by Caroline Day
She says: ‘A lot of people have been worried about you. I think half the town has been looking for you.’
11
The gate of the park isn’t closed anymore. It’s open with the chain taken off and there’s another police person, a man, and he’s very tall, like his chest where he has his police sign is about where my eyes are, and he’s waiting there and he says hello, and that his name is PC Tom Barrington, and that he’s very glad that they’ve finally managed to find me. And in the car I don’t talk, because of just looking out of the window, and I have a blanket around my shoulders, except it’s not a real blanket because I think it’s made out of tin foil, like my mum cooks turkey in, and there isn’t anybody on the pavements and not really any cars apart from us.
And I’m thinking that maybe I’m going back to my home, or else maybe to the police station – well, in fact, I’m not really thinking it, not very much, because of my head not having very much in it, just looking, watching, light, light, light – but anyway, that’s where I would think we are going, if I was thinking. But when we stop it’s not my home and it’s not a police station. It’s at the hospital, actually – and I know it because of the time when I ran into a car – and the PC, which is a police person, the one called Tom, parks us just next to an ambulance. And Police Nicola says: ‘OK, come on then, sweetheart.’
Inside my blanket I’m shaking. Not just because of being cold but because of thinking about the hospital. And I say: ‘Is my mum here? Her name is Jenny Nicely.’
And PC Nicola says we’re going to find all of that out but that first she thinks I should see a doctor to be checked out, because of being cold and wet. And that she and PC Barrington here will have to take a statement from me, too, which is just procedure, but that can wait, and let’s get me inside. And there are lots of people, and some of them are in uniforms like on TV – not police ones, hospital ones – and some are behind glass and asking my name and my date of birth and other questions, and mostly I don’t know all the answers. And then I’m going into another room with lots of chairs and some with people in and then I’m hearing a voice that I know. And it’s saying, I had a message that Hope Nicely was here. It’s Danny Flynn and he’s angry, and that is not because of knowing the feeling from his face, it’s because of him walking to me, really quickly, and saying: ‘Why the fuck did you run off like that? What were you thinking of?’ Because of the swearing I know he’s angry. And the loud, scratchy voice. And I start crying, which I don’t mean to do, but I can’t help it. And I say I’m sorry.
He looks at me and he puts his hands on his forehead, like one on top of the other with his head underneath, where there’s not so much hair as on the back of his head and right at the top, and he says, oh Hope, he’s sorry too, and he didn’t mean to shout, but fuck, he’s exhausted and do I know how many people have been up all night trying to find me. And I say no. I say I’ve been in the park and he says that’s where Karen told them that I might be but they’d searched it once already. And he’s shaking his head and I’m thinking in my head how does he know Karen because I didn’t even think that they knew each other. And he says my name again, Hope, and he says he didn’t know where I’d gone.
‘I even called Marnie.’ This is Danny still. ‘I woke her up. I’d better ring her back and tell her you’re safe. I have lots of people to call. Hope …’ My name again. ‘What were you …?’ But he stops. And he does a sigh. And he’s shaking his head. He’s looking at me and his face looks funny, like it’s more creased than last time I saw him, with dark around his eyes, like when you smudge a pencil. ‘Thank God you’re safe. Look, there’s something I need to …’
But now there’s my name again, and it’s a doctor or a nurse, maybe I think a nurse because of the uniform, and he says come with him please and he gives me a … like a coat, except it’s called a gown and he tells me to go in there please – that’s a little room, like a cubicle but without a toilet – and pop it on and there’s another one to put over the top of it. And there’s a bag for all my wet clothes. And it takes me a long time, because of not really understanding how to do it up, because of there being no buttons on the gown, and only two laces and when I put it on you can see my tummy and even my fanny, because of me having taken all my clothes off like I was told. But when I come out of the cubicle the nurse says, oh my goodness, no it goes the other way round, with the opening at the back, and pop the other one the other way round over the top, so that it covers me up from the back and let’s warm me up a bit. It takes me a bit longer to put it on, because of not being able to tie it up behind the back of my neck, but I do it at last and the nurse says, yes much better and come into this other room and here’s a blanket and a drink and can I ask you some questions. The drink is tea but with lots of sugar, like my mum likes it, but not me usually. But I drink it all, even though it’s hotter than I normally want it, and I’m really hungry and I wish there was a biscuit too.
The nurse tells me he’s going to take my temperature, but it’s not with a stick in my mouth, it’s with a thing in my ear, and my blood pressure too, round my arm, and it puffs up and squeezes like someone holding me too tight. I don’t like it. I’m a bit scared and I reach out to pull it off my arm but the nurse tells me not to worry, because it will only squeeze for a moment. He calls me sweetie. And he listens to my heart, but it’s through a tube with a cold metal thing, I can’t remember the word, and asks me questions like how long was I in the park, and was I shivering or did I stop shivering and did I sleep at any time or lose conscious.
And a person comes in, opening the door which is really a curtain, and it’s a person who is a doctor with a name, but the name goes into my head and out again, because of my head being tired now, and a bit muddled. And the doctor, who is a man, says the PC Nicola told him about the man on the bench and am I absolutely certain he did not touch me in any way. And I say no. He just did his wee and snored and didn’t even know about me, actually. And the doctor says, well, that’s a big relief to know, and he looks at some papers on a board thing that he’s holding, and it’s the papers that the nurse has been writing in, the things like from my ear and the squeezing of my arm. And he asks how I’m feeling now. And I say: ‘Do you know my mum, Jenny Nicely?’
He looks at me. He has glasses that are not properly circles, just a little bit on the bottom. And it’s like he’s looking over the top of them at me.
I say: ‘Jenny Nicely. She’s my mum and she was going in an …’ But my brain is feeling too tired and muddled. ‘… because of being on the floor in the kitchen. And she …’
He does a little movement with his head which is not as big as a nod. ‘Your friend is just outside in the corridor.’ This is the doctor. ‘He said I should check with you if you’d like him to come in?’
I look back at him and my head is just thinking what is he talking about. And I say to him that I don’t have any friends. He looks at his papers and he says Daniel Flynn, the gentleman who came into A&E with my mother. And for a moment, I think he’s the one with the muddle in his head, but then I think that Daniel Flynn maybe must be Danny Flynn, and when the doctor says again is it all right for Mr Flynn to join us, I say yes that’s OK, because of it being Danny Flynn who was the one who called 999 to help my mum, Jenny. And so even if I don’t really know him very well, I think it’s all right.
‘How are you doing, Hope?’ This is Danny Flynn and he’s sitting beside me and he puts his hand onto my hand and puts his fingers around mine. And I’m looking hard at both our hands, with my brain not quite understanding, because it is what people who are boyfriends do, or maybe mums. And my brain thinks maybe I should take my hand away, because of the rule about keeping our hands and feet to ourselves, but I don’t take it away, because of it feeling nice, actually, and because Danny holding my hand stops it from shaking a bit. I’m crying again now and I don’t know why. I open my mouth and I say: ‘Is …?’ But I can’t make any more words come.
‘So, Hope.’
This is the doctor. I’m thinking why does everyone keep saying my name. Hope. Hope. Hope. But mostly I’m thinking: one, two, three – one, two, three – one, two, three, and I’m telling my breathing and my crying to be quiet. And the doctor is standing up, and I’m sitting down. And the doctor says, so Hope, like maybe he thinks I didn’t hear him the first time, and he says do I know what a cardiac arrest is. And I shake my head, because of not having any words in my mouth.
‘Well, Hope.’ Like he needs to keep telling me who I am. ‘You know how the heart beats, which makes the blood flow around our bodies?’
I do know it, because of having been told in school, which was called biology. And because of not being stupid. Even if I am on the rainbow, I’m only a little bit blue and maybe I need to tell the doctor about this. But I don’t say anything. I just hold onto Danny Flynn’s hand.
‘Well, a cardiac arrest happens when there is a problem, an electrical malfunction which interrupts the beating of the heart and disrupts its beating.’
I’m looking at the doctor, because this is a very strange thing to say. Because electrical is not about biology. It’s about light bulbs and televisions. And my mum is not a television or a light bulb. She’s a person and she’s unique. But I don’t say anything because it is rude to interrupt. And also I don’t say anything because I can’t find any words. I can’t say anything. I just hold onto Danny Flynn’s hand, very tight, and I look at the doctor and listen to what he’s saying now.
‘And because the heart stops pumping the blood which carries oxygen to our brain and our lungs, cardiac arrest causes a person to lose consciousness and to stop breathing.’
He pauses. Looking at me over the top of his glasses which are not like real glasses because of being not a full circle but straight on top. And my own heart is beating and pumping so hard that I can feel it inside me, like it’s banging to come out, and I can hear it in my ears. There is a question in my head but I don’t want to ask it. I don’t even know if I can. Because of the words not wanting to come. Because of my head saying no, not yet.
One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.
‘Now, the thing about cardiac arrest is that …’
‘Is my mum dead?’ I didn’t even know they were coming. The words. Now I want them to have stayed in. And I want to put my hands over my ears. Because of not knowing the answer. Because of not wanting this at all. But I can’t. Because of Danny Flynn’s hand being in my hand. And I’m holding it so tight that maybe I’m going to make him scream. And maybe I’m going to scream too. Because my mouth is open. But it’s not screaming. It’s just noisy, noisy, noisy, like crying big sobs but the other way round. Like the sobs are going into my mouth instead of coming out of them. And I’m looking at the doctor and he’s looking back, over his not-quite glasses.
He takes them off, the glasses, and holds them in front of him. Like he’s tapping them. ‘Your mum …’ One-two-three, one-two-three. My breaths. My heart. My brain. One-two-three. ‘Is alive, Hope. She’s still alive. The paramedics restarted her heart, however …’
I can’t listen anymore. His mouth is moving and there are words – unconscious, coma, cooling, uncertain, lack of oxygen, vital minutes, even if she does regain … risk of brain damage – but I can’t let them in. My head won’t let them in.
There is humming. The humming is me.
‘I wonder if this could wait until tomorrow?’ This is Danny Flynn. The doctor puts his glasses back on and he’s saying yes, of course, perhaps best in fact, even though I’m listening but not listening. And he’s saying about Hope, saying of course and she’s been through a lot already and she’s been out in the wet and – he’s looking at papers again – mild hypothermia and he’d like her to stay in overnight, where the nurses can keep an eye. And there are more nurses, and the thing – the thing in my ear and not my mouth – and a chair with wheels and it’s for me, even though I’m a person who can walk on my legs, and a kiss on my cheek, which is Danny Flynn, and him saying try just to sleep and try to not worry and he’ll see me tomorrow. There’s a bracelet, but I don’t think that’s the right word, but it’s on, with my name and lots of numbers too. There’s a lift and corridors that go on and on. And there’s a smell like hospital, and it makes me think of ice cream. And there’s a bed, but it’s not my bed. It has curtains around it. And my head is too tired for humming or shouting or saying I want my bed not this bed. There’s a cheese sandwich on a plastic table and a pill in a tiny little cup that’s only as big as my little finger. Like a paper cup for a baby. And even though my tummy is sore inside because of being so hungry, I look at the sandwich and I don’t want to eat it because of my throat feeling like it is closed and dry from all the crying and the noises and because of not thinking I have enough energy to chew. So just the pill, and the pillow isn’t nice and big and soft like my pillow in my house. And I don’t have my special blanket either. But my head is too tired to think about it. Nobody says goodnight, Hope Nicely, sweet dreams, just the nurse says pop this on your finger for me darling, and let me check your pressure. And I can’t even look, only just hear it – whoooosshh – and feel it going squeezy tight on my arm, because of my eyes being shut now. And even when I tell them to open, they say no. Not right now. Maybe in a moment. And even if this pillow isn’t my pillow, it is still good to put my head on it, with my eyes still closed.
12
When I was a little girl, like eight maybe, and for quite a lot of years before, when I was even littler, anyway, but bigger than a baby, nobody knew about my rainbow and about my birth mother and how she made me with all the vodka in her tummy. They just knew about the cardboard box and about me being left in it. But then they – like the teachers, and my mum, Jenny Nicely, and Julie who was the social worker then but isn’t really anymore – they noticed about me not being like all the other children, who were in the same year as me, because of me not talking with as many words and wanting to hide under tables or to bang my head on the wall and not to play with them at all. And because of me being so little, with little feet and little hands and with my head being quite small too and me talking more like a baby, with silly baby words. And because of me not remembering things like rules, like, don’t hit the other children, or don’t shout when other people are talking, or like where I was this morning or how old I am.
That’s why my mum, Jenny, used to take me to be measured, not just my height but my cumfrence, which is all the way around my head, and to play games with the doctors like put the dominos together and point to the pictures and remember where the blue squares are. And every time my mum, Jenny, would tell me good girl, and she would say you’re doing so well, Hope, and she would say when we’ve finished we’ll go for a nice ice cream. And that’s because near the hospital was a very special ice cream shop and I don’t even know if it was this same hospital, because of it being dark when I came in, and in a police car, and not in the same way. And it wasn’t in this room, because, when I was little, there were pictures of lions and giraffes on the wall and the other ones that go in water and there’s a game with them eating balls, but I didn’t play it then. And there was the smell of the hospital that was different to the smell in my house or in my school or in the real world outside, and I didn’t know the word for the smell. But when I went into the hospital for the measuring and the games, and I smelt the new smell, I thought it smelt of ice cream, because of knowing that if I was a good girl and put the dominoes together, that I would have a special ice cream on the way home. And the animal was a hippo, like a hungry hippo, but there is another word too, which is longer and it’s the real word, and I still can’t remember that one.
In the morning, my mum, Jenny Nicely, wakes me always with a big smile and a wakey-wakey hug and a cup of tea. So my head is asking what is going on and where can I possibly be? Because no smile and no mum and no cup. And it’s just a noise like zzzhhhppp and zzzhhhppp and lights that are coming through my sleepy eyes and into my sleepy head and mixing with t
he sleepy thoughts in my head, which are telling stories about hippos and ice cream and dominoes and I don’t know what. And I’m not sure about what is happening or even about where I am. I know I should know. But my memory, well, the least said about that …
I am not in my bedroom. I am in the smallest bedroom ever, without even a door, and the walls are made out of material because they are moving and not like a real wall. And I know I should remember something. Something … In my head there is a feeling that I don’t want to be there but I still can’t remember. And on my wrist, it’s a not nice feeling too. There’s a thing, like a band, and it’s plastic, with too much space at the end that is sticking out with holes. And I’m holding it up and pulling it away from my skin, because of it being a bit scratchy. Or not scratchy, actually, but a bit too touchy. And I’m reading what the letters are, and it says my name with lots of numbers. And I am in … I am in …
Something happened. Something bad. I should know. I am in …
And then there is a noise, the same noise, zzzhhhhppp, and it is my bedroom wall, which is not a wall and not a bedroom, which is opening. It was a curtain. And it is not my mum, not Jenny Nicely, but it is a woman in a uniform which is blue, and who says good morning but not wakey-wakey or rise and shine, and she’s just going to take my temperature. And I say where is my mum. My mum is Jenny Nicely. Where is she. And I say please.
And the woman puts a thing in my ear and she says something back to me but I don’t really know what she’s saying, because of the thing in my ear and because of the accent and I think it’s like an accent, which is maybe Chinese because of her looking a bit like the woman in the takeaway with the best prawn crackers in the whole wide world. And in a bit of my brain, I’m remembering about a takeaway, but I don’t really know what I’m remembering. And I’m pulling on the band on my wrist, because of not really liking it there. Because of not really wanting it, actually. And I say again: do you know where my mum, Jenny Nicely is. And she says something again but I still don’t understand. And I have a bad feeling. I think like something has happened but when I try to find it in my head, it’s like opening the curtains and all you can see is fog. Not even a muddle. Not even a jumble sale. Just a big everywhere fog, that is too grey for anything to be seen even if it’s right there in front of you.
