Gracie’s Secret_A heartbreaking page-turner that will stay with you forever

by Jill Childs

  ‘Matthew Aster. I’m in paediatrics. Just coming off shift.’

  I looked more closely. He looked about forty-five, perhaps a little older. His skin had a lined, lived-in look as if his life had been more interesting than easy. His eyes were intelligent and thoughtful and they were searching mine, waiting.

  ‘You’re a doctor? Are you treating Gracie?’

  ‘Not exactly but we’re a small team here. We talk. I saw you in IC earlier.’ He shuffled his feet. They stuck out from under the table. Black lace-ups, neatly polished. ‘I’m sorry. Not an easy time.’

  He set the newspaper down on the table. There was a picture of the Royals on the front page, a smiling Charles and Camilla on their travels. I’d seen it on the newsstand as I went into the supermarket all that time ago. An image from another lifetime.

  He gestured to the water. ‘Is that all you’re having? Can I buy you something?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  He pulled a Kit Kat out of his pocket, snapped it in two, set one stick in front of me and unwrapped the other, then ate it, sipping his coffee after each bite.

  I peeled off the silver paper and nibbled the chocolate. The sweetness was cloying. I put it down. ‘Will she be alright?’

  He narrowed his eyes. I wondered what the officious young doctor had told him about me. The mother’s difficult. Rude. No wonder the husband strayed.

  ‘It’s too early to know,’ he said carefully. ‘But she’s doing well. No sign of complications, so far. That’s very positive.’ He hesitated. ‘One step at a time.’

  I sipped my water and looked past him into the drab hospital corridor. A stout woman was shuffling down towards the toilets on a walking frame, her head craning forward, her legs swollen.

  ‘This can’t be happening.’ I spoke almost to myself. ‘She’s only three. I just want to take her home.’

  He reached forward and briefly covered my hand. His fingers were strong and warm with curling black hair above the knuckles. I thought of the way Richard had pulled his hand from mine and how comforting it felt to be touched, even for a moment.

  I swallowed, trying not to cry. ‘She’s everything to me. Gracie. I’d do anything. If she needs, you know, organs, she can have mine.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. I’m afraid it’s not that simple.’

  The woman at the counter started to pack away the crisps and chocolate into cardboard boxes. He crossed to her, took one of the few remaining sandwiches from the fridge and bought it, then came back to me and set it on the table.

  ‘Just in case. It might be a long night.’ He reached into his coat pocket and took out a pen, scrawled ‘Matt’ on the top of the newspaper, along with a mobile phone number, and tore it off. ‘If you have any questions. Or if you just need to talk. Any time.’

  He picked up his newspaper, nodded to me as if something unspoken had been agreed between us and turned away with a swish of his coat. He had a long, confident stride and a broad back. I stared after him down the corridor long after he had disappeared from sight.

  Three

  Ella

  My body aches. The bed is soft and warm and I long to rest but I’m too afraid to close my eyes. Every time I do, I see her face. Hanging there, a second before the bang. Her eyes are wide, staring into mine. Her eyebrows two neat wedges. Her mouth, the lips painted deep red, parted.

  Then the almighty crash, the crack of the airbag exploding in my face, thumping me in the chest, my own limpness, thrown back and forth, as helpless as one of those stuffed crash dummies catapulted to and fro in slow motion.

  A moment later, utter silence. Life was suspended. Traffic stopped. A high-pitched screeching inside my ears blotted out the living world. The dead world too.

  I asked one of the paramedics, ‘Is she alright?’ My voice was a croak.

  ‘Don’t worry, flower. She’s fine.’

  Their hands were thick and strong and worked briskly over my body, checking, assessing, easing me out, lying me flat on a stretcher. Above, the arc of a streetlight against low cloud as I was carried away from the wreckage. I wondered at it. A perfect curve. So graceful. The bending arm of a dancer.

  They thought I was asking about Gracie, still ominously silent in the back. They lied, of course. She was anything but fine. That horror was still to come. But at that moment, in the madness of the accident, when the world was still spinning and I barely knew who I was, where I was, I actually meant her, that girl whose face was lodged in my head, that complete stranger.

  Later, Richard told me.

  ‘It was instant,’ he said. ‘That’s what the doctors said. She didn’t suffer.’

  What did they know? They didn’t see her eyes. The horror in them.

  ‘Don’t think about her.’

  How could I do anything else? I couldn’t help it. I had to keep asking. All the time the doctor was examining me. How old was she? What was her name? I needed a name.

  ‘Don’t, Ella.’ Richard looked desolate. ‘Stop it. There’s nothing you can do.’

  He was finally forced to tell me about Gracie when he put me in the taxi outside the hospital. He was all apologies, flustered as he handed the driver a bundle of notes to get me safely home. Sorry he couldn’t come with me. So sorry. He ought to be looking after me. He knew that. But Gracie – well, it wasn’t looking good. They weren’t sure she’d make it. His eyes were red.

  He bent low to kiss me before he closed the taxi door.

  ‘You’ll be alright?’

  I didn’t answer. I felt sick. Little Gracie. What if she died? Dear God, what if?

  ‘It’s not your fault, Ella.’ He read the wretchedness on my face. ‘You do know that?’

  Wasn’t it?

  * * *

  There’s a tree outside the bedroom window. Its bare branches are sharp and scrawny, a scribble of black lines on white sky. A few more months and the buds will come again, leaves will clothe it. Sunshine and nests and greenery and she, that girl – they say her name was Vanessa – she won’t see any of it. All the plans she made, whatever they were, will never happen now.

  Downstairs, the bang of the front door. I lie very still and listen. He goes into the kitchen and the fridge opens with a soft suck. The click and fizz of a can opening. Beer, probably. Or Coke. I wait.

  His tread is steady on the stairs. When he comes in, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. Why? I want so much for him to hold me. I want to cry on him and tell him it’s me, it’s all my fault, if Gracie dies, it’s because of me. I want to let it out and be comforted but I can’t. Instead, I build a wall. It’s what I do.

  He stops moving and, in the silence, I feel him watching me from the doorway, wondering if I’m awake, unsure what to do. I hold my breath. Inside, I’m screaming: come to me, hold me, my love, please. The silence stretches, taut as skin.

  Then it tears and he turns away, retreating, and it was my own doing; I’m pushing him away, and I shake, lonely for him. Why shouldn’t I hurt? What right have I to be safe and whole when Gracie struggles for life and that girl, Vanessa, is already cold?

  Later, much later, the mattress shifts as he lies beside me. A warm arm threads itself round my waist and I shudder and sigh. He kisses the skin between my shoulder blades. Not a sexual kiss, just tender. Just kind. I don’t blame you, the kiss says. It’s not your fault.

  Gradually, his muscles relax and become heavy and I wonder how he can sleep, after all that’s happened, knowing Gracie may not be alive in the morning.

  He has come home to me but she will be there in the hospital, that dreadful woman. Sitting at her daughter’s bedside. White-faced and frantic and making a martyr of herself. She will blame me. I feel it already. It’s just one more reason to hate me. To wish I were the one who died.

  I lie very still. My neck throbs. Richard breathes steadily against my skin, warming it. I am afraid to sleep and I keep myself awake for a long time, reading the shapes in the shadows. I don’t understand. How is
it possible that, just this morning, a girl called Vanessa was alive and now she is not?

  It terrifies me. Not the dying itself but the darkness, the oblivion that waits for us all. After all that’s happened, after all I’ve suffered, how could it not?

  Was she afraid of it too? Did she have any premonition that death was stalking her? When she put on her lipstick, slid into the seat of her car and switched on the engine, did she have the slightest sense that she was starting an endless drive headlong into nothingness?

  Four

  Jennifer

  That night, I half-sat, half-sprawled across the chairs in the waiting area, opposite the peeling Minnie Mouse, close to the nurses’ station. Time shimmered and blurred.

  When I closed my eyes, strange images swam in and out. You, my love, lying so small and still in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines. Richard’s drawn face and the fear in it. The supermarket with its bright, hard music as my hand reached in my pocket for the ringing phone.

  I lost track of time. The only sounds were the slap of plastic doors and the soft hum of the overhead lights. Occasionally, shoes squeaked to and fro between rooms. The nurse, sitting over a book in a cone of artificial light, cleared her throat or shuffled her feet. The ward was infused with the smells of disinfectant. It brought back a sudden memory of my father when I was a child, of his lab coat, strange with the scent of the hospital where he’d worked.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall.

  The nurse shook me. I must have dozed. I was slumped against the hard arm of the chair and my back ached, my head throbbed, as I struggled to sit up quickly. My mouth was dry and tasted sour. The nurse handed me a cup of milky coffee.

  ‘I thought you might want this.’

  I stared at her blankly. There was movement behind her. Life was returning to the ward as cleaners and nurses pushed trolleys at the start of a fresh shift, a new day. The wall clock read five to six.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Doing well. A doctor will come and see you in a while.’ She paused, watching me. She seemed to be deciding how much to say. ‘He’ll explain. But Gracie’s doing well. You should have a wash. Drink that first. You look done in.’

  In the cramped toilets, I splashed cold water on my face and dried it with a rough paper towel. My eyes were bloodshot, my hair straggly. As I watched, my eyes filled with tears and I blinked, rubbing them away. Please God. Please. Make her well. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.

  I sat stiffly by the nurse’s station, waiting for the doctor, jumping at every fresh footstep. Seven o’clock came. The kind overnight nurse said goodbye and good luck and went home. She was replaced by another, younger but brisker. At seven twenty, I got to my feet and went to the nurses’ station.

  ‘I’m waiting to see the doctor.’

  The nurse had her back to me. She spoke over her shoulder. ‘If you’d just take a seat.’

  I leaned forward over the desk. ‘I’ve waited all night. It’s my daughter, Gracie. They said there might be news.’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ She turned round, impatient. ‘He’ll be with you as soon as he can.’

  At eight o’clock, the doors to the ward swung open. A man’s tread. I twisted to look. He had his back to me as he negotiated the doors, his arms burdened, but the shock of dark hair, the smart coat and the shining shoes were familiar.

  I jumped to my feet as he approached me.

  ‘Is it you? The doctor?’

  He gave a rueful smile. ‘Not exactly. I’m in paediatrics, not IC.’

  My shoulders sagged.

  ‘I just came by to see if you were still here.’ He set down a takeaway cup of tea and a paper bag. ‘Thought you might need breakfast.’ He opened the paper bag to show a croissant inside.

  ‘Thank you.’ I didn’t move to touch it. ‘The nurse said she was doing well. I’m waiting to see a doctor.’

  He looked so compassionate that I bit my cheek to stop myself from bursting into tears.

  ‘A nurse wouldn’t say that unless it were true. Look, I know it’s hard but it won’t be much longer.’ He checked his watch. ‘The day shift’s just coming in.’

  My legs buckled and I sat down with a bump.

  He watched me, his face concerned. ‘Try to eat something.’

  He disappeared down the ward. I hunched forward, looked at the croissant but didn’t move to touch it.

  A moment later, he came back, his step brisk, and he leaned over me. The nurse watched us with a frown.

  ‘I’ve had a word.’ He kept his voice low. ‘As soon as they’re briefed, they’ll be out to see you. OK? It won’t be long.’

  I nodded. I wanted so much to thank him but my mouth wouldn’t work.

  He looked at his watch. I imagined his own ward, his own patients, waiting.

  ‘I’ve got to go but I’ll try to look in again later, OK? And please, try to eat.’

  He turned abruptly and left the ward again. The croissant was warm. I broke off an end, scattering flakes of pastry.

  At eight-forty, a new doctor introduced himself and led me along the corridor to another small side-room. He had an American accent. He pointed me to a low chair with wooden arms, then perched on the edge of the desk in front of me, one ankle crossed over the other. His short white coat hung open and a stethoscope dangled from his neck. He looked barely forty.

  ‘I’m cautiously optimistic,’ he said. ‘We’re not out of the woods yet, but a few hours ago, Gracie showed signs of renewed brain activity in the frontal lobes. Where she had the bleed.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  He scratched his nose. ‘It’s early days. The overnight team reduced the medication. If she responds well, we may be able to start bringing her out of the coma by the end of the day.’

  I stared, trying to follow. ‘And?’

  ‘So far all the indications are good.’ He studied his bitten nails. ‘I’ve just spoken to your, er, to Gracie’s father. He’s on his way. But if you’d like to see her?’

  I was on my feet at once.

  ‘Don’t expect too much. She’s still unconscious. We won’t know the extent of the tissue damage for some time.’

  He may have said more. I can’t remember. All I heard was that you were making progress and I could see you and that was all that mattered.

  The blinds in your room are drawn. The only signs of morning are the sharp lines of light along the edges. You seem so small beside the banks of machinery, so very vulnerable. Pale and silent.

  The nurse leaves us alone together and I slip off my shoes and climb up onto the hard hospital bed alongside you, deep into your metal cage, thread my arms through the spaghetti tubes from your face, your arm, the pads taped to your temples, and lift your shoulders gently from the pillow until you’re lying to one side with your head resting on the pad of my shoulder and I pull that stupid damp mask off my face so I can put my lips to your cool skin and whisper to you: ‘Gracie, my love. It’s Mummy. Mummy’s here.’

  I start to sing ‘You are my Sunshine’ very softly – it’s one of our favourites – and as I sing, I see you twirling in the sitting room with your arms outstretched, your eyes widening as you spin and become dizzy, saying in your high voice as you start to wobble: ‘That’s lovely dancing, Gracie,’ to prompt me to say it myself.

  Time stops as I lie there with you and stroke your cheek and the only sounds in the world are the low whirrs and clicks of the machines and your soft breathing and it’s all that exists, all that matters, you and me, little Gracie, you and me together, keeping each other safe, hidden away from the rest of the world.

  Five

  Richard looked terrible. His chin was dark with stubble and his eyes bloodshot. He came hurrying in through the slapping doors and stopped, adjusted to the stillness, the quietness on the ward. He shrugged off his coat to show a baggy sweater and jeans and sat heavily beside me.

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  I nodded. I didn’t trust mys
elf to speak.

  His knees bounced with jumpiness. ‘They phoned me earlier. Doctor Anderson.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘He sounded very positive. She’s responding well, he said.’

  He leaned in, looked at me more closely.

  ‘You alright?’

  My mouth twisted and I sat forward, hiding my face in my hands, and crumpled into tears. I hadn’t expected to… hadn’t wanted to; he couldn’t cope with crying.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I sobbed like a child, snotty and hot. ‘It’s just – I keep thinking…’

  His arm reached round my shoulders and he drew me to him, clumsily patted my hair. His body was tense but I didn’t care, I just folded into him, collapsed, wet-faced, into his chest.

  ‘I know. I know.’

  You don’t, I thought. You have no idea. He loves you, Gracie, he does. But not the way I do. He was never overwhelmed by it. He didn’t suffer with love for you. That was one of our many differences.

  And he left us both, left us for her. Don’t forget that. He isn’t the one putting you to bed alone every night, then sitting in a silent house with a glass of wine for company, worrying about money and childcare and wondering where it all went wrong.

  ‘It’s going to be alright.’ He let me cry on until the front of his jumper was damp, then pulled a huge handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He shook it open and handed it to me. It smelt of fresh ironing. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

  How many times had he said that to me, over the years? I blew my nose, pulled away from him and dabbed at his jumper. All the promises he made to me, to us, he broke. How could I trust him now?

  I pulled away from him and he took his arm back from my shoulders and fixed his eyes on the opposite wall while I recovered and we settled there, side by side, exhausted, watching the wall and waiting, waiting, waiting.

  * * *

  I was young when I met your father. Too young. I’d just moved down to London after university and everything felt unsettled. I was on a graduate scheme with a telecoms company and already deciding I was more interested in HR than the accounts department I’d joined. I had a small room in a flat, sharing with two other girls. They were nice enough but older and both had steady boyfriends and I found myself staying out as much as possible, keeping out of the way.