The Inbetween Days

by Eva Woods

  “I’m Gary Rudley, Rosie’s future brother-in-law. What can you tell us about her condition, please?” Daisy cringed at the voice he was putting on, the corporate manager voice, the successful-young-man voice. Same one he’d used at the mortgage broker and the bathroom showroom.

  The doctor blinked. “Not much. She’s in a coma and all we can do is hope her brain wakes up from it.”

  “But isn’t there a treatment? I was reading—”

  “We’ve given her all the treatment we can for now. It’s down to her brain, and it depends how badly injured it is. We should know more in a day or two.”

  “But...”

  “Try talking to her. If she recognizes your voice, it might help.” His tone was polite, but doubtful.

  Gary huffed back. “Honestly, the NHS is in shambles. Just talk to her, that’s the best they can do?”

  “They’ve saved Rosie’s life,” Daisy pointed out. “And he’s been here all night. Don’t be rude to him, Gary.”

  His mouth fell open. “I wasn’t being rude.”

  “Darling, you’re just upset,” her mother chipped in, nervously. “Let’s not fight. Gary’s very good to come.”

  Daisy made herself smile, a crooked unconvincing thing. “Why don’t we talk to her like he said?” Though whether Rosie would want to listen to Gary’s stories about the ball bearing account, she really didn’t know.

  Rosie

  “Oh God,” she said—though only to herself. “Gary’s here.”

  No one answered. Melissa had gone again, and Rosie was alone in her bubble of “real,” the world outside seen as if through a plastic cover, blurred and muffled. Like Zorbing, she thought. Though what was Zorbing, and when had she ever done it? Hopefully the muffling effect would keep her soon to be brother-in-law (urgh) at some distance, because she wasn’t sure she could handle Gary. Even though she couldn’t grasp the details right now, she was quite certain that her sister’s fiancé was a grade-A bore.

  “So, Rosie,” he was saying, in a self-consciously caring voice. “Big day for me today. Would you believe I single-handedly sorted out the entire IT system for Harris and Harris partners? Huge firm, very prestigious. But let me tell you, the computers were an-ti-quated. They were still using Amstrads. Imagine.”

  Rosie had no idea what an Amstrad was. She searched her memory, but something told her she had never known and would never care enough to find out.

  “Goodness, is that an accountant visiting you?” said Mr. Malcolm, materializing in his holey sweater-vest.

  “Oh, hi, Mr. M. That’s Gary. He is sort of an accountant. I think. Management consultancy. Means he goes into companies and tells them everything they’re doing wrong, which is perfect for him because he spends his whole life doing that to Daisy too. And to me.” See, memories. Things slotting back into place. Another aspect of her life that was bad, or disappointing.

  “I suppose you won’t be wanting a Gary memory, then, dear.”

  “No. Please, he’s right there. It would be too cruel to see him in my mind as well.”

  “Well, let’s see what we get this time. Are you ready? You have to try and remember more. That’s what will help you wake up.”

  Rosie braced herself. Who knew what this memory would be? Tears, shouting, physical injury of some kind, or the overwhelming sense that she, Rosie Cooke, was just not a very nice person? “I’m ready,” she said. It was still better than listening to Gary talk about computers.

  2 June 2012 (Five years ago)

  Dials. Blur. 2 6 2012. A date that meant nothing to Rosie. She opened her eyes and found herself in an office. Outside, a hot summer’s day, and inside, the torpor lay over people’s backs like a heavy rug. The office was open plan and dingy, with about a dozen people hunched over bog-standard computers that would have been outdated even in 2012 (perhaps they needed to get Gary in). A few fans struggled helplessly with the hot air, pushing it aside without creating much change in the temperature. “Well, this place is delightful.” It had every office cliché—a sink area in the corner where the stacked-up dirty dishes hid the plaintive notes about doing your washing up, layers of grime on everything, people shutting themselves away under big headphones.

  “You don’t recognize it?” Mr. Malcolm was reading the posters on the noticeboard, about turning out lights and remembering to empty the dishwasher, plus one sad jaunty one about coming to the company picnic.

  “Should I?” Rosie was sure she’d never have been caught dead in such a drab place as this. What she’d seen of her life so far had been sad and often embarrassing, but at least it was dramatic. Not boring. She imagined that was something people might say at her funeral, if she didn’t wake up from this coma. Darling Rosie, at least she was never boring, you know?

  “There you are.” He pointed to a dark corner of the office, where someone had all but barricaded themselves into a corner desk. Red hair, black trousers and polyester top with sweat stains. It was Rosie.

  “Oh God.” Now Rosie scrunched up her face. “I remember now. I temped here, that summer when I couldn’t get any acting work and I needed some cash... Jesus, it was so dull.” Back-then Rosie was as apathetic as the rest of them, tapping at her dirty keyboard with all the enthusiasm of someone going to the gallows. She seemed to be working on some kind of spreadsheet, but Rosie had no memory of what the job had been. “They sold something—what was it?”

  “Lavatory seats, I believe,” said Mr. Malcolm, pointing out an example of their wares, which was propped against the wall.

  Rosie watched herself for a few moments, the blank-eyed stare and occasional twitch of her fingers as she keyed in a number. She looked miserable, drained of life. “Why am I seeing this memory? It’s totally boring.” What could this have to teach her?

  She heard a discreet buzzing, and Past Rosie looked around furtively before sliding her phone out from beneath a pile of printouts. And suddenly her face lit up, all the life and joy and animation it had been missing flooding back to it. A message—but from who?

  A short fussy woman in a red wool suit—the worst possible thing to wear in this weather; it made her look like a sweaty postbox—was barreling across the floor, and Past Rosie hurriedly hid the phone again. “Ah, Rosie, can you print those accounts for me? Was that your phone I heard?”

  “It’s just the computer, Anthea,” Past Rosie lied smoothly. “I’ll do them now.”

  “See that you do, please,” said Anthea, narrowing her eyes. Then in a burst, she said, “And can’t you call maintenance about the heat? It’s absolutely unbearable!”

  Past Rosie went to the printer and jiggled her foot as bits of paper spewed out. Although Rosie could not recall this exact day—it hadn’t been memorable, clearly—she knew what her past self would have been thinking. How had she ended up there, in that dingy, dirty office with Anthea telling her what to do?

  A man was approaching—overweight, huffing from the short walk to the printer from his desk, his stomach spilling out from between the buttons of his short-sleeved checked shirt. “Hi, Rosie.”

  “Oh. Hi.” She didn’t remember this man at all, let alone his name.

  “Printer working okay?”

  Past Rosie cast a disinterested look at the pages coming out. “I think so.”

  “’Cause if you need the toner changed, or the paper put in or anything, you can ask me. Me and this printer go way back.” He thumped the side of the machine affectionately, and it made a choking noise and the paper stopped rolling. A nasty crunching sound came out and the machine began to beep. “Oh crap. Sorry, Rosie.”

  “Please...clear...paper jam,” said the machine in a mechanical voice.

  “Can you fix it?” Rosie’s happy expression was fading. “Anthea wants these for her meeting.”

  “Um...um...let me see.” Frantically, the man—what had his name been?—was opening flaps, pulling at
bits of crumpled paper, getting toner all over his shirt and hands. “Oh God, sorry, Rosie.”

  Past Rosie’s eyes strayed to the window, at the heavy gold sunshine that lay over London, the cool green shades of the trees in the park outside. She seemed to make some kind of decision. She laid a hand on the man’s arm—he jumped—and said, “Listen, it’s okay. I’ll send it to the desktop one, okay?”

  “But Anthea...”

  “She can wait. It can’t be helped, can it.” Rosie remembered now that she had decided in that very moment to quit this job. That she wouldn’t be spending another day there. This thought—plus whatever the message had been—had left her feeling unusually generous and relaxed. “You know,” she said to the man, “you can do a lot better than junior salesman. You’re, like, the best person here. Don’t let Anthea bully you, okay?” She moved off, gracing the man—Derek! That was his name!—with a smile. He sagged, a ball of anxiety and confusion, and slowly wiped his hand over his face, leaving a smudgy print.

  Past Rosie went back to her desk, printed the documents on another machine, and picked up her phone. She smiled. Present-day Rosie craned over to see who the message was from. Luke, it said. “I’m still in touch with him?” she turned to Mr. Malcolm.

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “But...did he not get married after all, then?”

  “I’m sorry, cherie, I don’t know.”

  Her past self keyed out a message—actually I’ve managed to get out early, fancy a drink in the park?—then picked up her cheap Primark bag and marched confidently to the door and out onto the street. No one stopped her. Once there she ducked into the first shop she found, a branch of Monsoon, and quickly selected a blue-and-white-print dress, with wide straps and a swishy skirt. She couldn’t afford it, but had decided that didn’t matter. In the changing rooms she peeled off her boring, sweaty work clothes, shoved them in her bag, then almost danced out in the dress and asked the sales assistant to cut the tag off, taking out her Visa card with what Rosie now remembered had been overoptimistic confidence. But fate was on her side. The sale went through, the tag was removed and she was out into the sunshine in her new dress, undoing her sensible plait so her red hair rippled over her pale shoulders.

  Rosie was able to follow her past self down Oxford Street toward Marble Arch and Hyde Park, and there, in one of the striped deck chairs you could hire, was a fair-haired man in sunglasses and cargo shorts, reading a paperback copy of Shantaram. Luke. It was Luke! Her heart soared to see him and she suddenly remembered exactly how it had felt to walk out of that office and then see him there waiting for her, knowing they had the whole day to sit and talk, drink the gin-in-a-can he’d bought from Marks & Spencer. When he saw her he jumped up, a smile that matched hers spreading over his face. His T-shirt was an old faded Radiohead one, and he had faint blond stubble on his cheeks. He held his hands wide in a ta-da gesture, indicating his cleverness in securing the chairs.

  Past Rosie, who had stopped walking out of sheer happiness, began to move toward him, and she opened her mouth and said...

  “Time to go back,” said Mr. Malcolm. “I’m afraid Gary’s trying to talk to you.”

  “Oh God, not him. Can’t we stay here? I think something important might be about to...” Luke and her. This was important, surely? Was this her memory trying to tell her they were together after all, that he loved her as much as she felt she loved him? But then why did her family not know who he was? “Can we just stay, just a second? Please? I just...look at me, I was happy!”

  “Sorry, dear. Time to resurface.”

  The park, and the sunshine, and she and Luke and the deck chairs were all fading. The sound of voices was rising. The lights above her head were coming into focus. “No...wait...” Rosie tried. “But Luke. Luke!”

  She was back in the room.

  Daisy

  Daisy craned over Rosie’s pale, slack face. “Did she just say something?”

  “I don’t know. I maybe heard a noise. It didn’t sound like a word.” Gary had already given up trying to talk to Rosie and was flicking through the magazines on her bedside locker, tossing grapes into his mouth.

  Daisy was panicking. She was sure she’d heard a garbled hiss from her sister’s throat. Was that a good sign or a bad one? If Rosie had spoken, did that mean she might wake up? Or did it mean she was hurting in there, unable to ask for help? “I thought I heard her say ‘Luke.’”

  “Look? Look at what?” Gary gazed round at the small room. “Not much to look at here, I must say. Still, Rosie never did make much sense.”

  “Not look, Luke. You know, the name? Rosie? Rosie, did you try to say something? Talk to me, if you can, or move your hand, or just blink or something? If you know I’m here? Rosie?” She hooked her fingers into Rosie’s cold ones, hoping to feel a squeeze or a touch or a flicker of some kind. Nothing. Her sister lay, utterly unmoving. Daisy wasn’t sure if she’d heard anything at all. Was it just wishful thinking, desperately willing Rosie to wake up, or move or speak or show any sign of life? “She said it earlier, in the ambulance. Or so the doctors said. Luke.”

  He frowned. “Who’s Luke? Does she know anyone called that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Daisy still watching Rosie’s white, blank face. “I really wish I did.”

  Rosie

  A conversation was going on over her body between her mother and her almost–brother-in-law. Urgh. The idea of being permanently related to Gary was unbearable. Maybe if she woke up she could tell Daisy she’d had some kind of vision that if she married him, he’d end up killing and eating her, or he’d get really fat and she’d have to crane-lift him out of the house one day, or...but no. Her sister knew what he was like, and she had still, freely and deliberately, chosen to get engaged to him. To a man who insisted on reballing his socks when she hadn’t put them away in the manner he liked. To a man who always called his boss by his full name, “my boss, Philip Cardew, ACA,” any time he mentioned his job, a man who insisted on going to sleep by 9:00 p.m. every night and got annoyed if Rosie ever phoned after that. Daisy genuinely wanted to be this man’s wife and have his horrible square-faced babies. She didn’t know her sister at all. Now he seemed to be appointing himself as a medical authority on comas.

  “I’ve been chatting to her for ages, Alison, and I can’t see any change. I’m not convinced they’re right about that.”

  “Oh Gary. I know they said it might help, but... I just feel silly. I don’t think she can hear us.”

  “That’s what I think too, Alison. I’m sorry.”

  Who died and made you Doogie Howser, MD, thought Rosie, irritated. Being in a coma really made it hard to give snarky put-downs.

  “Maybe she just wasn’t interested in what you were saying,” said Daisy, quietly.

  Gary frowned. “What did you say, Daise?”

  “Nothing. I still think we should try to find out who Luke is. You know, the name she said in the ER.”

  “Oh darling. We don’t even know if that’s what she said. Have you ever heard her mention a Luke?”

  “Well...no.”

  But I do know a Luke, Rosie thought. I do. I only wish I could remember exactly how.

  “You’ll find out soon,” said Mel’s voice in her ear. “Ready for another memory?”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  “Not if you ever want to wake up.”

  “Then lead on, Macduff. Not that that’s the actual line.”

  “Ooh, Macbeth. We were doing that at school before I died. Never did get to find out how it ended.”

  “Not well,” said Rosie, as the world began to fade. “About as well as my life, by the looks of things.”

  21 May 2005 (Twelve years ago)

  A small, grotty university kitchen. A chipped and stained table. Two students sitting on either side of it, elbows up, mugs of tea cupped in their hand
s, talking intently. One of them was Rosie, aged twenty-one, with purple streaks in her wild red hair, in a stripy sweaterdress and green tights. The other was her university friend Ingrid, who had shiny blond hair and a Ralph Lauren jumper knotted over her shoulders. On the radio, The Darkness were singing about a thing called love. They believed in it—at this time Rosie had not been sure that she did. Ingrid, she saw, was crying.

  “Jeez, Rosie, this place is filthy too,” said Mel, looking about. “There seems to be some kind of new species of mold growing in that saucepan.”

  “Oh yeah, that was when we tried to make spinach vodka. We thought it would be healthy or something. What are we talking about?”

  “Just listen.”

  Ingrid was saying, “I just can’t believe it, Ro. Everything’s booked for the holiday and then he just dumps me! I mean, what’s wrong with me?”

  “Literally nothing.” Rosie was remembering now. Her friend was blonde, pretty, confident, smart, and had impeccable manners. “Sebastian’s an idiot. As soon as he starts his job in the city he’ll realize the only women he meets are lap dancers and then he’ll be sorry.”

  “But I loved him!” Ingrid wailed. “Whenever I looked at him my heart did flip-flops. I mean, you feel that way about Jack, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” said Past Rosie uncertainly. “I mean...sometimes he does irritate me. When he insists on calling people chap or he gets upset about having mayonnaise in a sandwich.”

  Ingrid sniffed. “Ro, Jack loves you. He’s a good one, believe me. Not like bloody Sebastian and his ski instructor harlot.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I mean we have been together two years, maybe this is normal.” Rosie remembered. Two whole years of university, when she could have been drinking shots and snogging random boys, had been spent in virtual cohabitation with her boyfriend, doing joint shops, watching pirated films on his laptop, and even visiting IKEA...oh, of course. That was who Jack was. Her university boyfriend. Clearly, he wasn’t on the scene in the present day, so what had happened? Maybe this memory would show her.