by Anna Jacobs
The woman who opened the door to him seemed to be around his aunt’s age. She needed to lose a few pounds and dress to suit her years, he thought disapprovingly. He’d not let his wife get so porky.
‘You must be Rachel. I’m George Pilby, Emily’s nephew. I believe you have a key to her house.’
‘Yes. Is Emily worse? I’ve been worrying about her since Liz phoned to say she’d been in an accident. Your aunt usually keeps in touch.’
‘My aunt has been in a coma, and it’s not certain she’ll recover.’
Tears filled Rachel’s eyes. ‘Oh, no! Where is she? I must go and see her.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. It’s only close family at the moment and anyway, she’s still not fully conscious. They’ve yet to find out whether there’s been any brain damage.’
She looked at him in horror. ‘Emily? I can’t believe it.’
‘We’ll have to hope for the best. Whatever the outcome, she’ll be in rehab for some weeks.’
‘Please tell me as soon as she’s able to have visitors. Where is she exactly? I’ll send a get well card and flowers.’
‘I’ll let you know when it’s worth making contact. In the meantime, my wife and I will be staying here to keep an eye on her house, so if you can let me have the key . . .’
‘Of course.’ Rachel went inside and came back with the key. ‘The mail is on the hall table. Emily asked me to forward her mail to her sister’s for a couple of weeks then keep it here.’
He took the key and walked away quickly. What a busybody! He hated neighbours who tried to live in your pocket.
The less this one knew about his aunt, the less she could interfere with his plans. He’d tell the hospital to allow no visitors except for him.
George smiled at Marcia and waggled the key, then went to open the front door of his aunt’s house. He’d not visited it before, because she’d always come to his mother’s, so he’d seen no point in going to her place as well during his brief visits to the UK.
They walked round in silence, then stood in the kitchen.
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Smaller than I’d like, but nicely laid out and the furniture’s good. She has some nice-looking antiques. I must check them out on line.’
‘The house has a nice feel to it.’
‘Yes. We’ll move in tomorrow. I’m getting a little tired of sleeping in that uncomfortable bed at my mother’s and sharing a bathroom with her.’
‘Will your mother be all right on her own? Perhaps we should bring her here with us?’
‘And perhaps we shouldn’t. She’ll be fine. She’s coped perfectly well on her own while I’ve been overseas, after all.’
He picked up the mail from the hall table and started going through it. ‘Ah! Another letter from that lawyer chappie.’ He slit it open and read it, smiling. ‘I’ll have to let him know that I’ll be taking charge of negotiating with the property developer.’
‘But what if your aunt doesn’t want to sell her new house? Anyway, you don’t have power of attorney over her affairs.’
He scowled at her. ‘I can still negotiate the sale and once it’s clear that she’s not going to recover, I’ll get a power of attorney.’
‘I’m always amazed at how directly you go for something when you want it.’
‘It’s the best way.’
‘What if your aunt recovers?’
‘I don’t think she will. We shall have to wait and see.’
He stared out across the gardens. He’d planted a few seeds about his aunt’s mental health being doubtful. He’d find a way to plant more. She was bound to be confused when she came out of the coma. Maybe he could ask for her to be sedated.
It’d solve a lot of problems if she didn’t recover. His mother would inherit, surely? If she didn’t, she could contest the will.
There was always a way to get something if you wanted it badly enough. You just had to find it and pay people, if necessary, to help you bend the rules.
He’d look after his aunt, of course. And his mother. Make sure they had everything they needed. But older people were best living simply and quietly. Everyone knew that.
The next day George went to the hospital again. On his own. He made his way to intensive care. ‘How is my aunt?’
‘Still drifting in and out of consciousness, I’m afraid, Mr Pilby.’
‘I’ll go and see her.’
By the time the nurse had caught up with him, he was standing next to his aunt. ‘She looks worse than last time.’
The sister gaped at him. ‘She’s recovering well.’
‘She doesn’t look well to me.’
‘Please don’t say such negative things in front of her, Mr Pilby. We never know how much coma patients hear and understand, especially those who are recovering.’ She slipped round to the other side and spoke to the patient, as he should have done. ‘Your nephew’s here, Emily.’
‘I’m here to look after you, Auntie dear,’ he boomed. ‘Don’t worry. They think they can help you.’
The patient opened her eyes with a start, focused on him and frowned. ‘Go ’way, George.’
Jane didn’t allow herself to smile. From the patient’s expression, it was clear that George wasn’t a favourite relative. As for what he was saying, well, she had to wonder if he was deliberately trying to scare his aunt.
She’d seen everything in her job, from loving families to ones who couldn’t wait for their elderly relative to die. The latter weren’t always averse to nudging them along a bit, either. This guy definitely wasn’t the loving type. Was he one of the dangerous ones? She’d have to keep her eye on Ms Mattison whenever he visited.
‘Mother’s asked Marcia and me to move into your house, Auntie, to keep an eye on it until you’re able to go home. It’s very convenient, because we’ve not found anywhere to buy in England yet.’
Jane could see her patient getting agitated and struggling to respond, so moved to his side. ‘You’d better leave now, Mr Pilby. You’re upsetting her.’
He shrugged and allowed himself to be led away, not attempting a word of farewell or encouragement to his aunt. ‘I need to speak to her doctor now. See how disabled she’s going to be. This might make the dementia worse.’
‘I think Dr Spenser is still on the ward. Yes, there he is.’
Jane handed Mr Pilby over with relief, but could hear him haranguing poor Dr Spenser in the interview room right from the other end of the corridor.
That man was definitely hoping his aunt would not recover, she decided, presumably because he expected to inherit.
He seemed to have taken over his aunt’s house without anyone’s permission! It wasn’t Jane’s business to interfere, but she felt sorry for Emily Mattison, she really did.
The next time Emily woke, she felt more herself. There was no beeping apparatus beside the bed and she was hungry. She eyed the tube and stand, wondering what was being dripped into her arm, because she felt very dopey.
The nurse she’d seen before came in.
‘Good morning. How are you feeling today, Emily?’
‘Better. Hungry.’
‘That’s good. I’ll get you a light breakfast.’
‘How long . . . here?’ To her dismay, Emily could only speak in short bursts.
‘You’ve been here for two weeks.’
‘Two!’ Emily swallowed hard. ‘What’s wrong . . . with me?’
‘You fell down some stairs and hit your head. You were in a coma for a few days, but you’re recovering well.’
‘Can’t . . . speak prop’ly.’
‘That’s normal. Your brain’s still getting used to being awake. Your speech will gradually improve.’
‘How long . . . stay here?’
‘The doctor will discuss that after he’s examined you. Let me make you more comfortable then we’ll get some food into you.’
Emily let them help her, obediently swallowing some sloppy porridge. When she was on her own, she tried to practise speaking
and moving parts of her body, even if it was only a little bit. She was terrified of remaining like this. Her voice was a toneless monotone, not sounding at all like her, and she couldn’t think clearly.
But she could remember George’s visit. Oh, yes. And was furious every time she thought of him living in her house. Only she was helpless at the moment to get him out. He might have taken over his mother’s life – and finances – but he wasn’t going to take over hers.
A doctor came in, looking tired. He asked some simple questions and assured her she was making a good recovery, so she repeated the important question.
‘How long . . . stay here?’
‘Not long. We’ll transfer you to a rehabilitation unit soon.’
‘How long . . . there?’
‘With head injuries, there are no hard and fast rules, so I can’t be specific. A few weeks, probably.’
The thought of that horrified her. ‘No. Go home. Go home.’
‘You couldn’t cope, Miss Mattison.’
‘Ms.’ She hated being called Miss. It reminded her of school and spinster teachers. She always made a point of being addressed as Ms.
His voice was impatient. ‘Does that matter now?’ He glanced down at her notes. ‘Your nephew is looking after things for you, so you have nothing to worry about. Just concentrate on getting better.’
‘Don’t want George . . . in my house.’ But the words came out garbled and the doctor was already turning away.
She wished her sister would come to see her. She knew Liz cared about her. George didn’t seem to care about anyone except himself, and to a lesser extent, his wife. He’d always been money-hungry and would have pounced on the opportunity to get free accommodation at Emily’s house, she was sure. He’d probably poke through her things, but at least he wouldn’t damage her possessions.
She sighed and closed her eyes. It was so hard to think clearly and she got tired very quickly. She loathed feeling helpless, wanted her mind to be sharp and active again.
One thing she was determined about. She wasn’t going to stay in hospital for one day longer than necessary. She’d always been independent and that wasn’t going to change now.
The doctor went on to see the sister. ‘I think we ought to send Miss Mattison to the geriatric rehabilitation unit.’
‘She’s not all that old,’ Jane protested.
‘No, but the nephew said she was showing signs of early dementia before this happened.’
‘Ms Mattison seems to me to be thinking as clearly as can be expected at this stage of her recovery.’
‘She’s got you calling her Ms as well, has she?’ he said sourly.
‘She certainly has. It’s what she prefers.’ She scowled at him. ‘And it’s what I prefer too, actually.’
He sighed and ignored that, his eyes challenging her to protest again as he continued, ‘But we don’t know Miss Mattison, do we, and the nephew does? Besides, the rehab unit is overflowing. She’s the second patient I’ve had to send to geriatric care this month. There was a fellow beaten up so badly he’s lost his memory.’
You didn’t argue with a busy doctor, not unless you were stupid. And this one wasn’t the most communicative of men at the best of times, especially with women.
Jane sighed, but began to make arrangements as instructed. Once patients left your care, you were not responsible for them. And it was unprofessional to care for some more than others.
But she wasn’t happy about the situation, or the way they were treating Emily Mattison. And she knew the sister of the geriatric unit, didn’t envy Emily being in care there. Pauline had a ‘keep them quiet at all costs’ attitude.
You read about it in books, but you never expected to lose your memory. He was way out of it with painkillers when he first regained consciousness. He seemed to have been in an accident. All he could mutter when they asked his name was that he couldn’t remember.
He woke up a couple of mornings later and they asked him if he’d remembered anything more. He knew somehow that he was called Chad, and told them that, but could give them no reason for this, let alone his surname. ‘What’s wrong with me?’
‘Post-traumatic amnesia,’ the nurse said briskly. ‘They’re trying to find out who you are, but no one of your age has been reported missing.’
‘Will my memories come back?’
‘No one can tell, I’m afraid.’
The next day he was more alert and they doled out some more information about his case. Apparently he’d been featured in the local paper but no one had come forward to identify him. They couldn’t use a photo, because his face had been too battered and bruised.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it, desperate to find himself. Did he have no family at all? And where were his possessions?
‘Your pockets were empty,’ the nurse named Jackson told him.
‘Had I been robbed?’
Jackson could only shrug. ‘Who knows? Concentrate on getting better and worry about the rest later.’
All right for someone else to say that. It was terrifying to lose your memory, your very identity. And you felt so helpless.
Three days later they told Emily they were transferring her to the rehab unit, taking her by ambulance because it was in a separate building on the far side of the campus. She was still not speaking normally but she was thinking more clearly each day, and thank goodness she was starting to walk, or rather, shuffle along.
They wouldn’t let her walk without someone in attendance, though, and it still took a conscious effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
It was hugely frustrating and she felt as if she was going mad from boredom.
In the new unit, she found herself sharing a room with an old woman who’d suffered a major stroke, and wondered why they’d sent the poor thing here for rehab, when it seemed clear even to Emily that her companion was not likely to recover.
The room was depressing, looking out on to a blank wall. And sharing with someone who wasn’t really conscious made Emily want to run for her life – only she couldn’t even walk properly.
The nurse in charge of the unit introduced herself as Sister Pauline. She was brisk and efficient but not given to chatting with patients, as Jane had done, or even listening to them properly. She talked loudly and slowly, treating all her patients like halfwits.
When Emily was alone – well, as alone as you could be in a hospital – she felt tears trickling down her face.
‘Emily? Is something wrong?’
She turned to see another nurse, a man this time, dark-skinned, with a lovely smile. Then something she’d seen from the ambulance came back to her, something which had puzzled her. ‘What is this place called, please?’
‘The Geriatric Care Unit.’
‘I’m not a geriatric! I’m not even sixty.’
‘But you do need rehabilitation and as they were short of beds in the main rehab unit, they sent you here. You’re not the only one.’ He gestured towards a man sitting slumped in a wheelchair in the day room, which was just opposite Emily’s room.
‘Still not right,’ she grumbled.
‘Then we’ll have to work hard and get you home quickly. My name’s Jackson, by the way. That’s my first name. I’m a specialist rehab nurse. Do you feel up to trying a few things now, so that I can start to assess your needs?’
‘Yes. Please, yes. Work hard.’
‘That’s the right attitude.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re already doing well, Emily, and I promise you, I’m not making that up. Someone wrote on your notes that you’re speaking better and in less of a monotone, and starting to move more naturally.’
‘Am I . . . sedated?’
He hesitated. ‘Just a little.’
‘Don’t want it. Hate feeling dopey.’
‘Only for a day or two longer, hmm?’
Not if she could help it. If they didn’t pull that drip out soon, she was going to rip it out herself.
But she was tired again, dammi
t, so when Jackson had finished with her, she gave in and closed her eyes for a little rest.
Three
George came to visit Emily at the new unit the next day. She’d just finished her exercises and been looking forward to a rest when he marched up to the bed. He began talking to her loudly and slowly, in the same patronizing tone as Sister Pauline.
Oh, how she hated that tone of voice! Being older didn’t automatically equate to losing your wits.
‘Don’t worry about your house, Auntie dear. Marcia and I are keeping things going. She loves gardening and she’ll soon get the place in order.’
Auntie dear! He’d hardly been near her for years, had just sent printed Christmas cards with a scrawl for a signature and no message.
‘Don’t want you . . . in my house . . . George.’
He laughed as if she were a silly child. ‘You’re not thinking straight, Auntie. Only to be expected. You needed someone to look after the place. It was very run down, and too much for you to manage at your age, anyway.’
‘Not necessary. My neighbour can . . . keep an eye on things . . . till I get back.’
‘Mrs Fenwick? She’s had to go away. An illness in the family. I forget who, but someone close to her. No, you definitely need our help and we’re happy to give it.’
She stared at him. He’d just told her an outright lie. Rachel next door didn’t have any close family in England because her only son had emigrated to Australia a couple of years ago. She was very upset about that.
But Emily couldn’t think how to get George out of her house at the moment, because the sister in charge of this unit refused even to discuss it. She kept insisting that Emily wasn’t thinking clearly yet and should be glad there was someone willing to look after her house.
Sister Pauline’s motto seemed to be to keep the patients under firm control and above all quiet. And physically Emily was reasonably well looked after, she had to admit. But she was going mad from boredom.
She didn’t have much to watch, except for the man in the day room.
