“Yeah, apparently, I shouldn’t have stopped the meds so quickly. But I’m taking them now and it’s still happening.”
The doctor nods, comes over, and takes my pulse and blood pressure. Her perfume reminds me of a friend from school, which in turn makes Jamie appear in my mind. She steps back and winds her stethoscope around her neck.
“Everything is normal there.”
“Good.”
The doctor resumes her seat. “You had a pretty bad accident. Things will take a while to get back to normal.”
I chew inside my cheek, in case I say something wrong. Talk about stating the bloody obvious. “I know. But do you think the dizziness will go soon? It’s annoying.”
“Probably. Did you have a head injury?”
This surprises me. She has the notes in front of her. I hope she doesn’t want me to recount my recent medical history all over again; I’m moving on. Or I was until I started fainting again.
“Minor. Blood loss was the problem.” Sweat prickles the back of my neck and the cold feeling enters my veins.
“And you were in a coma for a few weeks?”
“Yes.” The smell comes in, burning tyres and asphalt. “I don’t want to talk about this. I’ve had scans, everything. My head is fine.”
“Have you ever spoken to anyone about the accident?” she asks gently.
“Like a counsellor? No. I just want to move on, and this is why the dizziness is annoying me. I can’t keep fainting. I need my life back.”
The doctor pulls out a pad and scrawls. “Maybe some blood tests then. Just to get an idea; you look very pale.”
That’s it; I’m buying make-up this afternoon. “I’ve always been pale.”
“Ashen?”
“You’re talking about the accident and it’s making me feel ill.” The room constricts around me; I have to get out.
“Sorry.” She rips the paper from the pad, and holds it out to me between fingers with manicured pink nails. “Have the blood-work done then come back next week; we’ll see how you’re going then.”
I stare at the door and focus on my breathing. Jamie’s face falls into my mind. “Thanks.”
I stumble out of the room and suck in lungsful of air. What a mistake. I should’ve gone straight to town instead of visiting a doctor I knew couldn’t help. The cool autumn air knocks some of the dizziness from me and I sit on the low wall outside, swallowing down my nausea. I fight the gripping fog and succeed. With relief, I head to work.
Chapter 8
I spend the next three days house-hunting, but my search for new accommodation isn’t fruitful. I thought my current house was far from work; however, the nearest alternative I can find is in a dodgy area another fifteen minutes away. Life continues in the same monotonous fashion: shifts at work, house-hunting, home to the weird house, avoid the occupants, bed. Rinse and repeat. Nothing else strange has happened which is a good thing since I can’t find anywhere new to live yet. My life isn’t moving on anymore than when I was stuck in a hospital bed. I have no social life and no energy to look for one.
My night-time meetings with Alek continue, but he hasn’t mentioned our last conversation. I refuse to bring up the subject because I don’t believe he has anything useful to say to me. The following mornings, I can never remember what we do talk about or if we talk at all.
Now back at work, I have one more job before lunch. The elevator lurches to a halt as I leave with my trolley full of files for the morgue staff. Some parts of the hospital I hate going to. Really hate. Not because being near the morgue brings on memories of bad horror movies, but because it reminds me of where I nearly ended up. Luckily, the staff office is far enough from the morgue itself to stop the memories sneaking back in. The hospital I work in is old; the basement’s a maze of rooms, mostly used for file storage so I’m often down here. I guess I should be getting used to it by now, but I picture Jamie every time I walk past the double doors toward the room where the bodies are.
There’s a new staff member behind the desk today—a guy about my age, brown hair with a reddish tinge, who’s munching on a chocolate bar he puts to one side as I approach. He eyes my name badge.
“Rose Walker.”
I don’t like the way he says it, as if he’s connecting me to something in his memory. His accent is Welsh. “Tom Jones,” I say, looking at his name badge as I snigger to myself.
His thick eyebrows pull together. “Yeah, forget the jokes; I’ve heard them a thousand times.”
“Where do you want these?” I point to the trolley; I can’t be bothered with niceties.
“Leave them there.” He regards me with forest-green eyes. “Don’t you find it weird coming down here?”
“No. Why?”
“You almost ended up here, didn’t you?”
My mouth falls open at his upfront question. How does he know who I am? “I work here. I come here all the time.”
“Have you been in there?” he asked, tipping his head toward the doors at the end of the corridor.