As the days passed, Jacob and I kept ourselves busy, distracting ourselves from the fact that there was no change with you, Beth. We kept asking medics what was happening, when we would see an improvement, but were constantly told it was too soon to tell, that we had to be patient, that more tests were being run. Our frustrations ate away at us, but we determined to stay positive. I struggled with it, but Jacob was such a tower of strength that he inspired me whenever I felt low. Seeing you like this was killing him. Sometimes he would lock himself in the bathroom and cry quietly.
In front of you, though, he always remained strong. He fussed over your bed sheets, smoothed your hair, talked to you in a bright, chatty voice, never betraying how devastated he felt.
‘We’re going to stay over tonight. So that’ll be nice, won’t it? Maybe we can all watch a film together, one of your favourites, eh? Frozen? Or… something else?’
He gazed at you. Waiting.
When you didn’t reply, he pulled something from his rucksack and randomly started spritzing perfume over your bed. The air filled with your scent.
You cuddling beside me on the sofa; me kissing the top of your head and taking in your smell. You hogging the bathroom, and emerging an hour and a half later on a cloud of scented steam. You breezing past me, waving goodbye as you skipped up the lane, cheeky grin on your face…
The memories punched me. With no time to brace for them, the tears welled. Yet Jacob’s spritzing had no impact on you. We looked at each other, needing no words to convey our disappointment.
‘We’ll keep trying things,’ Jacob said.
We’d done a lot of research into sensory stimulation in coma patients, and although you were in an induced coma we decided it might help your brain injuries to heal and bring you back to us. We’d checked with the doctors that it would be okay, and they’d given us the go-ahead. Talking wasn’t enough; all the senses should be targeted. So as well as your perfume, over the following week we tried my perfume and Jacob’s aftershave, and Mum found a bath bomb that smelled exactly like cut grass. Because you loved the outdoors so much, we were all excited as we wafted that under your nose. I stared at the read-out of your heartbeat, willing it to beep faster or slower. No change came.
Jacob also tried different types of materials. He gently stroked your skin with a feather, fake fur, a brush for a slightly prickly feeling, anything. We once even used a scrunched-up piece of tinfoil that had encased our sandwiches.
We talked constantly about happier times, sharing memories. Made plans for the future, once you got out.
‘Maybe we could scrape up enough money to go away somewhere special. Whale-watching, or see the mountain gorillas or something,’ I suggested, desperately, one day.
An idea that, days earlier, would have had you running around screaming with joy didn’t elicit so much as a blink.
We played board games, with Jacob taking your turn as well as his own. And we played music constantly. I knew all the words to every single One Direction song.
Sometimes it all felt worryingly futile. As time passed, despair built in me of never hearing your voice again. But I pushed on with researching homeschooling. I also looked up exercises that we could do together to combat the muscle wastage you would be suffering after lack of movement for such an extended period.
Your dad and I spent every spare moment with you, Beth, but reality started to come knocking. Your dad had to return to work, which meant he often slept at the hospital then drove the two and a half hours straight to the factory, leaving me alone with you. I held your hand and talked until my throat hurt. Every. Single. Day.
You never reacted.
Despair closed in on me every time I saw your beautiful, animated face now empty. The sound of the machine filling your lungs with air made me want to scream. Being in the same room as you began to feel claustrophobic. My fingers twitched; I paced all the time. I wanted to run from the building, the tears, the pain, the guilt.
What could I do that would make things better? I offered every pact under the stars to God, the great They, whatever entity might be interested in taking me up on it.
Take me instead of her. Take me and Jacob – we don’t mind.
But there was never any change.
At home, the steady flow of concerned visitors slowed to a trickle, a dribble, a drought. After the fuss of your dad’s ‘drugs revelation’ in the newspapers, there had been no further coverage in the nationals and only a tiny update in the Wapentake Investigator. Posters around the village appealing for anyone with information to come forward were so shabbily made that they were peeling off street lights within a week. Yesterday’s news, tomorrow’s litter. Only the one in the window of the Picky Person’s Pop In looked as fresh as the day it was printed.
Not that it did any good. Not a single person had come forward.
‘Someone, somewhere must have seen something, surely?’ I despaired to Jill one day, after popping in for some milk. ‘There’s about eight hundred people living here, give or take. They can’t all have been at home with the curtains closed.’
Jill’s eyes were full of pity, but her words were to the point as she handed me my change. ‘Why not, duck? You were.’
It wasn’t an accusation. Still I blushed – with guilt and anger. I turned to the handful of other villagers browsing the shelves.
‘Please… have you heard a rumour even, of what might have happened? Any of you?’
They all suddenly found the floor interesting.
Outside, I spotted Ursula walking with Chloe. I called out. They turned, waved, but hurried on.
‘Sorry, we’ve got to get home. I’ll call tomorrow,’ Ursula said, with a melancholy smile.
*
It was three days later before she did, then it was my turn to get away as quickly as possible because all she could give me were platitudes and news of how brave her own daughter was being.
All the time she talked, I wondered: Why can’t it be your daughter in hospital instead of mine?