint… a kind of recognition, but on her part, not mine. I am quite certain I’ve never seen her before today.
She moves quickly, stepping towards me at an almost alarming pace.
‘Are you visiting someone?’ Her voice sounds edgy with a brittle desperation. It cuts through the reassuring space between us and I find myself stepping back. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
I feel half irritated at her forthright enquiry, half unnerved. A cursory glance to the left and then the right tells me there’s nobody else out here in the long corridor. Just us two.
That’s when it crosses my mind that she might not be well… mentally, I mean. She does look kind of wild-eyed, slightly unhinged, even. And the way she stares so openly is, quite frankly, intimidating.
But she’s asked me a perfectly acceptable question and perhaps that’s the reason she’s waiting here herself, anxiously checking her watch; maybe she’s waiting for visiting time.
‘No, no. I’m not visiting,’ I say lightly. ‘I just popped by to drop something off.’
‘There’s a café here, it’s only five minutes’ walk,’ she says suddenly.
I nod and give her a little smile, spooked by her odd manner.
I turn away from her and start walking back the way I came. When I get to the end of the corridor, I turn around and look back at her.
She’s still standing there. Watching me.
Nine
George opened the patient file and browsed the main facts on the front sheet.