“You’re not Max Young?” The policeman narrows his eyes, frowning in confusion.
“No. I mean there’s nowhere private. Whatever you’ve got to say, you can say it here,” I finally manage to get out in a whisper.
He gives a small nod before continuing. “Sir, I’m Officer Brown, this is my colleague, Officer Cooper. We’re from RTPC, the Mets Transport Police. Can you please confirm for me that you are Max Young?” My eyes again flick to meet Aaron’s, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
“I am.”
“And that you are the husband and next of kin of Whitney Federov?”
I straighten my shoulders and prepare for the punch. “I am.”
“Sir, I regret to inform you that Ms Fedorov has been involved in a road traffic accident on the A406, North Circular, near Finchley, and had to be airlifted to the Royal Free. I believe someone from the hospital has been trying to reach . . .”
Nothing wants to work. My ears stop hearing, my lungs stop pulling air, my legs stop holding me, and my words won’t come. I slide down into the chair behind me, watching Aaron’s mouth move, but hearing nothing.
Both of the policemen respond to whatever Aaron’s saying, but my spike in blood pressure means all I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat thumping inside my ears.
I feel cold. So fucking cold that I jump when Mel lays her warm hand over mine.
“You need to get to the hospital. Aaron and Cal will go with you. I’ll stay here with Layla.” Her words float towards me, penetrating my senses, quiet and muffled, as though wrapped in cotton wool.
“Is she alive?” I ask. Everyone in the room is looking at me. “My wife, is she alive?”
“Max, you need to get to the hospital. Whit’s alive, but she’s not in a good way. You need to go be there with her.”
“She left me,” I tell the room. I say the words out loud to no one, to everyone. To anyone who wants to listen.
“We’ll take it from here. Thanks, officers,” Aaron tells them.
My head clears, my hearing returns, and I watch as Aaron leads the officers out to the hallway that I passed out drunk in earlier.
Was that only today? Or was it yesterday? I’ve no fucking clue right now.
“You got some shoes you can put on, dude? And a hoodie or a jacket? Where’d you leave your phone? You’re going to have to call her parents. Let them know what’s going on. Mel will call your mum.”
I stand and purse my lips before blowing out a long slow breath. “What the fuck is happening to my life?” I ask Cal.
He scratches his head and then shakes it. “I don’t know, mate. I really don’t know, but as much as I hate to say it, it looks like karma has come back to bite a huge chunk out of your wife’s skinny, cheating arse.”
“Callum!” Mel snaps at him.
I don’t know how to respond to that. Should I punch my best mate? Defend my cheating wife? I’m honestly not capable of making any kind of decision about anything right now, so I say nothing. I do nothing. Callum leaves the room and comes back a few minutes later with my phone, a hoodie, and a pair of flip-flops. His hand goes to the middle of my back, and he steers me out to Aaron’s waiting car.
Max
The Royal Free is a five-minute drive from my house in St John’s Wood, but even at almost ten o'clock on a Saturday night, traffic is heavy. I sit alone in the back of Aaron’s car and watch the people wandering the streets of Belsize Park. For a moment, I lose myself. I forget about yesterday’s and today's events, forget about where I’m going and what I’m about to face. Momentarily confused, I ask, “Where’s Layla?”
Cal turns around from the front passenger seat. “Mel’s with her, mate. She’s gonna call your mum and Gaynor. Gaynor will arrange a car to pick your mum up and bring her to yours, then Mel can come to the hospital.”
I nod. “Whit’s been in an accident,” I say to no one. It was meant to be said in my head, but everything’s a jumbled, fucked-up mess in there, so I talk to myself aloud while trying to get my thoughts into some kind of order before we reach the hospital.
“Yeah, but we don’t know the details yet. Once we do, you need to call her parents and let them know what’s happening. Then we’ll sort out getting them over here,” Cal comments.
I wanna tell him to shut up. Tell him I don’t care about Whit’s parents. I don’t know if I even care about Whitney. Should I? Is it wrong that all I feel is totally fucking numb?
“I’ll drop you two here and go find a parking spot. Message and let me know where you are,” Aaron says, pulling to a stop outside the accident and emergency department.
I don’t want to be here, don’t want to get out of the car, and I definitely don’t want my wife to be inside. I’m not exactly sure what my feelings are for Whitney, but I don’t want her hurt.
I rub both my hands up over my jaw, cheeks, and into my hair as Cal stands and holds the door open, waiting for me to move. I climb out and begin to walk, my legs feeling weird, as if they don’t belong to me. I struggle to keep up with Cal and let him lead the way to a reality I’m not sure I’m ready to face.
I’m usually good at not losing my shit in a crisis, but that’s probably because I’ve never been at the centre of one. When Callum’s dad and stepmum were killed, I was the one who made all the calls to the right people, and me who made all the necessary arrangements. Even when I got the call telling me Whitney had gone into labour, I was calm. I remained chilled throughout the delivery, not losing it until they placed my daughter in my arms.
But this whole situation feels surreal. It’s not just that I feel as if I’m watching from afar, it’s that nothing feels as if it belongs to me. My legs are being controlled by someone else, and my skin tingles as if I’m having an allergic reaction and want to strip right out of it. The woman I’m walking in to see isn’t even really mine. My head feels completely fogged, distorting sounds and my ability to think straight.
After speaking to someone at an information desk, we’re led through a set of doors that need a card swipe to allow us entry. Once we’re through, I follow Cal into another room containing a two-seater sofa, an armchair, and a water cooler.
I lean forward and rest my hands on my bouncing knees. Drawing in deep breaths, I attempt to pull myself together.
“You doing okay?” I hear Cal ask above the constant buzzing in my head
“Not even a little bit.”
“Try and hold in there till we know what’s going on. She’s gone to get a doctor.”
“Who?”
“The nurse.”
“I’m losing my fucking shit here, man. I can't keep it together, can’t think straight,” I admit.
“You don’t need to. I’ve been there, remember? I know what it’s like, and like you had me, I’ve got you.”
Filled with nervous energy, I’m unable to sit still for long. I stand and move to the middle of the room. I’m in one of the biggest hospitals in the country, in one of the busiest cities in the world, and I feel completely and utterly alone.
I cover my mouth with my hand as I feel my lips begin to tremble.
Cal moves instantly and wraps his arms around me. “Max. It’s all right. It’s all right to be scared, and it’s all right to cry.”
The door to the room opens at the same time as Cal’s phone rings. He silences the call as a short, dark-haired man wearing glasses and light blue scrubs approaches us.
“Mr Young.” He holds out his hand and looks between each of, I reach out and shake it. “Callum Wild.” Cal offers, and they shake. “Sorry to keep you both waiting. I’m Doctor Michael Jenner, please take a seat.” He gestures towards the small sofa.
I shake my head, declining his offer. Cal stands right by my side.
The doctor nods. “Okay, I’ll get straight to the point. Whitney was brought into us at just before seven this evening after being involved in an RTA. She’s suffered a significant injury to her head, causing a small bleed and some swelling on her brain. She’s received s
ignificant trauma to the lower end of her spinal cord—the cauda equina—which contains a lot of nerve roots, including the sciatic nerve. Nothing’s been severed, but she’s not responding the way we’d like to the tests we’ve carried out so far, and I feel a transfer to The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital will be in her best interest.”
I’m conscious of Cal's hand resting on my shoulder, his grip tightening the more the doctor talks.
“Can I see her?”
The doctor pauses for a beat. “You can. She’s currently in a medically induced coma, and we’re keeping her as comfortable as possible while we prepare to have her airlifted to The RNOH.”
“What . . . is she . . . is she gonna be okay? What about her head injury?”
“We have her stabilised, her head injury isn’t life-threatening, it’s her spine that’s our main concern right now. Her left cheekbone is fractured, she has several broken ribs and a fractured left wrist. In saying all of that, Mr Young, your wife was extremely fortunate. The driver of the car she was travelling in didn’t survive, nor did the passenger of the car they hit.”
I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the chest. Staggering back, I collapse back in the chair I sat in earlier.
“Was Alix in the car with her? Alix Gardener, was he the driver?” Cal asks. “He’s an acquaintance, the son of our band’s manager, so we’ll find out anyway.”
The doctor looks me over for a minute before apparently coming to some kind of decision.
“Look, I’m not sure exactly what’s been made official, but you’re going to find out anyway, yes, Mr Gardener was the driver of the car and was declared dead at the scene.”
“Do you know what happened?” I ask. Ignoring the confirmation that my wife was in the car with her lover. The lover she left me for just yesterday. The lover who’s now dead.
What does that mean?
What does it mean for her?
What does it mean for us?
“From what I’ve been told, the car they were in crossed two lanes, flipped over the barrier on the central reservation and landed on its roof before skidding into oncoming traffic. Mr Gardener wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Ms Federov was, but not correctly.” He pauses and looks from me to Cal, then back to me. “Her belt was fastened across her lap, but she’d freed her arm, so it wasn’t secured across her chest, which is why we’re seeing the extensive trauma to her lower spine.”
There’s a knock at the door, and two policemen walk in. I don’t think they’re the same two who came to the house, but I’m not entirely sure. I spend the next few minutes confirming Whitney’s personal details before being led to another small room where the medical team is preparing Whit for her short helicopter flight.
I pause at the door and draw in a deep breath.
“You wanna do this alone, or you want me with you? I’m here, dude, whatever you need.”
“I don’t want this to be happening, that’s what I need,” I admit to Cal. He gives another reassuring squeeze of my shoulder, and I gesture into the room with a tilt of my chin. “I think I’ve got this,” I tell him.
He nods, and I step forward, knowing full well that I sure as shit haven’t got anything.
There are three women in the room, but I’ve no clue if they’re doctors or nurses because they’re all wearing identical light blue scrubs. One is making notes on a clipboard, one is doing something to a drip, and one is pressing buttons on a machine. In amongst all of the noise and chaos, is my wife.
I come to a halt when my eyes land on her face, the left side of which is swollen beyond recognition. The area around her eye has coloured, a combination of blues, mauves, and purples, and her jaw the same. She has a bandage around her head, tape over her right eye, a tube down her throat, and several wires attached to her bare chest, which is also covered in purple bruises. The sheets are tucked neatly under her arms, the right of which has a blood pressure cuff wrapped around it. A drip feeds drugs into the back of her left hand.
The first sob escapes me before I can cover my mouth with my hand to hide it, and the second is so loud it can’t be hidden.
The three women wearing scrubs turn towards me. I attempt to say I’m sorry, but instead, a noise—raw and animalistic—escapes me as I shake my head.
I’m not sure if it’s by way of an apology. If it’s my rejection of the situation or the sight before me. I don’t know why, but I continue to shake my head.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I hear Cal exclaim from somewhere behind me. He attempts to steer me out of the room, but I fight against him and keep moving forward.
“Hey, my name is Effie.” One of the women wearing scrubs introduces herself. She then proceeds to tell me she’ll be flying in the helicopter with Whitney and then explains what all of the equipment is and how it’s helping her.
I move to reach for my wife's right hand but stop and look at Effie for permission. She nods, so I cover Whit’s long, slim fingers with my big hand, not in the least surprised at how cold her skin feels. Her hands and feet are always cold.
“What Whit, what the fuck happened?” I know she can’t hear me, but I’m overcome with a need to ask the question. I still can’t get a handle on how I’m feeling. I love her, of course I still love her, that didn’t end when she walked out the door and left me. But it’s not the same. If this had happened a week ago, Cal would be picking me up off the floor. And as devastated as I am seeing my wife like this, I’m also angry, so fucking angry at her selfishness that I can barely contain it.
I remove my hand from hers and take a step back. When I turn around, Cal is behind me with his hand pressed over his mouth.
His eyes meet mine.
We both cry.
Mum: I didn’t want to call your phone in case you’re supposed to have it switched off but need to know you’re doing ok. So when you get the chance, please message me back. I’m in the car on my way to your house. Mel will come to the hospital once I get there. Please don’t worry about anything this end, I’ve got it covered. Just look after you and Whitney.
I’m so sorry this has happened, Max.
I love you.
Mum x
At least Layla will wake to someone she’s familiar with for her night feeds.
I read through my mum’s message while I sit in yet another hospital waiting room. Whitney’s transfer went without incident, and she’s being assessed by the medical team at The RNOH.
Cal has gone downstairs to wait for Mel, and Aaron is on the phone to a doctor friend of his to find out who the top person is for the job to fix Whitney’s spine.
“What the actual fuck is this shit?” I complain after taking a sip of the terrible hospital coffee. Aaron’s eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t respond, so I return my gaze to the same wall I’ve been starring at for the past few hours. I’ve not responded to my mum as I don’t yet know what Mel has told her. On top of everything else, I don’t want to tell my mum that Whit had left me before the accident and that Layla may not, in fact, be my daughter.
Not her granddaughter.
Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.
My mum will be devastated.
After finishing my last gulp of the disgusting beyond belief coffee, I blow out a breath and throw the cup across the room where it lands inside a bin.
Aaron spins around and stares first at me then at the bin where my empty, cardboard cup landed. He yawns, pinches the bridge of his nose above where his glasses sit and ends his call. He looks as exhausted as I feel.
It’s after midnight, and I’ve barely slept in three days, but even if I go home to my big comfy bed, it’s highly likely I still won’t sleep.
The door opens, and Mel and Cal walk in. They’re both carrying takeaway bags from one of my favourite restaurants on St John’s Wood High Street.
My stomach gurgles, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m hungry or if the thought of food makes me want to throw up.
“I got a couple of soups, and some bagels, two are salt
beef, and two are peppered pastrami, there’s got to be something there to put a smile on your dial, guys,” Mel says with a wink.
What I offer in return is probably a very insincere smile, and a whispered, “Thanks,” before asking a little louder, “How’s Layla?”
“Doing what you look like you should be doing, sleeping soundly.”
I scratch at the stubble on my throat and jaw. I’ve not shaved in days. “I’ll go home once I know what’s happening here.”
Cal sits on the sofa next to me, holding a tray of coffees. “This should taste a lot nicer than the shit out of the machine.”
I take the to-go cup he offers with another smile, not having the heart to tell him I’m already full to the eyeballs with the worst coffee ever.
I take a sip, he’s right, at least this is good coffee.
“How was my mum when she got there?” I ask Mel.
“She’s a little shook up. I told her you’d call or message as soon as you have news.”
“Did you tell her what went on before?”
Mel shakes her head. “Not my place, not my news.”
I nod. “Thanks, I’d rather tell her face to face, and I don’t really wanna say anything until we get the lab results back.”
My stomach churns just thinking about the paternity test I did. Was it yesterday, the day before? I’ve lost all track of time. Whenever the fuck it was, it’s done, and I need the results.
“You gonna eat something?” Mel offers me the takeaway bag.
“I’m good right now thanks. Still full from your meatballs,” I add to soften the blow of refusing her food.
Mel’s an Italian New Yorker and likes to feed everyone. I’m usually happy to be on the receiving end of her caring nature, tonight, though, I’ve no fucking clue what I want or need.
The door opens, and a woman wearing a white coat enters the room. She has a thick plait of auburn hair hanging over her left shoulder.
Her eyes dart from me to Cal then back to me as her steps falter, a blush spreading up her neck and across her cheeks.
All the Forbidden Things Page 4
