The Place Where Love Should Be

by Elizabeth Ellis

  *

  I reach the hospital but it takes me twenty minutes to find the entrance to the car park. By now it’s late, unlikely they’ll let me see Helena at this hour but I have to try. I haven’t come this far to give up now.

  I haul the pram out of the boot and tuck Edward in, lost beneath his layers of bedding. He doesn’t wake but I pause a moment before pushing him from the car park onto the street. There’s something not quite right about being out late with a small child on a raw winter’s night. I expect a hand on my shoulder, an official voice.

  I’m visiting my mother, I’ll say. She’s had an accident. She’s in the hospital.

  Oh, yes? The official will look doubtful, ask my name, peer into the pram.

  Stop it. Get a grip.

  In spite of the hour, the hospital reception is busy. I wait in the queue, fiddling with the van keys, checking Edward.

  ‘Can I help you?’ A tired-looking woman sits at the desk, a monitor and a stack of papers in front of her. She barely looks up from the screen.

  ‘I’m here to see Helena Gardner,’ I say. ‘She was brought in last night – a car accident.’

  The woman nudges the mouse and scans the screen, frowning. ‘Gardner. Mm. no,’ she says at last. ‘No-one called Gardner here. Brought in last night, you say?’

  ‘The early hours of this morning, I think.’

  ‘No, nothing here. Are you sure it was this hospital?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. The police told me.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry, you’ll have to try –’

  Then I remember. ‘Wait, it may be under Watson – Helena Watson.’

  The woman looks up sharply, takes off her glasses and leaves them dangling on a chain round her neck. ‘So, which is it?’

  ‘Watson. Please try Watson.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m Evie Gardner. Her daughter.’

  ‘You’re her daughter yet you don’t know your mother’s name?’

  A lump rises in my throat. ‘Please,’ I say, ‘please try Watson. It’s important.’

  ‘I realise it’s important, but I have a job to do. I can’t just go giving out patient information.’ The woman looks past me to the queue now forming behind.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, swallowing hard, clutching the handle of the pram for support.

  The woman fixes her glasses back on and returns to the screen, scrolling and clicking impatiently. ‘Here it is,’ she says, ‘Helena Watson. She’s in the ICU. But you won’t be able to visit now, it’s too late. We don’t allow children in anyway, only in exceptional circumstances.’

  Though it’s what I expect, defeat angers me. Defensive, I say again, ‘But I’m her daughter.’

  ‘You’ll still need to wait,’ the woman mutters. ‘There’s a coffee shop down there on the right. Or better still, go home and come back in the morning.’ She swivels on her chair and returns to her screen, to her papers and her fatigue.

  I sigh, ease the pram around the waiting string of people and along the corridor towards the so-called ‘coffee shop’, though when I get there it’s no more than a roped off recess and a scattering of tables and chairs. I order hot chocolate and settle down in a corner to wait. I still have no plan, no idea what will happen next. Edward stirs in the pram, his mittened fists appearing above the covers. He’ll need a feed soon, and a change and I’m not sure how that will work. I also need the loo.

  The toilets reek of disinfectant, though the ambience is not one of hygiene. I try three cubicles before finding one I want to use. I have to leave the door open because the pram doesn’t fit inside. The pink soap in the dispenser stings, the dryers are useless. I walk back to the coffee shop rubbing my hands with an antiseptic wipe, just to be sure. Edward is still very young, he probably shouldn’t be here at all.

  There’s a quiet rumble as Edward fills his nappy. He has a rash, I must change him soon, and wonder where on earth I can do it. Not here, not the toilets. Perhaps there’s a room somewhere. This is a hospital, there will be a baby unit. I know this, I’ve spent enough time in one recently. A children’s ward with facilities I could use. All I have to do is ask.

  I find the lift and push the pram inside. On the second floor, a wall of bright green greets us – a complete mural of fields and trees, flowers and sunshine. I follow the signs along the sunny corridor, ending up in a small similarly bright room full of cushions and toys and a heap of books in one corner. In an armchair, a young man sits sleeping, gently snoring, his head lolling uncomfortably. I wonder how long he’s been there, what crisis he’s briefly shut away from.

  Through another door, is a washroom with a changing table and a large waste bin. I take off my coat, roll up my sleeves and pull out a copious supply of wipes. But exposing him here in this unknown place, my uncertainty threatens. I’ll have to unwrap him, he’ll be cold, there are germs. Yet Edward barely wakes as I undo his sleepsuit and clean him up. I fix another nappy in place and dress him again, tying the rubbish in a nappy sack and stuffing it in the bin. It takes no more than five minutes.

  Before I put him back in the pram, I pick him up, lean him against me and softly rub his back. He shudders, grunts, then settles into my neck. I close my eyes, and again breathe in the soft, sweet, milky smell of him.

  Back in the coffee shop, I wait. I’ve managed to get here, I’m close to Helena, she is alive. Now what?

  Just before ten o’clock the young man behind the counter starts to close up, noisily clearing my cup, spraying and wiping the table. Edward begins to grumble. I pick him up, gather my things and wander back to reception. Apart from a cleaner swinging a large mop across the floor, the corridor is now deserted. He moves his trolley out of the way, nodding as I pass, then resumes his task staring intently at the floor.

  The receptionist too is in the process of signing off for the night. ‘You’re still here then,’ she says, standing up and pulling on her coat. We’re closed now, you’ll have to leave.’ Her voice rings round the empty building. ‘Unless it’s an emergency in which case you can go to A and E.’

  I pull Edward closer. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but is there somewhere to stay nearby? It’s a bit late to drive home.’

  The woman tips her head to one side and narrows her eyes. ‘Where did you say you live?’

  I haven’t mentioned where I live. ‘Cambridge,’ I tell her, close to tears. ‘But it’s late. I don’t want to drive now.’

  The woman collects her bag and comes round the desk. ‘There’s a hotel down the road, one of those chain places. They might have a room.’ Her eyes flick from me to the pram. ‘It’s not cheap though. Nowhere is these days – not round here.’

  I shift Edward to my other shoulder, stroke his back, his warmth, his simple presence a comfort in this now desolate place. ‘Thank you,’ I say, lifting my chin, ‘I’ll try that.’

  Then as I’m putting Edward back in the pram the woman says,

  ‘I’m going that way. I’ll show you.’

  Outside, she points south towards the city centre. ‘It’s down there on the right. You can see it from here.’

  I can just make out an illuminated blue sign amongst the glare of headlights and streetlamps. ‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice lost in the din.

  ‘No problem.’ The woman crosses the street and disappears into the traffic.

  I check into the hotel, aware that my presence arouses curiosity: a lone female late at night with a baby. Even here, where every human drama must play out in some form or other.

  I take a room for two nights. It’s a good size: corporate, bland, but clean and functional. As I unpack, we seem to fill it with a litter of belongings. I put the bottles for Edward in the minibar beside the wine and peanuts, then feed him and wander up and down on the short strip of carpet until he settles.

  I check my phone and find a stack of texts from Ma
rk:

  sorry missed you last night did you manage some sleep?

  where are you? Laura hasn’t seen you – what’s going on?

  what the fuck’s going on?

  Then another sent an hour ago: please where are you? call me

  I’m not ready to talk yet. Not to Mark. There’s too much to explain, to account for. Too unsure of his reaction. I text back to say we’re ok, for him not to worry, that I’ll phone soon. But as I turn out the light and lie down in the darkness on the oversized bed, I’m swept with a visceral intensity and miss him for the first time in months.

  Twenty-Nine

  I stand in the doorway of Helena’s room. There’s no window, it’s surprisingly dark, a mass of technology is crammed into the corner. She can hardly be seen amongst the confusion of long tubes attached to her face and hands that lead away out of sight, somewhere behind her head. Machines gently click and puff, holding her, keeping her alive. She’s lying on her back, the tube from her nose obtrusive, like some huge, unwieldy piercing.

  I approach the bed, lean down slightly, touch her hand – the one without tubes attached. It’s warm – for some reason I expect it not to be. She looks so small, so broken. I find I’m crying, tears drip from my nose and I wipe them hastily with the back of my hand.

  A nurse comes to the doorway. ‘You must be her daughter,’ she says.

  I wonder how she can tell. ‘How is she?’ I ask. It seems a pointless question.

  The nurse comes closer and checks the screens. ‘She’s doing well. Better than she was when they brought her in, that’s for sure.’

  I shiver. I know nothing – not where Helena was found, nor what happened. The police haven’t told me any of that.

  The nurse indicates a chair by the bed and I sit down heavily.

  ‘Your mother was air-lifted from the scene – we’re not sure how long she’d been there. The police are trying to work that one out.’

  ‘Was there anyone else involved?’ It seems unlikely but I ask the question anyway.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. It’s possible she just ran off the road and hit a tree – luckily – otherwise she’d have been in the river. That would be another story altogether.’

  I can’t quite take this in. ‘So, where was she?’

  ‘Somewhere near Cheshunt, I believe.’

  ‘But she lives in Ware.’

  ‘Perhaps she got lost? The fog was bad last night. It’s also possible she just fell asleep at the wheel. We found traces of anti-depressants,’ the nurse looks across at Helena, ‘and alcohol. Not a lot – not enough to put her over the limit but it’s not a good mix.’

  I look at Helena’s small features, calm and closed, her dark hair matted on the pillow. So much about her I still don’t know, so many blanks.

  The nurse turns to leave. ‘Will you be staying for a while?’

  ‘I’d like to but I have the baby. He’s in the crèche downstairs. They said not to be long – apparently it’s for staff and patients, not visitors.’

  The nurse touches my arm. ‘We can always make exceptions. Come and find me tomorrow if you need help,’ she says, and disappears into the dark corridor of the unit.

  I sit and wait and fidget, take in the scuffed grey floor, the bedside locker, the plastic chair. I have no idea of the time, the weather, of how long I’ve been here. Edward will need feeding. Will they do that in the crèche?

  I should probably leave now, get back to him. But at the sight of Helena, wired up and helpless, our roles reversed in this bizarre and tragic way, I’m reluctant to move. I settle down to gaze again at my mother, to wait for her to wake up, to wonder how on earth it has all come to this.

  Helena’s voice croaks, her hand goes up to her throat, her nose, the pipes, tubes and dressings, as if trying to identify the extraneous body parts she’s acquired.

  ‘Hey.’ I take her hand.

  ‘How long have…?’ She swallows, wincing.

  ‘A while. You’ve been asleep. Would you like a drink – some water?’

  There’s a jug with a lid by the bed and a cup with a spout. A child’s cup. I put my hand behind Helena’s head and hold the cup to her lips. They’re cracked and dry. She takes a sip and lies back.

  ‘Where’s the baby? she asks. ‘Where’s Edward?’

  ‘He’s here. I’ve left him with the nurse. Strictly against the rules.’

  Helena attempts a smile. ‘I’m not surprised,’ she says. ‘Thank you for coming – for being here.’

  ‘Where else could I be?’

  ‘You did well,’ Helena says. ‘It can’t have been easy.’

  ‘I managed. I’m better now. Much better. And you’ve done that.’

  Helena shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says, ‘you’ve done it. But be careful, it’s not so simple. It doesn’t just go away.’

  ‘Would you like me to call anyone? Jack perhaps? You know he phoned me – yesterday I think it was.’ Days have drifted into days, the night was long. I slept little in the hotel, restless hours listening for Edward, punctured with cries from the street.

  ‘Just tell him I’m ok. He doesn’t need to know any more.’

  ‘But won’t he want to come up? To be here?’

  ‘He’ll only make a fuss.’

  I take her hand again. ‘And so he should,’ I say. I want to ply her with questions: what happened? How much does she remember? But she closes her eyes, drifting back into sleep.

  A moment later she opens them again, stares at the ceiling and tries to speak. A tear rolls from the corner of her eye and onto the pillow, followed by another. I find a tissue and hold it where they fall. There’s no sound from her, as if her grief has no expression, just the body’s own response, reduced as she is to the flesh and bone of her life. Whatever it was that brought her here will have to wait.

  ‘Hello Evie,’ Jack’s voice is quiet, resigned to whatever he’s about to hear.

  ‘Jack, I’m afraid there’s been a car accident. Helena’s in hospital. She’s doing ok but I think she’ll be here for a while.’

  ‘Ah.’ The same quiet tone. ‘What happened, do you know?’

  I tell Jack as much as I can. ‘I’m at the hospital now. I told Helena I’d phone you, she didn’t want to make a fuss.’

  ‘Well no, she wouldn’t, would she?’

  ‘You really don’t need to worry.’ Again, I try to reassure.

  ‘Should I come, do you think? Would it help?’

  I’m not sure it would, it might only complicate things further. I don’t know this man, part of my mother’s ‘after’ life, a life I’m only just connecting with. I fear for our tenuous reunion, its illicit nature, the certainty that it will all have to change. I cannot keep this much longer from my father and from Joanna.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘but there’s no need at the moment, visiting’s very limited.’

  Jack is silent.

  ‘I’ll ring you later, shall I? Or you can call me?’

  More silence. ‘Hello? Jack?’

  I hear a long sigh, then, ‘Okay. Thanks Evie, we’ll talk later.’ And the line goes dead.

  In the early afternoon, I’m back at the hotel having eaten a sandwich and fed Edward. He’s asleep on the bed, wedged between two pillows. He sleeps a lot now, I wonder why that should be, why the sudden change when his routine has been turned on its head. But then, I had no routine to speak of, at least none before Helena came. According to Joanna, it’s all about routine. Is there anything to do with child-rearing she doesn’t have an opinion on?

  The room is stuffy and overheated. When I open the window, a harsh din from the street rushes in through the narrow gap, together with a welcome blast of cold air. I make a drink, sit in the stiff armchair by the desk and watch Edward as he sleeps.

  As darkness falls, I go back to the hospital. The woman
at reception greets me with a tolerant nod, almost friendly now. In less than twenty-four hours the place has become familiar: the walk from the hotel, the corridors, the coffee shop. I take the lift to the second floor and head for the crèche. There’s a spare hour before Edward’s next feed, an hour to spend with Helena.

  This time, in the sunny green corridor, the door to the crèche is closed. There’s a keypad, a bell and a notice: Please ring for attention. Should I wait and see if anyone comes? Should I ring? It’s late, time is passing. Again my heart knocks. I look up and down the corridor, at the two green plastic chairs by the door, at the box of dog-eared comics. I breathe hard and ring the bell.

  When the door opens, there’s been a staff change. This nurse is younger, about my age, and doesn’t look pleased to see me.

  ‘Can I help?’ It’s an end of the day voice.

  ‘I’d like to leave my baby here, please. Just for half an hour, if that’s okay? I left him here this morning – the nurse said it would be alright.’

  The woman wears a blue tabard over a polo shirt and trousers, her hands pushed into the pockets. ‘Which department?’

  I look at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

  The woman sighs and speaks slowly, as if I’m deaf, or clueless. ‘Which department do you work in?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t work here. I’m visiting my mother, she’s in ICU. The nurse said it would be alright.’

  ‘This facility is for staff. Occasionally for patients in exceptional circumstances. We don’t run a child-minding service for the public.’

  I look past her to the room where I left Edward that morning. A small baby lies in a cot, an older child sits on the floor stacking bricks with another member of staff. ‘But I left him earlier,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to make other arrangements now.’ And she shuts the door, leaving me outside in the sunny green corridor.