Afterwards they tell me I fell two floors of the five, busting through an awning, breaking my fall on a top-of-the-range outsized canvas and wicker-effect waterproof-cushioned sun-lounger on the balcony of Mr Antony Gardiner, a copyright lawyer, and neighbour I have never met. My hip smashed into two pieces and two of my ribs and my collarbone snapped straight through. I broke two fingers on my left hand, and a metatarsal, which poked through the skin of my foot and caused one of the medical students to faint. My X-rays are a source of some fascination.
I keep hearing the voice of the paramedic who treated me: You never know what will happen when you fall from a great height. I am apparently very lucky. They tell me this and wait, smiling, as if I should respond with a huge grin, or perhaps a little tap dance. I don’t feel lucky. I don’t feel anything. I doze and wake, and sometimes the view above me is the bright lights of an operating theatre, and then it is a quiet, still room. A nurse’s face. Snatches of conversation.
Did you see the mess the old woman on D4 made? That’s some end of a shift, eh?
You work up at the Princess Elizabeth, right? You can tell them we know how to run an ER. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
You just rest now, Louisa. We’re taking care of everything. Just rest now.
The morphine makes me sleepy. They up my dose and it’s a welcome cold trickle of oblivion.
I open my eyes to find my mother at the end of my bed.
‘She’s awake. Bernard, she’s awake. Do we need to get the nurse?’
She’s changed the colour of her hair, I think distantly. And then: Oh. It’s my mother. My mother doesn’t talk to me any more.
‘Oh, thank God. Thank God.’ My mother reaches up and touches the crucifix around her neck. It reminds me of someone but I cannot think who. She leans forward and lightly strokes my cheek. For some reason this makes my eyes fill immediately with tears. ‘Oh, my little girl.’ She is leaning over me, as if to shelter me from further damage. I smell her perfume, as familiar as my own. ‘Oh, Lou.’ She mops my tears with a tissue. ‘I got the fright of my life when they called. Are you in pain? Do you need anything? Are you comfortable? What can I get you?’
She talks so fast that I cannot answer.
‘We came as soon as they said. Treena’s looking after Granddad. He sends his love. Well, he sort of made that noise, you know, but we all know what he means. Oh, love, how on earth did you get yourself into this mess? What on earth were you thinking?’
She doesn’t seem to require an answer. All I have to do is lie here.
My mother dabs at her eyes, and again at mine. ‘You’re still my daughter. And … and I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you and we weren’t … you know.’
‘Ngung –’ I swallow the words. My tongue feels ridiculous. I sound drunk. ‘I ngever wanged –’
‘I know. But you made it so hard for me, Lou. I couldn’t –’
‘Not now, love, eh?’ Dad touches her shoulder.
She looks away into the middle distance, and takes my hand. ‘When we got the call. Oh. I thought – I didn’t know –’ She is sniffing again, her handkerchief pressed to her lips. ‘Thank God she’s okay, Bernard.’
‘Of course she is. Made of rubber, this one, eh?’
Dad looms over me. We had last spoken on the telephone two months previously, but I haven’t seen him in person for the eighteen months since I left my home town. He looks enormous and familiar, and desperately, desperately tired.
‘Shorry,’ I whisper. I can’t think what else to say.
‘Don’t be daft. We’re just glad you’re okay. Even if you do look like you’ve done six rounds with Mike Tyson. Have you seen yourself in a mirror since you got here?’
I shake my head.
‘Maybe … I might just hold off a bit longer. You know Terry Nicholls, that time he went right over his handlebars by the mini-mart? Well, take off the moustache, and that’s pretty much what you look like. Actually,’ he peers closer at my face, ‘now you mention it …’
‘Bernard.’
‘We’ll bring you some tweezers tomorrow. Anyway, the next time you decide you want flying lessons, let’s head down the ole airstrip, yes? Jumping and flapping your arms is plainly not working for you.’
I try to smile.
They both bend over me. Their faces are strained, anxious. My parents.
‘She’s got thin, Bernard. Don’t you think she’s got thin?’
Dad leans closer, and then I see his eyes are a little watery, his smile a bit wobblier than usual. ‘Ah … she looks beautiful, love. Believe me. You look bloody beautiful.’ He squeezes my hand, then lifts it to his mouth and kisses it. My dad has never done anything like that to me in my whole life.
It is then that I realize they thought I was going to die and a sob bursts unannounced from my chest. I shut my eyes against the hot tears and feel his large, wood-roughened palm around mine.
‘We’re here, sweetheart. It’s all right now. It’s all going to be okay.’