‘Mr Evans said you didn’t go on the school trip …’ I watch Charlotte’s face, sure there will be a reaction. This – this secret excursion with Ella – it’s part of the reason she stepped in front of a bus, I feel sure of it. ‘He said you pretended you had a bad tummy from a trip to Nandos. I know that was a lie, Charlotte.’
Nothing. No twitch, no tightening, no tension. If anything her face seems to relax a tiny bit, as though she’s just slipped into a deeper sleep. The nurses don’t believe me when I say I can tell when Charlotte is asleep. It’s a common misconception that comatose patients are always asleep – they’re not. They have sleep and wake states like the rest of us, only it’s not always obvious when they’re in a wake state. I can tell by the heaviness of her eyelids, the shape of her jaw and the looseness of her lips but I can also tell if she’s asleep, even in darkness. One of the nurses – Kimberley – gave me a kindly smile when I told her that Charlotte smells different when she’s asleep but I knew she thought it was a strange thing to say. It’s true though. I know Charlotte’s scent better than anyone else’s. I know the scent of her skin, the uniqueness that lies beyond her deodorant, her perfume and her hairspray. Sitting by her cot in the dark, when she was a baby, I’d know without touching or listening to her if she was asleep or not. The salty-sweet scent of sleep was all I needed to be sure. Even now, if I hold Charlotte’s hand to my face I know from the scent of her wrist if she’s awake or asleep.
‘Sue?’ I jump at the hand on my shoulder and know instantly that Brian is standing behind me.
‘Yes, darling?’ There are dark bags under his eyes and a grey pallor to his skin. His shirt, the same one he wore yesterday, is crumpled with yellow sweat stains under the armpits. His hair is sticking up at angles. He looks like a scarecrow on nightshift.
‘What are you doing?’ He glances meaningfully at the clock.
‘Visiting Charlotte.’
He squeezes my shoulder so hard I wonder if he’s holding onto me because he’s too exhausted to stand unaided.
‘Come home, Sue.’ His voice is loud in the quiet room. ‘You need to come home now.’
‘So you see doctor, she hasn’t been well for a while.’
We are sitting in the Western Road surgery, in Doctor Turner’s office – Brian on the left, me on the right and the doctor behind the desk, her red hair tied back in a ponytail, a string of multicoloured beads around her neck.
‘I see.’ She nods, her eyes still on me. They haven’t left my face once since Brian started speaking. He’s been telling her about the way I’ve been acting recently, the things I’ve been saying, the things I’ve been doing.
‘I’m only here because of the fainting fits,’ I say.
Doctor Turner tilts her head to one side. ‘Just the fainting fits?’
I feel like she wants me to admit to more than that, that she’ll be disappointed if I don’t, but I nod anyway. ‘Yes. And I wouldn’t even have come in for them if the paramedic hadn’t suggested I get checked over.’
‘I see.’ She types something into her computer. ‘So you’re not worried about the way you’ve been feeling recently? Everything’s been fine … emotionally … as far as you’re concerned?’
‘Well, yes. No. Well, I’m obviously very emotional at the moment. My daughter’s in a coma.’
‘Our daughter.’
I glance at Brian. The last time he took me to the doctor he held my hand all the way through the appointment. He hasn’t so much as touched me today – not that I blame him – not after everything I’ve put him through.
‘Our daughter.’ I correct myself.
‘I see.’ Doctor Turner raises her eyebrows. ‘How long has she been like that?’
‘Seven weeks,’ I say. ‘Five days and …’ I look at my watch but catch Brian shaking his head out of the corner of my eye and the words dry in my mouth.
‘So you’ve been under stress for nearly two months then, Sue?’
I nod.
‘And all these symptoms … they’ve only presented themselves since your daughter became unwell?’
‘Yes,’ Brian says before I can object to the term ‘unwell’. ‘Sue was absolutely fine prior to Charlotte’s accident. Well …’ he glances at me, ‘… since 2006 anyway.’
The doctor made a low hmmm sound and consults her screen. ‘2006.’ Her eyes flick from left to right and then back at me. ‘Which is when you were diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, Sue?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And how did that present itself?’
‘Delusions,’ Brian says. ‘Jumpiness. Paranoia. Heart palpitations. Difficulty sleeping.’
‘Sue,’ Doctor Turner stresses my name. ‘Do you agree with your husband’s description of your symptoms?’
I stare at my hands. I don’t want to think about 2006. It’s too painful, what I put Brian and Charlotte through, particularly Charlotte. ‘Yes.’
‘And the treatment you were prescribed was—’
‘Bloody ineffective!’ Brian snorts. ‘Talk therapy. Jesus! She may as well have gone down the WI and had a nice chat with—’
‘Please.’ I put a hand on his knee. ‘Please, Brian, don’t.’
‘But it didn’t work, did it, Sue? It might have seemed like it did at the time but,’ he looks at the GP and holds his hands wide in exasperation, ‘it obviously didn’t cure her long term or she wouldn’t be suffering now, would she?’
I want to tell him that I’m not having delusions, that James Evans knows where we live and that it’s dangerous for us to stay in the house but if I do that he’ll think I’m mad – more mad than he already does. After what happened at the school yesterday I couldn’t refuse when he insisted that I see the doctor, especially when the paramedic chimed in about my fainting fit. Saying that I thought my PTSD had come back was the only way I could explain why I’d run through the corridors of our daughter’s school, screaming that the business studies teacher was dangerous. I had to agree to see Doctor Turner – for Brian’s reputation if nothing else.
‘Sue.’ She angles her body in my direction so Brian knows the question is meant for me and me alone. ‘How do you feel? Day to day. Hour by hour. Now?’