Isabel nodded. “Her phone's off. And...” she paused.
“And what?” I demanded. Isabel sighed and glanced at Lucas again. He stood up and came over to the bed, sitting opposite her, his hand running nervously up and down my blanket. “And what?” I almost shouted.
Isabel flinched. “I went home yesterday to get changed. Her stuff is gone. She's left Roxy. She's just gone.”
Chapter Thirteen
The news that Bonnie was missing had both frustrated and terrified me. Knowing what Isabel had told me about her recent behaviour, I felt an uneasy and constant bubble of panic over what she could be doing, where she might be. I'd sent Isabel to report her as missing to the police, but I knew they wouldn't take it seriously. She was an adult. And if she wanted to run away, she had every right to do so. And though she was acting reckless, partying and cutting herself off from her family like an angry teenager, the truth was, we didn't know enough to say whether she was struggling with her mental health. Neither Isabel nor I had mentioned our mum in the days following my accident, her mental health issues, the fact that Bonnie had always been the most similar, the most likely to fall off the rails of sanity. We didn't want to think about it.
I had convinced myself that I would find her, just as soon as I was able to get out of hospital and back on my feet again, but to my horror, the consultant had informed me on his ward round that not only would I have to be in hospital for a minimum of two weeks, but I would also need regular appointments with a physiotherapist to rehabilitate my leg. “To put it bluntly, Mrs. Bowen, this is no small injury. It is going to take months for you to recover fully.” He had said if I responded well to the physio and practised daily I should be back to my full fitness by the time I reached thirty two weeks pregnant. “Of course, there are no guarantees,” he'd cautioned sternly, his bedside manner lacking a certain amount of charm and positivity.
“But what am I going to do?” I complained to Lucas after the consultant had left. “I'm supposed to be working, saving for the baby. How can I be signed off work when I'm expecting to take maternity leave in a few months. It's not fair on the university, or my students.”
He nodded, rubbing his stubbled chin with the palm of his hand. I had insisted he go home to shower and change his clothes, which he had done, but he hadn't wanted to waste time shaving, he'd told me. I planned to send him home to sleep tonight whether he liked it or not. He looked exhausted.
“I've been thinking about that since the surgeon explained the recovery timeline to me when we got here,” he said, his voice slow, thoughtful. “I think you'll have to take early maternity leave. He said you would get a sick note to cover you until you're on your feet and able to cope again. Then you can go straight into your maternity leave.”
“You mean, not go back at all? Stay off from now until the baby comes?”
“I know you love your job, and it's going to be sad to leave, but don't you think it's for the best? To rest, get back to your full health now before the baby arrives, without the worry of coming and going? Marking papers and giving lectures? I mean, I'll support you whatever you choose, but I'm just saying. It's an option.”
“But what about money? Can we afford it?”
“We'll manage. If it's what you want to do, we'll figure it out.”
I sat back against the plasticy hospital pillows, pondering his words. Could I do it? Leave my job now, not go back? I should have felt devastated at the prospect – my job had been my world for so long, it was my identity, my reason to get up in the mornings. But now? Now the thought of juggling all these balls, Bonnie, physio, the pregnancy... it seemed like too much. I was tired, though I hated to admit it. And now, I had a new purpose. The truth was, I didn't want to do it all. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to be relaxed, to enjoy my pregnancy rather than endure it. And honestly, having waited so long to be in this position, I wasn't the least bit ashamed to admit that.
“Yes,” I told him. “Yes. That is what I want. I can't deal with the stress of it all and it's not good for the baby. And if I leave now, my students can have a consistent teacher from now on.” As I said the words I felt like a weight had lifted from my shoulders. I hadn't even realised how much I was worrying about it until the burden was lifted.
Lucas smiled and I saw his face relax as I gave him my answer. “Then it's done. Now we just have to figure out where your troublesome sister has absconded to, and we can finally have some peace,” he grinned, raising an eyebrow.
“Why do I get the feeling that's not going to be a simple task?”
The next two weeks passed with the speed of setting tar. Nothing at all happened for huge chunks of the day. Since I was taking early leave from work – something my superiors had taken with grace and understanding to my great relief – I had insisted Lucas go back to his job. One of us needed to bring in a full time wage to pay the bills. He had argued, but eventually given in, knowing that I was right. He would come to the hospital every evening straight after work, stopping on his way to pick up fruit, books, stir fried vegetables and whatever else I might be craving. But the days, when Isabel and Lucas were busy in the real world, and I was stuck alone in the stale, stuffy little hospital room, were torture.
I longed to get out of bed, to walk outside, breath in the fresh cool air. I fantasised about hiking, horse riding, swimming – anything physical, I just wanted so much to move, to get out of this little cell and live. Isabel had brought a journal in for me, and I used it to write list after list of the things I would do when I recovered. I wondered if I could take the baby on a kayak, how big he would have to be before we could take him camping. I wanted to do it all.
The long hours were broken up by the intermittent visits from the nurses, who I would talk to incessantly, relieved to have a friendly human face to chat to, if only for a few minutes. Even the brisk ones, the ones who made it absolutely clear they were far too busy to stand and chat, didn't escape my room without me forcing some words out of them. It didn't matter if they were grumpy, I was just elated that they were there. That I wasn't alone.
Every three days I had the absolute highlight, the most interesting event on my calendar – my physio appointment. These, although exciting because it meant a trip out of my room, and more one on one attention with a real live person than I got during the rest of the day, were tinged with frustration and sadness. I was working so hard, trying my very best to get moving again, to do what I was instructed to do, but it was a slow, tiring process which more than once left me reduced to tears.
“Stop being so hard on yourself. It's one thing to try and push yourself, it's completely another to punish yourself for not making a miracle happen,” Lorna had told me after I'd not managed to make it to the end of the ward hallway on her third visit. She was massaging my knee, slowly manipulating it to bend my leg, and I gritted my teeth, determined not to show her how much it hurt. She saw nonetheless, and reduced her movements. “Roxanne, you will get there. I know it's frustrating, but I promise, this is pretty much textbook. Give it another week and you'll be walking around, I'll bet you can even go outside. You just need to be patient. These things do take time.”
“I know. I'm sorry, I just get so...”