Our Song

by Dani Atkins

  ‘We can come in with you, if you’d like?’ the officer volunteered.

  I shook my head, aware that a couple of off-duty nurses were glancing our way in curiosity. It had been a far from inconspicuous arrival. ‘No, I’ll be fine from here, thanks,’ I replied, virtually tugging my arm free from his hold. More interest from the nurses. I probably looked as though I was resisting arrest. As grateful as I was to both of them, I wanted nothing more from them, with their solicitous protocol, their sympathetic eyes, and their too-young-to-be-policemen faces. Just being around them made me feel vulnerable, like a victim.

  The automatic doors glided silently apart and I dashed through them, heading for the reception desk, anxious not to lose any momentum. A middle-aged woman with large framed glasses looked up from her paperwork as I approached.

  ‘Can I—’

  I never even let her finish. Not breathing. ‘I’m here for Joe Taylor. I think he’s in Intensive Care. The police said he’d been in an accident,’ I gasped out all on a single breath. My voice shook, actually not just my voice, my entire body was trembling with tension like the latent thrum of electricity in a pylon. Unconsciously I hugged the soft toy Jake had pressed upon me more tightly against my chest. I could smell my child on the flattened and slightly discoloured plush material: a combination of a little bit of bubble bath and talcum powder and a whole lot of Jake. It gave me the strength I needed, like adrenaline into a vein.

  The receptionist’s eyes were kind behind the moon-shaped lenses of her glasses. ‘Let me check for you. He’s probably been taken to PICU,’ she said drawing her keyboard closer towards her as her fingers rattled in my husband’s name.

  ‘P, Q,’ I repeated, as though this was an algebra test and that was the answer.

  The woman looked up from her typing. ‘PICU,’ she repeated. ‘That’s our Paediatric Intensive Care Unit.’

  ‘Paediatric?’ I said confused, and then realised her easy mistake. I don’t suppose many thirty-year-old women stood before her clutching cuddly toys if they weren’t coming to see a child. ‘No, it’s my husband I’m here for. Joe Taylor. He’s thirty-six. I was told he fell through some ice . . .’ My voice trailed away. It was still such an impossible scenario I couldn’t quite believe the words I was saying. I nodded down at the toy I was clutching. ‘This is our son’s. He wants me to give it to his Daddy.’ My voice broke and a few determined tears squeezed past my barrier to trickle down my cheeks. Almost seamlessly the receptionist whipped out a concealed box of tissues and passed them to me. I guessed they were needed here on a fairly regular basis.

  It seemed an eternity before Joe’s details popped up on the monitor. I wondered if the receptionist had ever played poker. She most definitely should take it up, because I could glean nothing at all from her face. ‘I’ll get someone to come down and talk to you,’ she said, already reaching for the phone.

  ‘No. Wait. What does that mean? Is he . . . is he okay?’

  ‘All I have are his admittance details. I can’t give you any medical information,’ the woman said gently. ‘But one of the ICU team will be down to speak to you in just a moment.’

  I paced. Fifteen steps to the corner with the vending machine, eight to the Ladies’ toilet, twelve to the double doors with the word Triage stencilled on them, and then nineteen more back to the reception desk. My circuit took me past a family waiting in a morose huddle on the uncomfortable plastic chairs. The children looked distraught, and it made me even more relieved that I hadn’t subjected Jake to this awful twilight period of not knowing. Kids got scared enough in hospitals as it was, and seven was far too young to have to sit and wait to find out if your father was going to live or—

  ‘Mrs Taylor,’ my head shot up at my name and my eyes flew towards the softly-spoken doctor who had just emerged from the lift. His glance ping-ponged between me and the woman with the three children.

  ‘Here,’ I said, hurrying towards him.

  He smiled, introduced himself and I instantly forgot his name. ‘I’m one of the team who are currently looking after your husband,’ he explained.

  A long shaky breath left my body, like steam venting from a valve. Looking after your husband, those four words filled me with relief. Until that moment I hadn’t realised how very afraid I’d been that Joe was already beyond help.

  ‘How is he? Can I see him?’

  ‘In a little while I hope to be able to take you to him. Right now my colleagues and I are working very hard to stabilise his condition and to bring his temperature back up.’

  As he spoke, the doctor placed a gentle guiding hand on my back, leading me towards a small side room. I didn’t want to go in there with him. It looked like the kind of place you were taken when they had bad news to break. The room held a single desk and two visitor chairs. Neither the doctor nor I chose to sit down.

  ‘Have you been told exactly what happened to your husband?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not really. I know he fell through some ice, but I’ve no idea what he was doing on the lake. I was told that he had to be resuscitated, but if he’s breathing then why isn’t he awake?’

  The doctor’s voice was grave. ‘At the moment he’s breathing with the help of a machine while we try to warm him up.’ His tone implied this was altogether more urgent than just covering Joe up with a thick pile of blankets. I wanted to tell him Joe was never cold. Not even in winter. We had constant battles over whether the bedroom window should be open or closed, which usually ended with me huddled beneath the depths of our maximum tog duvet, while Joe would have cast aside all the covers. I wanted him to know Joe, to understand him, I wanted him to be more than just a case or a condition, I wanted him to be a real person to the people who were trying to keep him alive.

  ‘I believe relatives deserve to be told the whole truth, Mrs Taylor,’ the doctor continued solemnly. Suddenly my knees felt weak and I regretted my decision to stand. ‘Your husband’s condition is still extremely critical. He’s not out of the woods yet.’ I looked away, unable to focus on the doctor’s face, afraid if I saw even a trace of compassion on it, I would shatter into a million pieces like a thin pane of glass . . . or ice. I focused my attention on a long peeling curl of paint that was hanging from the wooden doorframe.

  ‘But . . . when you get him warm, and he can breathe by himself, he’s going to be alright, isn’t he? Joe’s strong, and fit. He can make a full recovery, can’t he?’

  The doctor missed a beat before replying. I couldn’t help but notice that. ‘Let’s just concentrate on one thing at a time. We’ve got a long and difficult night ahead of us.’

  Charlotte

  A police car was just pulling up outside, its siren dying on a long lamenting wail, as it bathed the reception area with a circling strobe of blue light. I was grateful for its diversion as I ducked quickly into the adjacent Ladies’ toilets. I splashed cold water on my face and used the rough paper towels to scour off the dried nail varnish from my cheek. The resulting bright red skin made it look as though someone had just slapped me. Hard. It was a look I’d seen there once before, many, many years ago. But it wasn’t an angry slap that I was reeling from today, this was a sucker punch, coming out of nowhere to fell me, giving me no time to prepare or defend myself.

  I stared at the terrified young woman in the water-spotted mirror in front of me. She looked terrible. Her eyes were red, her nose a shiny beacon and her blonde hair was totally awry. No way was she the same Charlotte Williams who had left her smart London flat that morning, secretly excited about a surprise trip her husband had been planning for her. That woman was gone, and right now I wasn’t sure she if she was ever coming back.

  More for distraction than vanity, I dug around in my bag and pulled out the colourful purse which housed my make-up, intending to repair some of the damage. But my hand shook so much that I fluffed far too much powder onto my cheeks, making me look like a scary geisha, and my mascara wand trembled in such unwieldy fashion, I was in real danger of taking
out an eye. I threw the bag down into the sink where it clattered noisily, its contents spilling out in a colourful cascade. I tried to remember the relaxation techniques from the yoga classes I had taken a while back, drawing the air slowly down into my lungs, holding it for a moment and then slowly releasing. But what had felt easy and achievable when I was sitting lotus-style in a mirrored dance studio, wasn’t so easy to reproduce in a hospital toilet. I watched the rapid rise and fall of my chest in the mirror above the sink, and heard the erratic sound of panic lacing each indrawn breath. I sounded like I’d been running, maybe even pursued by something dangerous. But in reality the only thing I was trying to get away from was my own fearful imagination. I had just enough layman’s medical knowledge to be truly terrified of what might be wrong with David. I scooped the assortment of cosmetics back into my bag and headed once again to the reception area.

  There was no one waiting at the desk, and the two receptionists were busily engaged in conversation and didn’t initially notice me.

  ‘Did you see the way she was holding that toy lion?’

  ‘I know, it almost broke my heart.’

  ‘And when she said why she’d brought it.’

  ‘I know. It’s so hard not getting emotional. No matter how many years I’ve been doing this, whenever a young child is involved it always gets to me.’

  I felt a sharp familiar stab as I accidentally eavesdropped on their conversation and quickly pushed it away. There was more than enough trauma and angst to get through right now, I didn’t need to go actively looking for more. I shuffled slightly and the small movement made them look up.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but they’ve taken my husband up to Intensive Care and I didn’t know where was the best place to wait for him.’ By best, I meant closest, which I think they realised.

  ‘There’s a cafeteria two floors below the unit, you could wait there,’ the bespectacled receptionist suggested. ‘We’ll let them know where to find you. You look like you could use a good strong coffee,’ she added kindly. It would have been rude to point out it was going to take a lot more than just a shot of caffeine to fix the way I felt. In fact, the only thing I could think of that could possibly make this horrible day alright would be David and me walking out of here arm in arm this very evening. Something cold ran from my neck all the way down my back, because I knew that there was no way that was likely to happen. At least not tonight. Or ever? whispered an ominous voice in my head.

  ‘There are some forms we need you to complete,’ added the other receptionist, pulling a small bundle of papers from one of the stacked trays on the desk. ‘You could take them with you and drop them back down here when you’re done.’ I took the sheaf from her outstretched hand, glad to have something to occupy myself with while I waited.

  The cafeteria was like a ghost ship. I guessed the afternoon tea crowd had long since departed when visiting hours had finished, and it was still too early for the evening meal rush. I took a cup of something brown and unappealing back to one of the sticky-topped cafeteria tables. It could have been either tea or coffee in the ceramic container; the taste didn’t give it away. I’ve always been the kind of person who sends food back in restaurants when it isn’t hot enough, I’ve never been shy about complaining when something is inedible. David often teased that I had probably had The Customer Is Always Right tattooed on me. A fact we both knew to be untrue, because he was familiar with every last inch of my skin, had touched it, caressed it, kissed it. My hand shook slightly as I lifted the cup to my lips and drank the horrible drink without thought or comment.

  I completed the forms the best I could, but there were still a lot of questions I had to leave blank. Most of them were to do with family medical history and childhood illnesses. David’s mother would know the answers to all of those, but I really didn’t want to phone her until I had some positive news. She would insist on taking over the moment she knew David was in here. She’d demand to speak to the doctor in charge, and when that wasn’t good enough she’d continue like corrosive acid burning her way through whatever obstacle they put in her path until she’d got the chief consultant of the whole hospital on the end of the phone line. Maybe I should call her? She certainly knew how to get things done. I shook my head, hoping she would eventually forgive me for my decision. It wasn’t that I didn’t get on with my mother-in-law, but she wasn’t exactly a warm or approachable woman, not even towards me – and I was the girlfriend she’d approved of! Put it this way, even after five years of marriage I still felt more inclined to call her Mrs Williams than Veronica.

  I glanced at my watch. David had been gone for over half an hour. How long did it take for them to transport him up a few floors and push his bed into position? Shouldn’t someone have come to find me by now? What if they’d forgotten where I’d gone? What if some other emergency had taken precedence over his case – perhaps that patient who’d been brought in by ambulance when I first arrived?

  I wasn’t usually given to the type of panic I could feel coursing through my veins like a virus. In fact I could only recall one other time when I’d felt this threatened, this vulnerable, and it had been David himself who’d come to my aid back then. This time I was on my own. There was no one I could call to come and sit with me; no one to tell me that everything was going to be alright. Oh sure, we had plenty of acquaintances, couples we socialised with, but I had no one I would call a true close friend. David was my friend; David was my person. I felt as lost as a missing twin as I headed for the lifts and pressed the button to summon the carriage to take me back down to Reception.

  Ally

  Shell-shocked, I followed the doctor back into Reception, blinking away the tears from my eyes and trying to pretend they were due to the bright fluorescent lighting. His honesty and candour had ripped away any shred of hope I’d been clinging to that this was all just some stupid mistake. I’d never felt so scared or so helpless in my entire life. Or alone.

  An insistent buzzing noise, like an angry insect, sounded from the pocket of the doctor’s lab coat. ‘Excuse me,’ he apologised, withdrawing his beeper and scanning the small green backlit screen. I found myself holding my breath as I studied his face for a clue or a sign. Please be good news, I thought desperately, Please, please, please. He looked up and I told myself there was comfort to be found in his small but encouraging smile. ‘We’re in luck. I can take you up to your husband right now.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said on a grateful sigh, hurrying beside him to the lifts.

  ‘He’s in our ICU for now, that’s on the fourth floor,’ he explained.

  I nodded.

  The lift seemed to take for ever to come. My eyes darted impatiently between the digital read-outs above both shafts, willing one of them to reach ground level. They crept with excruciating slowness down through the numbers, stopping at virtually every floor in the entire building. I burrowed my fingers tightly into the fur of Jake’s small toy, to prevent them from jabbing repeatedly on the call button. I was on the point of suggesting that we take the stairs when both carriages pinged almost simultaneously. I shifted my weight from foot to foot like a sprinter on the blocks, to see which door would open first. The right-hand lift won by a whisker and we stepped inside it just as its neighbour arrived at Reception.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll only be able to see him for a few minutes,’ explained the doctor, ‘but there’s a Relatives’ Room just down the corridor, so you’ll be able to wait close by.’ I nodded, willing to agree to just about anything at that point. Perhaps if I promised not to get in their way, they’d let me stay with him.

  I saw almost instantly that there was no way that was going to happen. Joe was in a small room that was crowded to capacity with a frighteningly large number of individuals dressed in white coats and blue scrub outfits. Everyone was moving at speed, and as they rushed around his bed I couldn’t even see the man they were all busy trying to save. In my mind I was flying to his side at a run, my feet scarcely touching the h
ospital linoleum as I rushed to reach him. In reality my footsteps hesitated and faltered the closer I got to the room.

  The doctor had tried to warn me on the lift journey up what to expect, but I hadn’t been listening, not closely enough, because nothing he had said had prepared me for this. I saw Joe in small terrifying glimpses to begin with as a doctor or nurse stepped to one side or the other to allow someone access to a piece of equipment or their patient. It was like a well-orchestrated ballet as they ducked and slipped fluidly behind and around each other as they worked.

  We reached the glass door to the room and still all I could see was a blanketed form in the bed. He looked about the same size as Joe. A nurse straightened up from adjusting an IV drip and I saw a shock of familiar hair on a starchy hospital pillow. Just this morning that same hair had laid beside me on my own pillow, his lips had whispered, ‘Time to get up, hon,’ in my ear, just as they’d done a thousand times before. But they weren’t whispering now. They wouldn’t be able to, because there was a long plastic tube emerging from his mouth and disappearing off to a piece of machinery beside him.

  ‘Oh Joe,’ I whispered.

  The doctor accompanying me laid his hand gently on my shoulder as my eyes darted around the room, trying to take it all in.

  ‘What’s his temp now?’ fired out someone in staccato urgency.

  ‘Still only up to eighty-one,’ came the reply. Someone made a small hissing noise, so I knew that wasn’t good news.

  ‘Push another adrenaline.’

  ‘How many is that?’

  ‘Let’s try warmed peritoneal lavage,’ suggested someone, ‘because if we don’t get this fella warmed up soon he—’