by C F Dunn
Mum proceeded to tell me all the gossip from home, a swirling mass of people and places I had known all my life, images flooding into my head like a snowstorm of colours and faces. All the while Dad continued to observe me as Mum chatted away. At last there was a pause in the conversation.
“Have you thought about what you are going to do over the next few weeks?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” I answered truthfully.
Mum put her hot mug down. “You’ll come home, won’t you, darling? You need nursing.”
I felt evasive. “I haven’t thought about it; I might do, I’ll see.”
Dad’s eyebrows glowered. “You need to be with your family, Emma, not here with strangers.”
I heard the authoritative tone I had come to loathe creep into his voice. I took a deep breath, before answering evenly.
“I’ll think about it.”
A double knock on the door came as a welcome interruption.
“Good afternoon,” Matthew said as he followed Dad into the room. “Emma, I need to have a look at your arm.”
Although he had been gone for only a short while, it was the longest we had been apart for almost a week. He moved to my side, and I lifted my arm as far as I could without it hurting; my ribcage throbbed instead. Matthew took the weight of my arm in one hand.
“Are your ribs troubling you again?”
I nodded, quizzing him with a look because I thought I had hidden the discomfort convincingly enough.
“I’ll sort that out in a minute.” He turned to my parents. “You might prefer to wait in the other room,” he suggested.
“We’ll stay, thank you,” my father stated; I felt like an exhibit in a sideshow, but I thought it more likely Dad wanted to gauge Matthew’s competence first hand – not that he knew a thing about medicine.
Matthew carefully peeled back the dressing, revealing the long, livid laceration running from my wrist to half-way up my forearm. The bruising, while still distinctly recognizable as finger-marks, had evolved into a lurid, violent mass of blue and purple, black and green, turning yellow at the edges. My mother gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth, staring. She turned her head away.
“Please go into the other room, Mum, it won’t help you seeing this. Dad, please…”
I looked at him imploringly and he rose wordlessly and guided her through to the adjoining room. Matthew swiftly kissed me, taking me by surprise before my father returned and I could react; but he was too preoccupied to notice the heightened colour in my cheeks.
“Will there be any long-term damage?” he asked tightly, a grey cast to his face.
“There shouldn’t be. Emma’s healing very well – better than might be expected – but I’m keeping an eye on this area here.” Matthew pointed to where the wound ran close by a tendon. “There might be some loss of movement in this finger,” he gently pressed my central digit, “but it’s too soon to tell.”
He concentrated on swabbing the area, so perhaps he didn’t see my father’s alarm.
Dad stared fixedly at my arm, clenched fists by his side.
“I want the best treatment there is for my daughter,” he said gruffly, with barely concealed emotion.
“Of course,” Matthew said quietly.
“No, I don’t think you understand, Doctor; I mean I want the best – whatever it takes, whoever it is.”
My father could be as subtle as a bus. Matthew didn’t answer, but his eyes met mine briefly.
“Dad, please,” I warned him. “I don’t think I could have anyone better than Dr Lynes; leave it.”
“But I don’t want you ending up… damaged,” he insisted.
“She won’t be,” Matthew said flatly. He redressed the wound and started to wind a fresh bandage around it.
“Can I have more of my fingers free of the bandage, please?” I asked him.
“No, not yet; I want to keep them immobilized for the time being – at least until the stitches are out.”
Mum stood at the bedroom door; she had taken off her coat and her hands curled around her mug of tea to warm them. The worry lines were back again – deep ridges of anxiety worn into her brow.
“Dr Lynes, how long will that be?”
Matthew glanced up at her. “At least two – perhaps three – weeks, depending on how well Emma continues to heal.”
“And what about her broken arm and her ribs; how long will they take to mend?”
“About five weeks.”
“So Emma will need nursing, won’t she?”
I suddenly saw where her thought processes were leading but it was too late to warn him.
“To a degree, yes – at least initially.”
He didn’t know my mother as well as I did and he walked right into her trap.
My father stood up. “That’s settled, then; Emma will come home with us where we can look after her.”
Matthew remained mute, but his eyes darkened perceptibly. In danger of being coerced into agreeing to a decision beyond my control, I felt like an animal cornered and at bay.
“NO!”
Surprised, they all looked at me. My words stumbled as I fought off silly, nonsensical panic.
“I can’t go home – not if Ma… Dr Lynes is the best person to look after me… after my arm.”
“I’m sure he isn’t the only doctor who can look after you, darling, are you, Dr Lynes? We know a super doctor at home, don’t we?” My mother soothed, coming over to me and putting her hand on my shoulder. Not wanting to be pacified, I shook her off more roughly than I intended, sending my ribs into spasm.
“Yes – he – is,” I managed.
Sensing my vulnerability, Dad moved to stand by the end of my bed where he employed his favourite military tactic of a pincer-movement, with my mother forming the other line of attack.
“Emma, there’s no need to get upset; I’m sure something can be worked out. The most important thing is that you get well, and I’m sure you realize that the best place for you to do so is at home where you belong.”
I bolted my eyes shut against the pain and his persistence; he would keep on and on until he wore me down and I gave in. I felt Matthew’s hand on the back of my neck; I opened my eyes and his face was close.
“Here, take these.”
He held two of the bi-colour capsules in his other hand, and I took them from him with the tips of my shaking fingers, swallowing each in turn while he held a glass of water to my lips. He looked steadily into my eyes and I knew exactly what he was doing.
“Thank you,” I acknowledged gratefully, then to my parents, “I’ve decided to stay here.” Invisibly, beneath my hair, Matthew stroked the back of my neck – gentle, comforting – as Dad leaned on the foot-rail of my bed, his heavy shoulders hunched forward, emphasizing his bullish temperament.
“Don’t be ludicrous, Emma, that’s childish. Look at you – you can’t possibly stay here in this state; who would look after you? And you certainly can’t look after yourself – you’ve demonstrated that clearly enough. We’ll book a flight for you and you will come back with us.”
I bit my lip in frustration, adolescent ire threatening to break through the surface of my control. Mum patted my leg as she did our old cat at home when he needed a bit of love and attention.
“It is for the best, darling; we can look after you and then you will be fully recovered for the new term. I’m sure the Dean won’t mind you finishing the term early in the circumstances. What do you think, Dr Lynes? Emma would be better off at home, wouldn’t she?”
The light pressure of his finger at the base of my skull took the edge off my anger and the end of her sentence became blurry as the medication started to take effect.
“I believe that the decision should be Emma’s alone, but if she wishes to stay here, I will ensure she has all the care she needs to make a full recovery.”
There was something in his voice that made Mum take note because her eyes flicked between his seemingly stationary hand and my face and,
through the rapidly encroaching fog, I saw realization dawn on her worn, tired face.
She sat knitting in the chair by the window when I woke some hours later. She had changed and looked rested, the dark circles under her eyes less pronounced. I watched her for a few minutes before she noticed.
“With everything that’s happened, I’m so behind getting this jersey done for Archie and he’s growing so quickly. What do you think, darling?” Mum held it up for me to see.
“It’s lovely, Mum; I’m sure it’ll fit.”
“I’m making it longer, just in case; I have enough wool.” She put the little jumper down and smiled reprovingly. “Emma, you should have told me.”
We were alone; the clock said it was past seven and someone had drawn the curtains against the cold of the night.
“Your father’s asleep and Dr Lynes said he will be back in the morning. You should have told me about him, darling,” she repeated.
I inched my way into a more upright position, feeling dopey around the edges, and she came and plumped up the pillows behind me.
“There’s nothing much to tell.”
My mouth felt dry from the after-effects of the medication and I looked for the glass that normally sat by my bed.
“I’ll get you a cup of tea; you didn’t have that last one.”
She touched my arm lightly and went next door; I heard the tap run, then a click as she put the kettle on. She came back in, drying her hands on a tea-towel draped over her shoulder.
“Well, darling, at least tell me what there is to know – unless you’ve a reason not to, of course; but please don’t tell me it’s nothing because I saw the way he looked at you, and you can’t tell me that you want to stay here because of his superior surgical skills.”
My neck tickled where the knife had pierced it and I used the tips of my fingers to scratch at the healing scab.
“Mum, there really isn’t much to tell.”
“All these beautiful flowers are from him, aren’t they?” she said, stroking the pink-laced throat of a lily.
“Yes.”
“Then you do have something to tell – before your father wakes up – unless you want him to know also.”
There wasn’t much point in evasion now.
“We get on well – I like him – he’s different.”
She gave me one of her very effective withering looks that said she was nobody’s fool.
“He’s very good-looking, I grant you, but you’ve hardly been here five minutes, and what do you know of him? Does he have children? Has he been married? Divorced?”
“Please, Mum, don’t do the third degree on me; I get enough of that from Dad as it is.” Contrite, she smiled, and I relented. “He’s widowed and he doesn’t have any children, but – apart from meeting his niece and nephew – I don’t know anything more about his family.”
“Well, isn’t that a little odd? I mean, you want to stay here with him but you know nothing about him. I knew all about your father after our first date; I must admit that a little mystery would have been nice…” She allowed herself to be sidetracked for a moment. “However, that was then and me, and this is you and now. So where has he taken you?” I must have looked puzzled, because she clarified her question. “On a date – where have you gone?”
Never particularly forthcoming about my private life – even when so much younger and Guy was on the scene, when I could have done with some support – I found my parents’ form of caring intrusive and, when it came to Matthew, I felt strangely protective.
“We haven’t gone anywhere; he’s been too busy saving my life and looking after me and… oooh, do you know what I fancy more than anything else right now?”
“What, darling?”
“A shower. A shower and to wash my hair, please.”
I edged out of bed, gratified to find my legs not as wobbly as earlier in the day.
“All right, no more questions; you always were such a stubborn child,” Mum said fondly, remaking my bed as I left it.
“I’d prefer determined,” I said over my shoulder as I reached the bathroom.
Of course, wanting a shower and getting one were two entirely different things. Even switching the wretched thing on was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t get enough purchase with the useable bits of my fingers, so I tried to use my chin instead, and managed to get a cold dribble of water down my neck. I admitted defeat and asked for help. I ended up compromising by kneeling in a few inches of warm, soapy water in the bath. Afterwards, Mum made a valiant attempt to wash my hair using the shower attachment as I knelt by the bath, with several towels wrapped around me trying to keep my dressings dry. She said nothing as she worked on the remnants of dried blood, evident as it coloured the water briefly rust-brown before it flowed away and out of sight.
“This reminds me of when you were very young,” she said a little wistfully. “Do you remember breaking your leg and I had to do everything for you?”
I laughed. “Yes – but I was six years old; there’s a slight difference, you know.”
“Yes, I know, but I still like looking after you – it’s a mother’s privilege.”
I understood what she was trying to say and, as she wrapped my hair in a big towel, I kissed her warm, softly creased cheek.
“Thanks for coming – especially with Nanna being ill – and I’m sorry if I’ve just added to what you have to deal with at the moment; but you can see I’m well looked after here. Please help me with Dad; I don’t want to argue.”
She smiled softly. “As long as you’re all right, I think I can cope with anything – including your father. As for Nanna, I know it’s part of the natural order of things, darling, but just when I think I’ve almost come to terms with it, I remember how we were when Grandpa died and I know it’s going to be hard. But she wants to go, so I’m trying to be positive for her sake. You know,” she tilted her head on one side and her smile became reflective, “Dr Lynes’ hair is just the same colour as Grandpa’s – the colour of…”
“Ripe corn,” we intoned together and laughed.
“Yes, I know it is, but don’t tell him, whatever you do – it’s a sensitive subject,” I warned her, remembering his reaction the last time I said something to that effect.
“Like somebody else I know,” Mum said, taking the damp towel off my head and squeezing the dripping ends. “I’ll get you that cup of tea first before we start drying your hair. I suppose,” she considered, “he’ll be doing this for you in future.”
I found it a very appealing thought, which occupied several happy minutes as the warm air blasted through my hair. It was so loud that we nearly didn’t hear the door over the sound of the hairdryer.
Mum came back with a tray of food, looking baffled.
“There’s another two of these – your father’s bringing them in. Did you order them?”
“No, that’ll be Matthew; he tries to feed me, but I keep sleeping through meals.”
“It’s very considerate of him.” She glanced at the flowers and the cashmere blanket. “I think that it shows a certain amount of commitment, don’t you?”
I didn’t have to answer because my father brought in another tray, sniffing the steam rising from the covered plate appreciatively. When it came to food, he was a bit of an enthusiast; a good rest and a full stomach would restore his humour as nothing else could.
Dad replaced his empty plate on the tray and centred it with engineering precision.
“I’d quite like to have a look around the college tomorrow, Em, if the Dean wouldn’t mind. What I’ve seen of it, it’s quite splendid.”
I didn’t think that the Dean would care two hoots what my father did.
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted, Dad.”
“After that I’ll phone the airline and see about an extra ticket.”
I bristled but he didn’t notice. Mum collected my half-empty plate and stacked it with hers.
“We’ll talk about it in the morning, Hugh; it’s late no
w, let Emma rest.”
Once alone for the evening, I went into the bathroom and did my best to clean my teeth as thoroughly as I could. I caught my reflection in the mirror: two dark eyes and a speckling of freckles against my pale complexion. I needed some fresh air – preferably of the mountain variety.
The memory of Matthew’s scent – of the touch of his hands on my skin, his arms around me, lifting me, kissing me – flooded my body with a heat that spread to my face and neck like summer sun after a long winter. In front of me and despite the muted light of the single bulb, my eyes came alive with a light I had not seen for many long, dull days, and I knew that whatever happened in the future, I was compelled to make him part of it.
Chapter 21
Witness
I SLEPT FITFULLY, MY NORMALLY dreamless sleep haunted by images of identical faceless shadows whose only name was fear. And, like any apparition, when I reached out to push them away, they dissolved around my outstretched hand only to rematerialize behind me, insinuating, gloating – mocking my attempts to define them.
My eyes cracked open; something moved in the room.
A log sighed and settled as it burned in the fireplace and a piece broke free and fell, sparks snapping as it rolled towards the edge of the hearth. Matthew leaned forward from where he crouched by the fire and picked it up in his fingers, tossing the glowing ember back where it belonged.
I blinked.
As if he heard my eyes, he turned his head towards me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I wasn’t sure if I dreamt it.
“You didn’t… Matthew, your hand…”
He came to me and held them both out, perfect and unscorched in the firelight.
“You were dreaming.” He sat on the side of my bed and stroked the hair off my face. “What were you dreaming?”
His voice acted as a salve to the nightmare that hung in suspension, waiting to reappear as soon as I closed my eyes.
“I never dream,” I whispered. He looked perplexed, but now with a touch of a smile. He moved me carefully, shifting so that he could lie next to me without his body touching. I ached to move close to him, but my duvet – trapped beneath his weight – might as well have been a wall between us. He lay his head on the pillow next to mine, his face cast into a moving play of pale gold by the light of the fire behind me.
