by Eva Woods
Over the next two weeks, Rosie knew, she’d wait obsessively by the phone, doing her homework on the stairs in case it rang, and she’d hover by the bus stop and the park, but Bryn would never call her again, and when they passed once on the high street, his arm round the neck of a giggling blonde girl, he would look right through her as if she didn’t even exist. If only she’d said this or that, not said this, not said that. It would torment her, and her grades would slip even more, and the rows with her parents would intensify, while at the same time Daisy seemed to get smaller and quieter, taking up as little space as possible compared to her loud, difficult sister. Then she’d realize her period was late, and have to sneak into Boots and buy a test, and one of her mum’s friends had been in there trying on perfume, and then she’d had to wee on the stick in the shopping center toilets with an old woman outside banging on the door telling her to hurry up. What a mess she’d made.
“I should have listened to you, Grandma,” she said to the shadowy figure.
“Aye, grandmas always know best. But young people have to make mistakes. That’s life.”
They watched as Teen Rosie walked off, arms wrapped round herself against the dark and cold, tears already turned icy on her face.
Daisy
She found Gary in the lobby of the hospital, phone in hand, and the rage broke inside her. All her fear and anger at Rosie being stuck here, her mother’s unhappiness, Petey, all of it, came spurting out like a volcano.
Gary said, “There you are. I’m off to work now. Could you pick up soy milk on your way home? Oh and don’t forget to look at the wedding playlist I sent over. We need to decide on ‘jazzy funk’ or ‘funky jazz’ for the drinks reception.”
Daisy spat, “Why didn’t you tell me Rosie called?”
He froze for a moment. “What?”
“The morning of the accident. She rang me. Didn’t she?”
“Oh, er, I don’t know.”
“There’s a missed call in my list.” Daisy brandished her own phone and Rosie’s, one in each hand. “Look. A call from her phone to mine, only I never saw it on the screen. Why’s that?”
“God, how should I know, you probably just didn’t notice it.”
“Because it wasn’t there. I haven’t spoken to Rosie in months—don’t you think I’d have noticed if I suddenly had a call from her?”
Gary sighed. She saw him roll his eyes, just a fraction, and her blood boiled over like an unattended pan on the stove. “Oh Daise. All she does is upset you. You had a big day ahead, you were already late, and you know what she’s like. She’ll have been up all night at some club, probably ringing up to have another drunken go at you. I didn’t want that for you. I’d have told you about it that evening, when you weren’t so stressed.”
Daisy just stared at him, speechless. “You...my God. You don’t get to make those decisions for me, Gary!”
“Why not? I’ll be your husband soon. I’m entitled to have a say over who we let into our lives.”
“She’s my sister.”
“Your sister who ruined our party and embarrassed me in front of Mr. Cardew. How do you think that made me feel? I could hardly look him in the eye the next day.”
“FUCK MR. FUCKING CARDEW!” Daisy yelled, months of frustration bursting out in her, the long hours of waiting in the hospital, the sleepless night in her old bedroom, shivering in her mother’s unheated house and asking herself every five minutes: was Rosie trying to kill herself?
Gary’s face looked almost comically shocked. “Daisy! Don’t swear like that!”
“Why not? My sister’s in a coma, why shouldn’t I swear?”
“At me, your fiancé, who’s only ever helped you and looked after you and...”
“I don’t NEED LOOKING AFTER!” She didn’t know where this voice was coming from, loud and enraged and so full of force Gary actually stepped back. “Jesus Christ, do you hear yourself? It’s not your business to interfere between me and my sister. She tried to ring me, and I didn’t pick up, and next thing she’s under a bus? What do you think that means, Gary?”
“I...”
“Yeah, well, thanks very much, you twat. You might have just killed her.”
“Daisy!”
“Why don’t you just fuck off, Gary. Go on, get back to your precious spreadsheets and office banter and novelty neckties. Rosie doesn’t need you here and neither do I.”
And she turned and left him standing there, in his stupid suit, his stupid face mugging like a stupid goldfish.
Rosie
You saw a lot of things when you weren’t technically conscious. Like the two young doctors, the way they bantered and bounced off each other, but also the way her tense shoulders relaxed when he came into the room, the way his eyes sought her out when she passed down the corridor outside, ponytail swinging. Like the way Gary and her sister always stood with a gap between them, and Gary never touched her or comforted her. The way he always angled his body to face whoever was speaking, something he’d probably learned in a wanky business skills workshop. The way, when she thought no one was watching, Daisy’s face collapsed into little frowns and grimaces. The way her mother’s face stiffened when their father arrived with Scarlett, a mask of disapproval hiding her real feelings—sadness. Jealousy. Rosie wished she could have caught at her mother’s hand, said Mum, there’s so much life left to you still, and you’ve got two daughters, and there’s places to go and things to see and so much, just so much there for you.
But who was she to talk? She’d had so much as well and she’d spent years festering in her horrible flat, stewing in guilt and jealousy. Maybe it was one of the curses of being human, that you could only realize what you had when you were in danger of losing it. The simple gift of being able to move your arms and legs, speak, open your eyes on command, dress yourself. Of being able to pick up the phone and tell people you were sorry, you’d messed up, beg for forgiveness. Feel the fresh air on your face. Turn over in bed. How could she have felt grateful for these things, when she’d never realized they could be taken away from her? And now she might never get them back. Day three. And she still couldn’t speak or move or do anything on demand.
The young doctors had come into the room again. “Hello, Rosie,” said the boy, leaning up to check her IV. The girl doctor squinted at Rosie.
“Do you think she can hear you?”
I can, I can! Please look, please see that I’m in here.
“There’s a chance. She’s GCS six, that’s not awful.” Glasgow Coma Scale, it stood for. Rosie wished she had researched what it meant before all this.
“It’s not great either. It’s just...sometimes I wonder what the point is. The ones who are really far gone, you know. The brain injuries. The people they bring in from the nursing home, who don’t even know who they are, let alone why we’re sticking tubes down their throat. It seems cruel.”
He watched her as she checked Rosie’s readouts, and he gently adjusted the sheets of the bed. “Sometimes we have to hurt them to help them. You learn that on day one of med school.”
“But what if they’d rather we didn’t? What if we just...let people go?”
He frowned. “Zara! You’re saying you’d help someone...end things?”
“Maybe. If they wanted me to. Let’s be honest, the most likely thing is she was trying to kill herself anyway. Who are we to keep her here, if she doesn’t want it?”
“You’d go to jail!”
“We took an oath, Praj! To help people. Sometimes helping them means helping them to die.” She whispered the last word in a fierce undertone.
“But how can they tell you that’s what they want, if they can’t speak?”
“I just know that, if it was me, I’d want to make the choice while I still could.” She shuddered slightly. “I see coma patients, the way they are...getting their nappies changed, being fed through
tubes, needing someone just to turn over in bed, living for decades like that... I wouldn’t want that. I’d want to be switched off, okay?”
He stared at her. “Why are you telling me? I won’t be the one deciding for you, will I?” They seemed to be talking about something else now. Zara’s peaches-and-cream skin flushed, and she stared out the window. Rosie wanted to scream at her. He loves you, can’t you see? Just give him a sign! But, just as in her memories, she was powerless to change anything.
“I’m just talking about...hypothetical. Would you want to be like this? Trapped in your dying body?”
“She’s not the worst. She’s got hope. You saw the scans—she could still wake up.”
“But she hasn’t. Barely a flicker in days now—you know she’s running out of time. Later today we’ll have to talk about moving her.”
She knew they were kind, and very young, and very tired and doing their best for her, but it felt unusually cruel to talk about her over her own comatose body. In the corner of her eye, she saw the door opening, and a flash of orange lifted her heart. It was Dot, whoever she was. Kind, chatty Dot. Who Rosie was still not sure was alive or not. Once again, the doctors didn’t seem to notice her slip in, this time with a yellow duster in her hand which she applied half-heartedly to the skirting board, clearly listening in.
Zara was saying, “I sometimes think some hope is worse than none. Do you know what I mean? Families watch these films or hear these stories about people in comas who wake up after years, and they think that’ll be them. So they sit and wait and hold on, while the person they loved is gone, long gone, and it’s just a dying body they’re talking to.”
“People do wake up sometimes.”
“Depends what you mean by wake. Would you want to be conscious, and trapped in a paralyzed body, not able to talk or feed yourself? People aren’t always the same when they come back to us.”
He was silent for a moment. “We shouldn’t be talking like this in front of her. It’s not right.”
She pulled herself together. “I’m sorry, Rosie. If you can hear me. He’s right. If you’re in there...we’re doing everything we can for you. Come on, we have rounds.”
Praj groaned. “I’ll never survive. I got exactly six minutes’ sleep last night.”
“Suck it up, dude. I’ll buy you a Twix.”
They left, and Dot came forward to Rosie’s bed. “Don’t you listen to those two, my love. They might have letters after their names but I’ve seen plenty in your situation over the years. And you’re going to be just fine.”
“Will I really? How do you know?”
“Trust Dot. I’ve seen worse off that woke up again, right as rain.” Gently, she smoothed down Rosie’s hair. “Eee, we could do with a shampoo, couldn’t we. I’ll have a word with the ward sister. Fix up that pretty face of yours, what do you say?”
It was true Rosie was feeling grotty. She hadn’t brushed her teeth in days, and she was pretty sure there were still bits of road grit matted in her hair. “Thank you, Dot. Can you hear me? And who are you—why can I see you if we’ve never met?” Is this real? Are you dead or am I just hallucinating all of this or... Rosie’s head hurt trying to figure it out. She felt her eyes close, too heavy to stay open.
“You just rest. I know you can hear us in there. Get better and come back to us, love.”
Her words were as comforting as a hot bath, but Rosie didn’t know if she believed them. Dr. Posh Spice had been brutal in her honesty. Rosie felt oddly grateful, in a way. Although she of course wanted to believe that she’d get better, she’d be back to her old self soon, it seemed to undermine the seriousness of what had happened. That whatever happened now, her life had been split in two, and nothing was ever going to be the same again. That the old Rosie Cooke was, effectively, dead.
“How’s it going, love?” Dot had bustled out now, but someone else was there.
“Oh, hi, Grandma. You’re still here, then. I’m... Well, I’m doing my best.”
Rosie looked around her, straining her neck. “Where is everyone? Aren’t they supposed to be round my bedside, talking to me and singing Kumbaya or whatever?” Not that she had any right to expect it, after the way she’d behaved.
“Your dad’s hiding outside the door there.” Grandma pointed with a knitting needle. She’d stuck around since the last memory, and Rosie was glad. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this gray-haired woman with her crosswords and cardies and practical kindness. If only she could tell her that now, in real life. If only there was still time. But that’s what death meant—no more time.
“That’s typical. Never there when you need him.”
“That is my son you’re talking about, love.”
“Sorry.” She sighed. “It’s kind of become a habit, blaming him for everything. For not being there, for leaving us with Mum.”
“I’ll admit, love, he didn’t handle it as well as he could. But he regrets it. Look, here he is now.”
Her father had sneaked around the door, as if afraid someone would catch him. It was surreal, watching him walk right past the ghostly form of his mother, who only Rosie could see, and sit down on the orange plastic chair. He stretched out a hand toward Rosie’s limp one, then snatched it back and cleared his throat. “Hello, Rosie. It’s Dad. I don’t know if you can hear me, or...if you’re in there at all. But they said to try. I...” His throat constricted. “Love, I don’t know what to say to you, and that’s the truth. We’re not close. Not since you were little. I know you think badly of me because of...well, Carole, and Scarlett, and I don’t entirely blame you, love, but...well, all I can say is I was just trying to survive what happened. Like all of us.” He seized her hand, suddenly. Rosie could not move it, could not push him away or squeeze his back or give any sign she was listening intently to every word. “Anyway, love, whether you can hear me or not, I just want to say... I’m sorry. For any hurt you had. For anything that might have made you...” A loud sob. “Did you do this to yourself, love? Why? Why would you want to do a thing like that?”
She would have loved to shout I didn’t, Dad, it was just an accident, but she couldn’t speak, and anyway she still wasn’t sure if that was the truth or not. She just had to lie there, unmoving, as her father cried in front of her for the first time she could ever remember. “Gran?” she whispered. “How did it happen, Mum and Dad’s divorce?”
“You can remember it, love, if you try hard. If you’re ready.”
There were still so many memories she couldn’t access. Perhaps because she knew they must be the hardest ones, the most painful. But maybe she had to face them all, relive the worst moments, if she was ever going to wake up. “Alright. I’m ready.”
Rosie shut her damp eyes. She pictured the memory in her head. Open it. I want to remember. And she began to fade away. Away from the harsh bright lights and the ache in her bones and her father crying beside her, estranged from her, perhaps because of the memory she was about to relive. Just: away.
13 February 1998 (Nineteen years ago)
“Aw, Dad, we’re watching that!”
“Sorry. I need to talk to you for a minute.” In this memory, Rosie was in the living room of her childhood home. She was a teenager, and wore ripped jeans and a vest top to sprawl in front of the TV on her stomach. Daisy, who would have been eleven, was curled up in the armchair, already in her pajamas. A typical Saturday night, cups of tea scattered around and the wrappers from Club bars screwed up about the sisters. Their dad, oddly nervous, had just stepped in front of them and turned off Gladiators.
“Oh,” said Rosie, watching her past self. “This is when he told us.”
“That’s right,” said Grandma, still knitting. “If I’d known, I’d have given him a flea in the ear and no mistake. In your own home! With no warning!”
“Would you have told him not to do it? If he’d asked?”
&nbs
p; “I don’t know, pet. When all’s said and done, they weren’t happy, your parents, were they?”
“Not since Petey, no.” The name still felt like glass in her mouth, though she was not really saying it, though none of this was real. “I can’t remember what that means, exactly.” She could feel the memory looming, a dark shape slowly taking form. “I guess they weren’t happy, no.”
“And he’s happy now? With Carole?”
“God, I don’t know. I never see them. And you’re dead, so you can hardly know.”
“Less of your cheek please, miss. Just watch.”
In the memory, her father was pacing in front of the fireplace, and her mother was rigid in an armchair, makeup on, subtle jewelry, ironed white shirt. Daisy was in the chair still, but Rosie had jumped to her feet. She’d known there was something bad coming. If she didn’t sit down, didn’t listen, she could prolong it, maybe forever.
“What’s going on, Daddy?” Daisy said, nervously.
“Rosie, will you sit down, please?” Her father was harassed.
Their mother cut in. “Just say it, Mike. They deserve to know.”
Daisy and Rosie exchanged a quick, panicked glance. Was one of them dying? “I...” Her father opened his mouth, and faltered. “Girls...”
“Your father has met another woman, it seems, and so he’ll be moving out and in with her.”
Daisy and Rosie gaped at their father. “What?”
Their dad had aged before their eyes, haggard, ashamed. “Girls, I’m sorry. It’s just, your mother and I...”
“Don’t you dare blame me, Mike.”
