Still Falling

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  Still falling.

  Head shatters –

  glass

  everything

  shatters

  Esther

  I sit in French and try to concentrate on L’Etranger. Luke wasn’t in tutor group and it was kind of a relief. But it’s English next and I bet he’s there. He probably arrived just in time for maths. I wish I didn’t know his timetable by heart.

  When will I stop being so aware of him?

  There’s a knock on the door and Madame Sudret frowns. ‘I sincerely hope this is a matter of life or death,’ she says, which is what she always says when someone dares to interrupt a lesson, and a few people titter obediently.

  It’s Dad. He says something in an undertone to Madame Sudret and goes back into the corridor. As always when I see him unexpectedly in school, I cringe and don’t make eye contact. In the front row Cassie is already reaching for her bag, always ready to be the centre of any pastoral-care drama.

  But it’s me Madame Sudret calls out.

  ‘Your father waits for you in the corridor,’ she says quietly.

  Why is Dad embarrassing me in school? I open the classroom door ready to be indignant.

  And then I see his face.

  Esther

  The door of the side ward clicks open. I don’t want to look round because I know if I take my eyes off Luke for even a second he will die. But part of me needs to turn away because looking at Luke’s face the way it is now – bruised and swollen on one side, contrasting horribly with the greyish white of the other side, with a tube lying across it going up his nose – is so dreadful.

  It’s the curly-haired nurse, the one I like because she reminds me of Ruth. But I don’t like her now because she frowns and says, ‘Only two people at a time.’

  I tighten my grip on Luke’s hand. I can only hold his left hand because his right one is bandaged.

  Bill and Sandra and Brendan, who is apparently Luke’s social worker, all look at each other.

  ‘Family only,’ the nurse says.

  ‘He hasn’t got a family,’ I say, and Sandra looks hurt.

  ‘Probably best to keep it to adults,’ the nurse says. She must think I’m about twelve.

  ‘I’m staying,’ I say and my voice comes out much stronger than I expected it to.

  Bill and Brendan stand up. ‘I should go anyway,’ Brendan said. ‘I’ve three meetings this afternoon.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what can have gone so wrong. When I first took over his case, Luke was the one client I didn’t worry about. He was fourteen – doing well at school, playing in the football team, fit, healthy, well-adjusted. One of our success stories. Ticked all the boxes.’

  My teeth shiver with irritation. Client. Case. Ticked the boxes.

  ‘I’ll walk out to the door with you,’ Bill says. He makes a smoking gesture and Sandra frowns.

  ‘He’s meant to be off them,’ she says, as the door closes behind them.

  The nurse bends over Luke, checks something on the monitor beside the bed and nods at us. ‘That’s better,’ she says. ‘Talk to him. Try to sound natural. Try not to let him pick up that you’re worried.’

  ‘Can he hear us?’ Sandra asks.

  The nurse shrugs. ‘It’s hard to know,’ she says. ‘But there’s always the chance he knows you’re here.’

  Luke’s face doesn’t look like it knows we’re here. Luke’s body, mostly hidden by the white sheet, his chest exposed with things taped to it, doesn’t look like it’s ever going to move again. I haven’t seen his bare chest before and I never thought I’d be seeing it like this. I want Sandra to go away, to leave me alone with him, but at the same time I’m grateful for her.

  The nurse opens the door. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I have some results for you,’ she says, and Sandra and I are left at opposite sides of the bed.

  The results are to do with the scan Luke’s just had. They know he hit his head when he fell down the stairs. They know he took an overdose of his medication, which – weirdly – caused a massive seizure. What they don’t know is if he’s going to make a full recovery. Or any kind of recovery at all.

  Or why he took them.

  ‘I thought yous two had fallen out,’ Sandra says after a long silence.

  I shake my head. ‘It was complicated.’

  ‘Complicated,’ she repeats. She leans over the bed as if Luke is going to magically whisper some kind of answer to her and pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. ‘I wish he’d talked to me!’ she bursts out. ‘I knew he was in bad form, but I never thought … Finding him like that – all that blood and broken glass.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’ She breaks off, chewing her lip. Then sits back and squares her shoulders. ‘Och, he was no trouble really. Until this.’

  I stroke Luke’s hand. The rhythmic gesture soothes me; I don’t know if Luke can feel it. I don’t want to talk because I’m scared I’m going to burst into ridiculous hateful sobs.

  ‘Had you any idea?’ Sandra asks.

  I shake my head. ‘We – sort of weren’t speaking,’ I admit. I can see her blaming me. I bite my lip. ‘There was this party,’ I go on. ‘We fell out and I left, and then …’ I look down at my school skirt through a blur of tears. She clearly hasn’t a clue, and I can’t say it.

  Just then the door opens again. It’s a doctor this time. He’s not old but he looks grumpy and tired, as if he’s had enough of teenagers hurting themselves.

  ‘You’re the mother?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Sandra says firmly, ‘I’m his foster mother.’

  ‘Ah,’ says the doctor in a kind of that-explains-it voice which makes me hate him. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but it’s technical. And terrifying. I thought pills just made you unconscious, but he’s going on about brain damage and organ failure. Sandra frowns and nods. I tighten my grasp of Luke’s hand, as if I can protect him from the terrible fates the doctor seems to be wishing on him.

  ‘But that is worst-case scenario,’ he says.

  ‘And what’s best-case scenario?’ Sandra asks, catching my eye.

  The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Many people make a full recovery. The pills weren’t in his system very long.’ My heart flips up. ‘But there are the complicating factors of the brain injury and the epilepsy.’ My heart flips down again. ‘And of course, even if there is a full physical recovery …’

  I don’t let myself listen to the next bit. The bit about depression being common in young people with epilepsy. No, I want to say. I don’t think that was it. Luke’s seemed pretty cool with his epilepsy recently. That’s not why –

  But what would I know?

  As soon as the doctor leaves, Sandra’s face crumples. ‘Our Joanne was against it from the start,’ she says. ‘She said at our age … But when Brendan told us he had this boy who needed somewhere in a hurry – och, sure how could I say no? He was seventeen; he’d be going off to university in a couple of years; and Brendan didn’t think he’d be any bother.’

  ‘So this was – after his mum died?’

  ‘His mum had been dead a brave wee while. No, it was after Lady Muck decided she couldn’t cope with his special needs.’

  I don’t want to admit that I’ve no idea who she’s talking about. Except that it must be the someone else that Luke used to live with.

  She gives a snort. ‘If you ask me it was just an excuse. She couldn’t wait to go and start her fancy new job in Dublin. Doctor bloody Scott.’ Then her voice changes. ‘Mind you, she probably knows him better than anyone. I wonder what she’d say if she saw him like this.’

  I rub Luke’s wrist. And think that even though I’ve felt closer to him than I ever have to anyone, there are ways in which I don’t really know him at all.

  ‘You made him happy,’ Sandra says suddenly.

  I bite my lip. ‘Not enough.’

  Sandra pulls at the thin gold chain round her plump neck.

  ‘Oh God, I wish he’d just wake up.’
>
  She doesn’t say any more.

  The room grows hot. I prickle inside my school shirt and my hand sweats around Luke’s. I want to take it away and wipe it, but I can’t bear to break the connection.

  I love you, I say over and over in my head. And I think it’s true, but yesterday I hated him. He walked into English and I wouldn’t meet his eye, and he’d looked calm and sort of proud and distant. Until he smashed out of the room.

  If I’d gone after him – and God knows it was hard not to; Toby had leaned forward and said, ‘You should go,’ and I’d shaken my head – would it have made any difference?

  Would anything have made a difference?

  Esther

  ‘No.’ Dad gathers up his car keys. ‘You’ll be better off at school.’

  ‘I can’t! Mum, tell him! How can I go to school when Luke…?’

  They forced me home last night, and I’ve slept in fitful, nightmarish bursts. I dreamt that Luke died and then I dreamt that he was fine. I dreamt that I went into his room at the hospital and Jasmine was there, in the bed with him. When I woke up after that one, heart thudding, I switched on my laptop, which is going through a phase of behaving itself, and spent the rest of the night googling overdoses and brain injuries, and now my own brain’s whirling with possibilities, all of them terrifying.

  ‘Get your uniform on, Esther. I know we let you spend yesterday at the hospital, but this could go on for some time. You can’t miss your education.’

  ‘I phoned Sandra this morning,’ Mum says quietly. ‘She says no change. She’s gone home for a rest.’

  ‘So he’s all on his own! You can’t expect me to go and sit in school when Luke could be – could be dying –’

  ‘You can go later,’ Mum promises. ‘I’ll take you after work. Oh, no – I have a parents’ meeting. I’ll take you after tea.’

  ‘No! That’s too late.’

  Dad loses whatever patience he had in the first place. ‘Esther – get dressed; I’ve to do a special assembly and I can’t be late.’ He picks up a sheaf of papers from the table. ‘Of course there’s been gossip.’ My ears prick at the word gossip. Just what does Dad know? ‘The pupils have all got wind of it, goodness knows how. We’re playing it down – focussing on the fact that he had a seizure and a fall – which of course is true. But –’

  ‘You go on, Alec,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll deal with Esther.’

  ‘I don’t need to be dealt with!’

  ‘The water’s hot,’ Mum says. ‘Go and have a shower. I’ll make you some breakfast. And Alec – go.’

  We both obey her.

  The shower makes me feel better. Back in my bedroom I look at my uniform thrown over the chair. I get as far as picking up my skirt, and then I pull my favourite jeans out of my bottom drawer. And Wilfred Owen, rescued from the bin. Maybe it will sort of bring Luke luck.

  In the kitchen Mum looks at me. ‘Alright,’ she says. ‘I know you won’t do any good in school. But I don’t like you hanging round the hospital all day either.’

  ‘He hasn’t got anybody else.’

  ‘He’s got Sandra and Bill.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to go against you and Dad, but I will go and sit with Luke. I have to. I can’t just walk away from him.’

  She sniffs and pours me out a cup of tea. I pour in the milk and wrap my fingers round the mug.

  ‘I thought you’d fallen out?’

  ‘I never said that!’

  ‘Esther. I’m your mother. I saw the state you came home from that party in. And how upset you’ve been all week – long before this. And now suddenly you’re at his bedside. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘I know.’ I try to swallow some cornflakes. ‘But I have to, Mum. It’s just – right.’

  Mum sighs. ‘It’s too hard on you. You’re only a child.’ Then she looks at me and sighs. ‘No, you’re not, are you?’ She sounds sad.

  I wish I was.

  _____________

  At first it looks like nothing has changed. Luke lies in exactly the same position, with the same tube going up his nose and the same things plastered to his chest. The same monitor shows the same lines and bleeps, and his breathing is the same regular, slightly rasping sound. The bruises on his face, which were red yesterday, are purplish. His hair is darkened with sweat, and when I bend over him he smells funny – not dirty, just kind of – sick. But when I pull the chair over beside the bed and sit down and take his hand, it feels warmer than it did yesterday. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I give it a little squeeze. I’m so scared of hurting him.

  There’s a get-well card on the bedside cabinet that wasn’t there yesterday. I lean over and pick it up. It’s from Brendan – Whatever’s gone wrong, Luke, you know there are people to help you. Hang in there – and a phone number.

  Sandra isn’t here. In a way it’s scarier, being alone with this silent, unconscious Luke. I stroke my fingers up his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you all night,’ I say. At first my voice sounds loud and strange but soon I get used to it, and it feels more natural to be talking, even if he can’t hear. ‘Mum and Dad made me come home. They tried to make me go to school today but of course I didn’t.’ I rub the little veiny bit on the inside of his wrist. ‘Please wake up, Luke. Just wake up and be OK.’

  My voice skids to a halt. It won’t be as simple as that, will it? How does a person feel after taking an overdose? Will he be relieved to be alive, or angry? What does it mean to be suicidal? He can’t have taken those pills by accident. I mean, I’ve felt sad before. Left out and hopeless and just plain wrong. Especially when I left the church. And after the party. But not like this.

  Sudden anger at Luke crashes through me, making me gasp. How dare he put us through this! I think of the horror I felt yesterday when Dad told me it wasn’t just another seizure – but that he’d poisoned this strong, beautiful body with drugs. On purpose.

  I learnt in history that suicide used to be a crime. Like an actual crime you could go to prison for – if you weren’t dead.

  But Luke’s a real person, and this hand I’m holding, with its bitten nails and the little patch of rough skin he always gets on the side of his thumb, is real, and this body that he did his best to destroy is real. Words like sin and crime are just too – abstract.

  He must have felt so alone.

  ‘Luke. Please wake up. We’ll sort it out. I’ll help you.’ If you’re still speaking to me. ‘And Luke’ – I squeeze his hand – ‘I don’t know what happened with you and Jasmine, but we’ll – we’ll get past it.’

  How?

  Am I just a fool sitting here holding the hand of someone who doesn’t deserve it? Is part of me – a silly romantic part – in love with the drama of the situation? I imagine it as a headline in one of those trashy magazines Mum pretends not to read. I stood by my rapist boyfriend!

  I pull my hand away and wipe it on my jeans. There is no reaction from Luke. His hand lies on the sheet like a dead animal. I wriggle my shoulders to try to shrug off the tension in my arms.

  No. Everything in me tells me it isn’t true.

  Because you don’t want it to be.

  Why would he have done this if he wasn’t guilty?

  He didn’t deny it.

  Why don’t you go and speak to Jasmine?

  I stand up and press my hands into the small of my back. I go to the window and pull back the blind a little. Outside there’s a wall. A carpark. Other bits of hospital. Everything is grey. The window doesn’t open and suddenly I need air. I turn round to the figure on the bed. His hand has slipped a bit on the sheet. It’s open and empty. I should go back and sit down, take his hand, take up my vigil again, show him I believe in him.

  But I don’t know if I do.

  Instead I take Brendan’s card, slip it into my bag and whisper, ‘I’m just going to get some air, Luke. I’ll be back really soon, I promise.’

  The curly-haired nurse is wheeli
ng a trolley full of drugs down the corridor outside. She looks at me quizzically. ‘Had enough?’

  ‘Just going to the loo – maybe get some air.’

  ‘That’s right. We’ll be bringing a cup of tea round soon. You can have one.’

  ‘Thanks. How long until he – wakes up?’

  She frowns. ‘I can’t really –’

  ‘Please. You must see people like this all the time.’ How depressing that must be.

  She considers. ‘It’s not so much the drugs now. They’re pretty well out of his system.’

  ‘So why is he still unconscious?’

  ‘We-ell. He’s still concussed. There may or may not be brain damage. We’ve done a scan and it looks fairly good – but you can’t always tell until the patient wakes up.’

  ‘So he could wake up and be – not OK?’

  She looks uncomfortable. ‘Honestly, I can’t really say. I’m sure Dr Meyers will talk to his mum later.’

  I can’t be bothered to correct her. I take the lift down to the ground floor and even though the big windows show that it’s raining outside I rush to the front door. I’m desperate to breathe fresh wet air but first I have to push past little groups of patients smoking. One of them’s hooked up to a mobile drip.

  Well away from the main building I sink down on a bench and take out Brendan’s card. Hang in there. Unfortunate wording for someone who’s just attempted suicide. I take out my phone and punch in the number.

  After four rings it goes to voicemail. This is Brendan Maguire. I’m at a conference for the next three days. If you need to speak to –

  I listen to all the options. None of them is, If you’re confused about someone in care and want to talk to someone who’s known them since they were fourteen just in case they can shed any light on whether said someone could possibly have done something terrible …

  I don’t leave a message.

  I trudge back up to Luke’s ward, suddenly scared that by leaving him I’ve made something bad happen, but everything is the same. I set the card back on the bedside cabinet. The nurse brings me a cup of tea. It’s lukewarm and greyish but I drink it. I sneak a look at my phone and there’s a text from Toby saying nice supportive things that make me cry. I’m about to check what people are saying on Facebook but it’s kind of a relief when the nurse, coming in to do something with the drip, frowns at me and says I need to turn my phone off.