by Paige Toon
He sighs with frustration, trying to figure me out. Good luck with that, pal.
‘Marty said you’ve been renovating.’
What, so now he’s going to make small talk?
‘That’s right,’ I reply, leaning back on the couch, before adding: ‘It was Laura’s idea.’
He looks confused.
‘She had some crazy idea to turn the house into a guest house,’ I elaborate.
He looks horrified – he stares at me like I’ve just punched him in the face – and then he gets up and walks out of the room. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him that.
Barry reappears and looks around, confused. ‘Have they let him go in?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘He walked out.’
‘Oh.’ He sighs with resignation. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you a latte?’ He tries to pass Matthew’s cup over. ‘No point in it going cold.’
‘No, thanks,’ I say, not wanting to take anything from him, particularly not something that was meant for his son-in-law.
‘I don’t suppose I blame you.’ He settles himself down on a chair near me and puts the spare cup on the table between us.
We fall into a reasonably amiable silence.
‘So how’s your hotel?’ he asks.
More small talk. ‘Fine,’ I reply.
‘Bed can’t be that good if you wouldn’t even sleep in it last night,’ he comments.
I half laugh. ‘Damn sight more comfortable than these chairs,’ I reply.
‘They didn’t let you see her?’ he asks, looking at me.
‘No. I’m not on the list.’
‘I’ll try to sort that out,’ he promises, slurping at his drink.
Jeez, I’m thirsty. Hungry, too.
‘Maybe I’ll pick up a coffee, after all,’ I tell him, getting to my feet. My legs ache – everything does.
He’s gone by the time I return, visiting Laura, I guess. I wonder if Matthew is there, too. Eventually I cave and pick up a magazine. I’m flicking through my third when Matthew returns.
‘You can see her,’ he says in a pained voice.
I’m taken aback, but I don’t miss this opportunity.
‘Thank you,’ I breathe, hurrying past him.
Laura’s dad is standing at her bedside. He leans down and kisses her forehead. ‘Bye, bye, sweetie,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’
I feel like an outsider looking in. He turns and sees me, fleetingly startled, but he quickly recovers.
‘I’m taking Matthew to the train station,’ he says. ‘You have as long as you like.’
‘Thank you,’ I tell him, and I mean it.
I stay in the Visitors’ Room again that night, going to see her first thing in the morning. I’m so tired that I rest my head on the mattress next to her hand – her good hand, the one that isn’t locked up in a cast.
I must have fallen asleep, because all of a sudden I jolt awake. My hand is in her hand and I felt some movement, I’m sure I did.
‘Laura?’ I ask uncertainly, hopefully. The familiar bleeping is my only response. I squeeze her hand, willing her to do it again, to show me it wasn’t just a dream. ‘Laura?’ I say again. ‘It’s me, Leo. I’m here.’
It happens again. I jump out of my seat and press the buzzer to call the nurse, my heart pounding with adrenalin. A young woman in familiar green scrubs comes in.
‘She squeezed my hand!’
‘Okay, okay,’ she says calmly, checking over Laura’s monitors.
‘But she did!’ I’ve never heard my voice sound this high before.
‘It’s probably just a reflex,’ she tells me. She means to sound kind, but I think she’s an idiot.
It wasn’t just a reflex. She’s coming back to me, I know she is.
My hotel room is almost a complete waste of money after that because I refuse to leave her side. The only time I budge is when the staff kick me out or her parents come in together, because there are only two people allowed at her bedside at any one time. But I don’t move from the Visitors’ Room, however claustrophobic it is. Matthew also makes a reappearance, driving up from London the evening after the hand-squeezing incident, although he seems less convinced than Laura’s parents are that it meant anything. Maybe he just doesn’t want to believe it because I’m the one who felt the movement, but he stays for a day, anyway.
‘It probably was just a reflex,’ he says sullenly to Laura’s dad, who’s waiting in the Visitors’ Room with me. Matthew has been in the room with Laura’s mother.
‘It wasn’t,’ I mutter under my breath as they go out of the door.
Laura’s mother hangs back. ‘Will you be okay, Leo?’ she asks. ‘They say that it can take a long time to wake from a coma.’
‘I’m not leaving,’ I reply. She gives me a tight smile and goes.
It happens again that night, and I’m almost out of my mind with delight.
‘That was not just a reflex,’ I inform the attending nurse excitedly. ‘That was real. She squeezed my hand. I was talking to her about Key West and she squeezed my hand.’
‘Okay,’ she concedes with a false smile.
Nothing else happens for three days.
Matthew decides to work that weekend to make up for lost time, so I don’t have to attempt to avoid him. It’s a relief. It seems to be a relief for Laura’s parents, too; they are always less tense when he’s absent. I guess it must be hard for them, balancing us both, not really knowing what is the right thing to do. I wonder how much Laura told them about me before the accident.
I’ve spoken to Carmen and Jorge a few times. I missed a call from Carmen earlier so I go downstairs to call her back. I stand outside under a metal canopy, looking out at the concrete jungle that makes up this hospital. It’s very cold and wet today. It’s September, so I guess it’s only going to get worse from here on in. I shiver as I dial her number. There’s no cell phone reception in the food court, but I’m so cold I won’t last long out here. I’ve never had to buy a winter coat in my life, but I won’t have a choice if I’m here for much longer. Maybe a thrift store will have a cheap one.
To my astonishment, Carmen tells me that she and Jorge have finished the bathrooms.
‘You what?’
‘They’re done. I’ve started painting the inside of the house, too.’
I’m so touched, I can hardly speak. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You never know what to say, Leonardo.’
Her comment makes me smile. ‘Wow. Seriously, Carmen, that’s great.’
Pause. ‘I know.’ Another pause, when neither of us speaks. ‘Hey, Leo?’ She sounds uncomfortable.
‘Yeah?’
‘I keep meaning to explain . . .’ Her voice trails off.
‘What is it?’ I press.
‘You know what I said? About choosing the wrong brother?’
I know exactly what she’s talking about. It weirded me out when she said that. ‘Yeah?’ I ask uneasily.
‘I don’t mean . . . I didn’t mean . . . You and I . . . Urgh. I was just trying to say that you’re a survivor. So keep doing what you’re doing, okay? Keep surviving. Look after yourself.’
‘Okay, Carmen,’ I say quietly, relieved.
A short pause and then she’s back to the Carmen I know, cutting straight through the crap. ‘So what now, little bro? When are you coming home? You can’t stay there forever, you know.’
‘No, I know. I don’t know.’ I scratch my stubble. It’s itchy. I’ve only managed to shave, at best, every other day since I’ve been here. My clothes are starting to stink as well. I really need to find a Laundromat before I make myself even more unwelcome than I already am. ‘I can’t afford the hotel for much longer, but I’m not leaving her. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
I see movement out of the corner of my eye and look around to see Laura’s mother standing there.
She instantly looks guilty for eavesdropping. ‘Sorry, I was just getting some fresh air.’ She turns around and goes straight ba
ck inside.
I return inside soon afterwards, noticing for the first time a sign outside the main reception.
It will pass, whatever it is.
Laura used to like the billboards outside churches in America. I remember her telling me about one she saw once. What was it? ‘Don’t wait for the storm to pass; learn to dance in the rain.’ Something like that. Outside the rain starts to pelt down. I turn and stare out of the window for a while before going back upstairs.
Later that day, Lottie and Barry ask me to stay with them. I can’t believe it.
‘Laura would want this,’ Lottie says when she tries to convince me. And I do take a lot of convincing; I don’t want to put them out any more than I already have. I know I’ve been unwanted since the beginning.
‘Come on, son,’ Barry says to me and I tense. No one has ever called me ‘son’ before. ‘There’s no point in letting the hotel clear you out. You’re hardly there, anyway. Plus, we have room.’
‘What about Matthew?’ I have to ask.
He sighs and leans forward, meeting my eyes. ‘Matthew has only just told us some things that we didn’t know,’ he says in a strained voice. Laura’s mother averts her gaze.
‘Like what?’ I ask with a frown.
‘He said . . .’ He’s clearly finding this difficult. ‘He said that on the morning Laura was hit, she told him she forgave him for what he had done.’
I feel like he’s punched me in the gut. She was taking him back?
‘But,’ he continues, ‘she added that it was over. She said she wanted a divorce because of how she felt about you.’
I stare at him, unable to speak as my eyes well up with tears. I quickly look away.
‘We didn’t know,’ he adds quietly. ‘We thought they would still work things out.’
‘Maybe they still will,’ Lottie chips in, but Barry puts up his hand to silence her.
‘That’s enough, love. You’ve got to respect her enough to know what she wanted. Matthew has accepted it. At long last.’
She looks close to breaking point as she gets up and leaves the room. I feel bad for her.
‘She’ll be okay,’ Barry says. ‘This is hard for her.’ He pauses. ‘And I – we – know this is hard for you, too. We can see how much you care about our daughter.’
I nod. My mouth opens to say, ‘I do,’ but no sound comes out. He knows, though, and I’m grateful.
They take me to the hotel to collect my things and wait for me to check out, then they drive me home. They have a big, dark-green Range Rover, and I sit in the back, looking out of the window as we drive away from the city and into a more rural landscape. The fields are mostly muddy. Tall towers of haystacks stand in some of them, like giant sentries overlooking the land. We pass through villages full of old thatched houses with crooked walls and exposed beams. I stare at them in wonder – some look like they’re going to fall over. I’ve only ever seen stuff like this on TV and in films – it’s like I’m in a fairy tale, yet this is Laura’s life. This is what she’s used to. We drive over tumbling streams and beside village greens, past old country pubs and red telephone boxes, and finally we come to the house where Laura grew up.
An old red-brick wall surrounds the front garden. It’s low enough that I could jump over it, but high enough to keep a child in, and I imagine Laura playing in that garden as a little girl, under the shade of the old pine trees soaring overhead. The house itself is a beautiful, quaint English farmhouse, painted cream and with a red-tiled roof. I can see a black-painted wooden barn and other farm buildings further down the driveway, and to the right, up a hill, a small stone church. I’m still looking around with wonder when Laura’s dad opens my car door.
‘Sorry,’ I say with embarrassment, climbing out.
‘That’s okay,’ he says, leading me towards the house.
Inside I can smell woodsmoke and a warm earthiness that fills me with an odd sense of calm. This feeling grows stronger when I go into the old farm kitchen, with its stone floors and a cooker that radiates heat. I stand in front of it to warm myself. Lottie tells me it’s an Aga, and she used to hang Laura’s socks on the front rail after she ran outside without shoes on.
‘She’d do it all the time,’ she says good-naturedly with a roll of her eyes. ‘Her favourite job each morning was letting the chickens out and collecting their eggs, but she could never be bothered to put on her welly boots, however much I chastised her.’
I wonder what welly boots are.
‘Do you want to come for a walk with me?’ Barry asks.
‘Sure.’
I follow him across the kitchen to a back door, where several pairs of muddy rubber boots are lined up on the stone floor underneath a bunch of bulky coats hanging on hooks. Barry looks over his shoulder at me. ‘Do you have a coat?’
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘Here, you can borrow one.’ He rummages through the clothing until he finds one for me and then looks at my sneakers.
‘I take it you didn’t bring wellies with you?’ he asks with a smile, picking up a pair of the rubber boots. So that’s what they are.
‘No,’ I reply with a smile.
‘These look to be about your size, but say if not. We have plenty.’
They must have a lot of guests coming and going, because, as far as I know, it’s just the two of them. Laura is an only child.
‘Thanks.’ I’m trying not to feel uneasy about putting her parents out, but I guess I’d better just go with the flow.
When I’m all kitted up and feeling warm, we head off. There’s a muddy patch of garden out at the back with a few things growing in it.
‘Lottie’s veggie patch,’ Barry tells me.‘Not much in it anymore.’
We pass through a gate at the end of the garden and then we’re in a large, muddy farmyard.
‘What do you farm here?’ I ask, trying to make polite conversation.
‘Wheat, mainly,’ he replies. ‘We also have some horses. Can you ride?’ he asks.
‘No. Can Laura?’ I ask with interest.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says offhandedly. ‘Ever since she was three.’
‘Three?’ I exclaim. ‘She never told me she could ride.’
He smiles and shrugs. We come to a green field. ‘That was her horse over there. Pandora.’ He points at a tawny brown horse.
My face breaks into a grin as I watch Pandora eat grass. He leaves me at the gate for a moment and wanders off to pluck a lone apple from a nearby tree. He throws it to me and I catch it easily. He nods at the horse, then clicks his tongue. Pandora wanders over and I hold out the apple. I laugh as she takes it from my outstretched fingers, praying she won’t bite me.
He reaches over and strokes her mane. ‘Laura loves this horse,’ he says sadly. ‘She wouldn’t let me sell her, even after she grew out of her. She’s retired now.’
I tentatively reach forward and stroke her nose, then the wood beneath me cracks and gives way.
‘Whoa!’ I step off the wooden gate.
‘Bloody thing,’ Barry mutters. ‘I’ve been meaning to fix it for weeks. Sorry about that,’ he apologises.
‘I’ll help you,’ I find myself saying.
‘Are you good at DIY?’
‘I’m okay,’ I say with a shrug. The truth is, I’m probably better at breaking things than I am at fixing them. I think of the bathtub back home.
‘That would be great. Maybe we’ll tackle it in the morning,’ he says.
We walk away from the gate and the field. I nod up the hill towards the church. ‘Do you go?’
‘We try to,’ he replies, setting off in that direction. ‘Do you ever go?’
‘Not anymore,’ I say, staring ahead at the uneven path.
We reach the top of the hill. There’s a small village hall here, too, and a view across rolling hills.
‘Cambridgeshire on the whole is pretty flat,’ Barry tells me. ‘But here we have a few small hills.’
‘It’s pretty,’ I say. I glance
around at the higgledy-piggledy gravestones and one catches my eye. It’s a newish gravestone and a wreath of red flowers lies on top. The name reads: William Henry Trust.
‘Will Trust?’ I ask Barry with surprise. Laura told me about her former boyfriend, the Formula One racing driver.
He nods slightly, and we wander over to the grave.
‘Will’s parents live in the house next door.’ He indicates down the hill towards the farmhouse and beyond, where I can just make out a large country house through dense trees.
‘The funeral was in Cambridge. He was a big personality and this little church couldn’t have held all the guests. But they brought his body back here to be close to them.’
I fall silent, because I really don’t know what to say.
‘So young. Too young.’ His voice sounds choked.
We stand there in silence for a long time until he points at another grave further along the path. I walk ahead and look down at it.
‘Bernard Smythson?’ I ask Barry with a raised eyebrow.
‘My father,’ he replies, nodding at the next grave: Mary Smythson. ‘And my mother. My grandparents are also buried just along there. We have a family plot,’ he adds, giving me an odd look before quickly averting his gaze. I stare at his profile and suddenly I realise what he’s saying.
Laura will be buried here if she dies.
I feel ill as I picture her cold and dead in the ground beneath my feet. I can’t imagine going home if she dies. I can’t imagine going on at all.
‘Come on, son,’ Barry says gently, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I fight back tears as we walk down the hill to the farmhouse.
Lottie cooks dinner that night – a warm and comforting chicken stew packed with potatoes and carrots. For once, my taste buds seem to be doing the right thing.
‘Did you grow up in Key West?’ Lottie asks me as she fills up my glass with red wine. I want to say I feel quite relaxed, but it’s the wrong word. I have a permanent sense of foreboding, just below the surface, and I know that won’t leave until Laura wakes up. But it’s the calmest I’ve felt in a while; that’s the truth. And she will wake up. She has to. God, she has to.
‘I did,’ I reply to her question. ‘My mother was American, my father was Cuban.’
