‘I don’t care what it is. I’m not going to—’
‘Mum please! We’re worried about you. We have been for a while. You …’ he looks away, unable to sustain eye contact, ‘… you haven’t been yourself since Charlotte’s accident. All that talk about Keisha and Charlotte and who was best friends with who and asking for Danny’s number and address and … well, I thought it was a bit odd but I wouldn’t have said anything until Dad mentioned that he’d found your tablets down the side of the sofa.’
The haze that hit me when I walked into the room clears and I stare at my husband and stepson as though seeing them for the first time. They think I’m mentally ill. I can see it in their frowns, in the hunch of their shoulders, in their whispering voices. They’ve put one and one together and come up with ‘mad’ and nothing I do or say will convince them otherwise. What can I say? That I’ve spent more time with Charlotte’s friends recently than I have my own daughter? That I went to a club in London and got in a blacked-out car with a footballer’s agent? That I’ve been peering into the front rooms of strangers’ houses? They wouldn’t believe a word. Worse than that, they’d think it was all part of the delusion. And of course I’m deluded – I haven’t been taking my tablets, have I?
I could show them what’s on the passenger seat of my car but they’d probably think I did it myself, for attention or because I’m disturbed. Brian would take one look at the blood-stained booties and be on the phone to the GP quicker than you can say ‘psychiatric unit’. There’s only one option left to me. One thing I can do.
I look at the tablets in Brian’s fingers. ‘If I take them,’ I say steadily. ‘Will you listen to me then?’
A slow smile crosses his face. ‘Of course I will, darling.’
Chapter 32
‘So we’ll go to Millets then.’
‘We won’t be long.’
‘Just need to pick up a few things for Oli’s next trip.’
‘I need a coat that’s actually waterproof. This is a proper Lake District downpour we’re talking about not some kind of light drizzle.’
‘Two man tent.’
‘Hiking socks.’
‘Carry mat.’
My husband and stepson are talking to me. Their jaws are going up and down, their eyebrows are wriggling and twitching and their eyes are widening and narrowing, but nothing makes any sense. I can hear words, lots of words, rolling together like waves of sound then crashing together above my head but I can’t distinguish one from the other and when I open my mouth to ask what they’re talking about nothing comes out. After two attempts I stop trying and allow the heavy feeling in my bones to roll me back in my seat, my head resting against the wall, my eyes drawn to the strip light on the ceiling. It flickers, pulses and hums and I remember Charlotte, three months old, lying in her pram, looking up at the blue and grey Habitat lampshade in our living room, her eyes wide with wonder.
‘An hour.’
‘Hour and a half tops.’
‘Come and collect you afterwards. Oli will go back to uni and I’ll drive us both home in your car.’
‘You look a bit more relaxed.’
‘Is that a smile? I can’t remember the last time …’
My eyes swivel towards them and I’m vaguely aware of my mouth moving and words coming out. They sound nonsensical in my head but Brian and Oli smile and nod and it appears I’ve said something that reassures them that it’s fine to leave me on my own, because the next thing I know there are lips on my cheek, a squeeze to my shoulder, a pat to my head and then they are gone.
Without the roar and crash of their voices the room hums with silence. It hurts my ears and then …
Bleep-bleep-bleep.
I make out the sound of the heart monitor in the corner of the room. The medical metronome – Charlotte’s constant companion and now mine too.
Tick-tick-tick. Bleep-bleep-bleep. Tick-tick-tick.
We are in the living room. I am lying on the sofa, Charlotte is sitting on the floor. She picks up a plastic brick, throws it half a metre, crawls after it, picks it up, throws it again. Her face is a picture of happiness and pride – she has conquered throwing and crawling, now she can take on the world. I want to freeze the scene. I want to re-live it over and over again.
I glance at my daughter, asleep on her hospital bed, and reach out a hand to touch her hair. I am surprised when I don’t feel the fine silkiness of a baby’s curls but I continue to stroke anyway, the follicles of her hair soft and smooth under my fingertips.
I was afraid. A memory stirs in my mind but it is ephemeral, transient and slips away as my brain tries to anchor and examine it. I feel the pressure of Brian’s lips still warm on my cheek and Oli’s hand on my head. My life is perfect. I have been blessed.
There is a squeak, an interruption to my reverie and I am aware of the door opening. Did Brian and Oli shut it behind them when they left? I didn’t notice. A figure – a man in a dark suit – drifts past me and crosses the room. He stands by the window, his back to me, looking out.
Consultant.
The word pops into my head and I smile. He has arrived to give me good news, to tell me that Charlotte will wake up soon, that I can take her out of her incubator, give her a cuddle and bring her home.