‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Will Auntie Lauren be going to the hospital too?’
‘I’m not sure.’
At that moment Lauren walked into Ella’s room, brushing her teeth. ‘What was that, Ella? Did you want me?’
Ella went bright red. ‘I, um, was just telling Kitten that you’d come to stay,’ she said, snatching her favourite cuddly toy from the bed and waving it in the air.
‘Hello, Kitten,’ Lauren replied through a mouthful of toothpaste. ‘Is that all right with you?’
Ella held Kitten’s mouth to her ear. ‘Yes. She says she likes you.’
‘Purrfect,’ Lauren said with a grin.
An hour later, after dropping Ella off at school, Mum drove into the hospital car park. Lauren was in the front passenger seat and I was in the back. Mum found a space and turned off the engine. ‘So. Here we are.’
Lauren nodded. The pair of them looked terrified.
‘Come on,’ I said, as if they could hear me. ‘You can do this. You have to.’
I followed them as they headed up to the stroke unit, staying close to avoid getting left behind at any of the doors we passed through along the way. I’d never much liked hospitals. I particularly hated that stink of disinfectant covering up all kinds of nastiness, so for once I was glad not to be able to smell anything.
We were greeted by a friendly but no-nonsense ward sister with short hair and a stocky frame. ‘Hello. It’s Mrs Curtis, isn’t it? Tom’s wife.’
‘That’s right,’ Mum replied. ‘And this is our daughter Lauren.’
She gave Lauren a curt nod of recognition before turning her attention back to Mum. ‘The physio is with him at the moment. We need to leave them to it. Maybe we could use the opportunity to have a quick chat about how he’s doing.’
‘Oh, um, yes. Of course,’ Mum replied, throwing an anxious glance in Lauren’s direction.
‘Very good. If you’d like to come through to my office.’
She led the way down the corridor to a box room; I just managed to squeeze inside behind the others.
‘Is there a problem?’ Mum blurted out as soon as the sister shut the door.
‘No, no,’ she replied, sitting down on the opposite side of her chock-a-block desk. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. This is something we always try to do in these circumstances. Recovering from a stroke can be a long process. We find it really helps for patients’ families to be as informed as possible right from the start.’
‘I see,’ Mum replied, shuffling in her seat.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Lauren said, nodding at the sister, encouraging her to continue.
She launched into a detailed explanation of the type of stroke Dad had suffered, from cause and effect to treatment and recovery. She handed them a selection of leaflets to look through before asking if they had any questions.
‘Where does my dad fit into things?’ Lauren asked. ‘Is he one of the people likely to make a full recovery or not? How long do you expect he’ll need to be in here?’
The sister peered back at her apologetically. ‘I wish I could give you proper answers to those questions, but I’m afraid I can’t. Not at this early stage. It always takes some time before we can estimate the length of a patient’s recovery.’
‘How is he at the moment?’ Mum asked.
‘Well, I’m glad to say there has been an improvement, as he now has some movement in his right leg.’
Mum’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? So he’s getting better?’
‘It’s a good sign, but these are early days,’ the sister replied. ‘The upper right side of his body is still in paralysis. The important thing is that he’s in the right place to have the best possible chance of recovery. He’s surrounded by specialists, who’ll make sure he receives the most suitable medication and therapy to move forward.’
‘What about his speech? I couldn’t understand him when it happened. Has that improved at all?’
‘He’s still struggling with it, I’m afraid. The good news is that the doctors say it’s a speech disorder rather than a language one.’
‘Sorry, what does that mean?’ Lauren asked. ‘Why is that good news?’
‘It means he has difficulty speaking because the relevant muscles aren’t working properly, rather than because his language processing has been impaired by the stroke. Consequently, he should still be able to understand you and to communicate in other ways.’
‘I see,’ Lauren replied. ‘And will these muscles start working again?’
‘Your father will be seeing a speech therapist later today or tomorrow and they should be able to help him.’
‘So he could be here for a while? Weeks or even months?’
‘That’s possible, yes. There are instances where people make miracle recoveries, but it’s rare. Getting over a stroke usually takes a lot of time and hard work.’
Later, as I paced up and down the corridor while Mum and Lauren sat waiting for the physio to leave, they had a whispered discussion about Dad’s dirty little secret.
‘We can’t say anything to him now,’ Mum said. ‘Not while he can’t respond properly. It could harm his recovery. We’re going to have to pretend we don’t know.’
‘Are you sure? Can you live with that, Mum? Can you come here every day, knowing what you do, and treat him like he’s done nothing wrong?’
Mum let out a long sigh and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I’ll have to.’
Lauren sighed too. ‘Then I’ll support you. If you can do it, so can I. But there will come a day when we have to tell him what we know.’
A few minutes later the sister returned to say that the physiotherapist had left. She led us through to see Dad. He was sitting up in bed, hair ruffled. His face, still drooping on one side, was red and sweaty, and he appeared out of breath. It was horrible to see him like that. I knew my father as a big strong man: someone unstoppable, almost bulletproof. It felt so wrong to see him weak and helpless in a hospital ward. It wasn’t as bad as seeing him in the throes of the stroke, but it was close. He’d been robbed of his essence – the imposing presence he was known for – and although I told myself he’d recover, at that moment it was hard to imagine.
‘How are you doing?’ the sister asked him, darting over to mop his brow with a cloth she seemed to pull out of thin air. ‘Did you find the physio strenuous?’
He nodded.
‘That’s normal. It means it will have done you some good. Anyhow, as you can see, you’ve got visitors.’
He nodded again and a lopsided grin appeared on his drawn face.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said.
Mum and Lauren shuffled to opposite sides of the bed. They each greeted Dad with a peck on the forehead before pulling over a chair. I could tell they were struggling to suppress what they knew. Lauren, seeing him in this state for the first time, could barely conceal her shock.
I stood at the end of the bed as Mum took his left hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. I was surprised at the tenderness of the gesture. She must really love him, I thought. I wonder if Dad has a clue how lucky he is that she’s here?
‘How are you, Tom?’
He smiled that newly crooked smile of his again: a look infused more with sadness and pain than happiness. Then he pulled his hand free from Mum’s and tilted it from left to right in a so-so gesture.
‘I came yesterday, but you were asleep the whole time. I didn’t like to wake you. Did they tell you?’
He nodded.
‘The sister said you’re able to move your leg again.’
Dad nodded and raised it a couple of centimetres off the bed.
‘That’s great,’ Mum said. ‘What about your arm? Still nothing?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s a good thing you’re left-handed. Imagine what it would be like if you weren’t. Can you talk, Tom?’
He shook his head.
‘Not at all?’
He shrugged his left shoulder.
‘What happens if you try?’ Lauren asked.
He turned to look at her before opening his mouth and then moving it in an awkward, twisted manner. A strained, gurgling noise came out and he started drooling. Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. That was the only time he attempted to speak while we were there and my sister barely said another word either. The rest of the conversation came from Mum. After wiping away the drool, she rattled on about Ella and day-to-day things in between asking questions about Dad’s condition and treatment, which he did his best to answer using gestures.
Afterwards, Mum and Lauren walked in silence through the sterile, shiny-floored corridors back to the car park. It was Lauren who eventually said something, but not until we were sitting in the car. ‘You were amazing back there, Mum. I’m sorry I was so useless. It just …’
Lauren started to cry and, as Mum leaned over to comfort her, I saw that she too had tears in her eyes.
‘It threw me when I heard Dad try to speak,’ Lauren managed eventually. ‘And then I couldn’t stop thinking about his affair. I don’t know how you stayed so strong.’
Mum took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. ‘It wasn’t easy, but it would have been harder without you there. I tried to blank what I knew out of my mind and pretend it hadn’t happened. It feels strange to say it, but I still love him. I hate seeing him like that. How do you feel now?’
‘I’m glad I came and I feel awful about saying he deserved this. It was right what you said to me last night. I needed it.’ She paused before adding: ‘I’m still angry at him, though.’
‘Me too,’ Mum whispered. ‘But now’s not the time.’
Mum reached over, took both of Lauren’s hands in her own and looked her in the eye. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve not forgotten about it. I’ve no intention of being one of those push-over wives who turns a blind eye to this kind of indiscretion. As soon as your father’s up to it, I’ll tell him exactly what I know. Then we’ll see what he’s got to say for himself. But not yet. Now is about a family pulling together in a time of crisis. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘We’re a team, right? We need to hold things together and ensure Ella has a happy place to return to every night. Agreed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s go home.’
I couldn’t believe Mum’s strength. Where had that come from? Only yesterday she’d seemed so broken. Lauren’s arrival had made a huge difference. Not as I’d thought it would, though. I’d expected my sister to come in and take over, looking after Mum and advising her on the best way forward. Instead, it was like her presence had reminded Mum of her role as matriarch. Maybe she just needed to know that she wasn’t alone; that she had someone else on her side to fill the void left by me and Dad. Either way, one thing was for certain: Mum was standing tall and very much in charge.
To while away the time as she drove us back, I’d been playing a game Ella and I used to enjoy together on long journeys. It involved looking at the number plates of passing or parked cars and using their last three letters to form a silly phrase. For instance, MBS might be ‘monkey brain soup’ or ‘my breath smells’; CLB might be ‘cats love bogeys’ or ‘cabbage leaf breakfast’. As we pulled into Mum and Dad’s street, I was looking for one final registration to use when I spotted that bloody black Audi again. It was parked on the opposite side of the street, a few doors down from the house, but it was definitely the same one I’d seen before.
This time I was determined to find out more.
As soon as Mum pulled the Corsa on to the drive, alongside Dad’s BMW, I crouched into the gap between the two front seats, ready to make a fast exit. Lauren was the first to undo her seat belt and open the door. As she stepped out of the car, I slipped into the space she’d vacated on the seat and, with practised precision, rolled out behind her.
Right, I thought, time for some answers. I sped off in the direction of the mystery car, expecting it to race away just before I got there, but this time it stayed put. The reason for that was obvious as soon as I pulled up to the side of it and peered in through the windscreen: there was no one inside. There wasn’t even anything on display to give me a clue as to the driver’s identity.
I walked out into the middle of the street and looked all around, but no one was in sight. At least the car’s whole number plate was visible now. The initial D3 I’d noted previously was followed by VLN. It was some kind of personalized registration, with the 3 presumably meant to be read as an E.
‘Devln,’ I said, trying it out for size. ‘Devil in?’ It couldn’t be, could it?
‘Shit,’ I said, backing away from the car into the street. My mind was so busy with possibilities that I didn’t hear the bicycle coming. The first I knew of it was when it smashed into me at full force, catapulting me into the air, while the cyclist carried on pedalling, none the wiser. Just like with the transit van, I felt nothing but couldn’t stop myself from blacking out.
I came round a short while later, face down on a neighbour’s front lawn. I was still lying there, getting over the shock of my latest battering, when I noticed a man walking briskly along the pavement towards the Audi. Looking on in silent fascination, I saw the tall, wiry figure pull a key fob out of his trouser pocket and unlock the black car.
So you’re the one who’s been watching us, I thought.
Who – or what – the hell was he? The figure I could now see swinging open the driver’s door certainly looked human, but I wasn’t ruling anything out. I didn’t recognize him. He looked to be in his early fifties but had the wax-sculpted hairstyle of someone younger, too black to be natural. His navy pinstripe suit and wool overcoat were the clothes of a businessman.
I crawled along the grass to find cover behind a tall conifer. I was taking no chances. What if he wasn’t human? That might mean he could see me.
I hunched back into the tree as he looked up and down the street before stepping inside the car. A few seconds later the engine started up. He opened the window and lit a cigarette as the Audi pulled away.
Walking back to the house, I felt bewildered. Seeing the driver hadn’t been the revelation I’d expected; I was still in the dark. At least I didn’t get stuck outside for ages, as I’d feared, since Lauren took Sam for a walk and I managed to slip in as she left.
Mum was alone in the kitchen making a sandwich and a cup of tea. As the kettle boiled she reached up into a cupboard to get a mug, but it slipped out of her hand, falling on to the worktop and breaking its handle.
‘Shit,’ she shouted. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’
She picked up the damaged mug, hurled it on to the tiled floor and screamed with rage. Then she slid to the ground and burst into tears.
By the time Lauren returned, the smashed mug had been swept up, wrapped in newspaper and stuffed to the bottom of the dustbin. ‘Good walk, love?’ Mum asked with no sign of her recent anguish.
‘Yes, thanks, Mum. Some fresh air was just what the doctor ordered. Sam enjoyed it too.’
‘Would you like some lunch now? I’ve already had a sandwich.’
‘No, I’m still not hungry, thanks. I’d love a cuppa, though.’
CHAPTER 17
TWENTY-THREE DAYS LEFT
‘Wake up,’ Lizzie whispered into my ear. I’d dozed off on the sofa in the lounge after everyone had gone to bed.
‘Oh. It’s you,’ I groaned. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone eleven thirty. I thought you’d still be awake. Most spirits don’t sleep a lot.’
‘Really? Well, I was only snoozing. I’ve been busy since we last met. I assume you know what happened to my dad.’
She nodded. ‘I’m so sorry. How’s everyone coping?’
‘As well as can be expected. Mum finding out that he’s been having an affair hasn’t helped.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yeah … Is my dad going to be all right? Will he make a
full recovery?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know.’
‘Can’t you find out?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not how it works.’
‘Of course. What was I thinking?’ I muttered. ‘So why are you here, Lizzie, if not to help me?’
‘Because time’s ticking, that’s why. Only three weeks and a day now until your deadline.’
‘Three weeks and two days, actually. It’s still Saturday.’
‘Only just. Any closer to a decision?’
I hesitated for a moment, the strong feelings I’d experienced at the churchyard the other day bubbling to the surface again. But I swallowed them back down as I told her: ‘I want to stay here with my daughter.’
She leaned forward. ‘If you say so. How are things going with Ella?’
‘Fine.’
‘There’s no need to be coy. I know that you managed to get through to her; that she can see you now. That kind of thing doesn’t go unnoticed.’
‘Oh, right. Um, yeah.’
‘So how is it?’
‘Great. I couldn’t be happier.’
‘And how does Ella feel about it?’
‘What do you think? She’s over the moon. She’s got her father back.’
‘Right,’ Lizzie replied. ‘Of course.’ She waited a moment, staring at me the whole time, before adding: ‘That’s not quite true, though, is it? Having you around as a spirit isn’t the same as before. You’re still dead; you can’t do a lot of the things you used to do with her. You can’t cook a meal for her, push her on a swing or carry her when she’s tired. You can’t drive her to a swimming lesson or take her to the doctor when she’s ill. You couldn’t protect her if, let’s say, someone tried to kidnap her.’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Bloody hell, Lizzie. What a thing to say.’ My heart dropped. ‘Hold on: why did you say it? Are you trying to warn me about something?’
‘No, no. Calm down. That’s not it. I was just giving you an example.’
She sighed. ‘Listen, I was hoping to avoid this, but I don’t think there’s any choice.’
‘Avoid what?’
Time to Say Goodbye Page 13
