It pissed me off, every time I had to visit the hospital, that I had to pay for parking. It hadn’t always been like that. When Michael was born parking there was free. Then, when Rose came along all they asked for was a voluntary contribution (for the car parking). Now it was obligatory and patrolled. I wondered what happened to all those with an ongoing illness who had to come to hospital regularly — it must have cost them a fortune.
The mist was still horribly thick and all I could see in the parking attendant’s hut was the dark shape of someone moving about as little as possible. As I begrudgingly pushed a few of the lowest denomination coins I could find into the ticket machine I hard-stared over at the hut. I’m sure they couldn’t see me through the mist, but perhaps they could feel my venom.
I handed the letter from Doctor Jones to a young lady behind a reception desk. Although she wore a medical looking uniform, I didn’t think she was a nurse. She briefly glanced at the top of the letter (without reading the rest of it) and handed it straight back.
‘You want down there,’ she said, pointing. ‘And then go to the right. See the reception there.’
I walked down the corridor in the direction she had pointed. Although I had been for an MRI scan before, none of this looked familiar. The last time I had been through the scanner was when I had just been attacked. They had wheeled me there from my ward.
I turned right and saw another, smaller reception area. A dozen or so chairs had been arranged around the desk to form a waiting area. Although it was not yet 10am, most of the chairs were occupied.
I handed my letter to the grey-haired lady behind this desk. She didn’t look like a nurse either. She read the entire letter and then put it onto a pile of other papers in a letter tray. She asked me if I would like to take a seat and wait for my name to be called. I thanked her, and sat down.
Perhaps it’s being British. Or perhaps it’s just being human — but no one seems to like sitting next to anyone else in a waiting room if they can avoid it. If it had been possible, I guarantee that there would have been at least one empty chair in-between everyone sitting there. Apart from couples, we all sought our own space.
I had no such luxury of choice. I picked a chair. On my left sat a young mother, bouncing a baby gently up and down on her leg. To my right, a big man, made even bigger by the fact that he had kept his outdoor coat on. He shifted a bit as I squeezed down as tactfully as I could. But he didn’t look at me or make any sound of acknowledgement. Once seated, I noticed the usual pile of magazines perched on a small table. I decided not to bother. It wasn’t worth the hassle of disturbing the big guy again just to read a crummy old magazine. Instead, I took the time-sheet from my handbag and updated it. I had to make myself do it every half hour, not just when I remembered.
The baby, bouncing on the young mother’s knee, started coughing. It sounded as though it had a forty-a-day habit of the strongest cigarettes money could buy. The mother patted its back as it bounced. One more hacking cough and the baby threw up on its mother’s bouncing knee. Not a lot — but enough to make me regret my choice of seat.
The MRI was worse than I remembered. It was noisy and made me feel restless. I hadn’t remembered it taking so long last time either. It wasn’t painful at all — apart from the noise, but I was grateful when they finally pulled me out again.
I was directed back to the receptionist who told me that they would contact my GP with the results as soon as they had them.
The whole thing had taken nearly two hours from parking to leaving. The mist had started to disperse as the sunlight forced its way through to the damp earth. I updated my time-sheet.
When I pulled into our drive at home I checked the clock on the dashboard. Nearly midday. It felt as though the time-sheet was almost becoming a habit as I instinctively reached for it. Lunchtime. A drink, some food and maybe even a sleep.
I settled for water and a sandwich. Sunlight stretched across the work surfaces in the kitchen as I made my lunch. I could feel its warmth on my hands. Too nice for a sleep.
I finished my lunch, drank down another glass of water and decided to go for a walk. I didn’t want to think about anything. I didn’t want to try to analyse or make sense of anything. I just wanted to feel my legs working, breathe in fresh air and feel the sun’s rays on my face.
I put a tick against 12:30pm on my sheet and dropped it, and the pen, back into my bag.
Although the sun was doing its best, it was still chilly outside so I grabbed my coat from the hook by the front door, reached for a scarf too and stepped out into the early afternoon sunshine.
I had no real plan of where I was going. I just wanted to be a hippie. I wanted to hear the birds, feel the breeze and the sunshine and taste the air. I might even smell a flower or two if I had the opportunity. I headed out of our close and turned left — away from the direction of the town and heading towards the local park and woods. My strides were large. My arms swung vigorously, fists clenched and I pumped air into my lungs Almost immediately I heard the birds, felt the breeze and smelled the smells. I loosened my scarf a little. It tickled against my neck. The cool air soothed the tickling. I breathed in deeply through my nose.
What was that smell? It didn’t smell right. It smelled sweet. Sickly. The wind picked up and blew my hair. Something pulsed through my arms. I tried to reach into my bag. The time-sheet was just a quick grasp away. But my arms pulsed again, straightening and strengthening.
The heavy mist came from nowhere, blotting out the sun and swirling around my body. Moisture dripped from my face and I felt like I was choking as I breathed in through my mouth. There was so much moisture in the air I thought I would drown. I tried again for the time-sheet. Tried forcing my hand to my bag. I reached the opening, drowning from the moisture, pushed into the bag. And my damned leg stabbed me from deep inside the bone.
The muffled sound of ringing reached me. What was that? It didn’t sound like my mobile. Why didn’t anyone answer it. It must be coming from somewhere near. How else could I hear it.
Of course I couldn’t answer it. I couldn’t even move. Couldn’t move my legs, my arms. Couldn’t move my eyes or my mouth. I wasn’t breathing.
That damned ringing.
I gasped for air. Sucked it in. It was as though my natural breathing mechanisms had been switched off. I had no idea for how long. But now, at last, someone had just found the switch and flicked them on again. Just in time.
And with the new breath came clarity.
It was as though I had just climbed out of my skin as a new me. Like leaving a dream for consciousness.
This wasn’t a dream. I wasn’t unconscious. This was real.
I was in Rose’s room. Standing over her bed, looking down at her pillow. Weak sunshine strained through her bedroom window and bounced off the carpet and walls.
My left arm hung straight down against my body. The fingers of my left hand outstretched. My right hand was behind my back. Gripping something.
The phone stopped ringing downstairs and I heard the “beep” as the answer phone kicked in.
I brought my right hand from behind my back. My knuckles were blotchy, red and white, from holding it so tightly. It was a face flannel, dripping wet. It was a spare one. Not one that any of us used. I must have got it from the airing cupboard. And then wet it. And then walked into my daughters bedroom with it hidden behind my back.
A groan gurgled up from deep in my throat as my stomach churned. Both my knees gave way and I thrust the wet flannel to my mouth. I stopped the sick from coming out. Swallowed it back down again. My throat burned. My eyes stung.
I looked over at Rose’s digital clock — 2:25pm. My stomach turned over again and I felt cold along my shoulder blades. This time the flannel didn’t stop the vomit from hitting Rose’s floor.
I crawled on my knees as quickly as I could to the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid and stuck my head over the rim. But no more sick came. I closed the lid and pulled myself up onto the seat.
I s
at quietly for at least five minutes, trying to work out what I had been doing in Rose’s room. Why I had been looking down at her bed and pillow, and why I had been hiding a wet flannel behind my back?
Obviously it made no sense. I pulled a wodge of toilet paper from the roll and wiped my mouth. Then pulled some more and wiped my eyes. I dropped the flannel in the sink and went downstairs to find a cloth, a bowl of water, and some carpet shampoo for Rose’s room. My legs shook a little as I walked down the stairs. When I reached the kitchen, the phone started up again. It made me jump.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Hello — is that Christine?’
‘Yes?’ I said.
My throat still stung from the burning sensation caused by the vomit. I regretted answering the phone because it hurt to talk.
‘Christine, it’s Donna Shaw — Harry’s mum.’
Oh God. This was all I needed. Some new problem with Harry or his parents. I held the phone in one hand and reached for a glass from the cupboard. I needed some cold water. I had a feeling this was going to be a long call.
‘Hi, Donna,’ I said, trying to sound as bright as I could. ‘How’s Harry? Is he feeling better today?’
‘Oh, Harry’s fine,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I think he could have gone in today, but I thought a couple of days would be good. Let the dust settle. Actually I think he wanted to see Michael, let him know that everything is OK — you know?’
‘He’s a lovely boy,’ I said. ‘I’m pleased he’s OK.’
I ran the tap as quietly as I could and filled the glass when the water felt cold on my finger. I managed a quick sip.
‘I was ringing to see if you were OK?’ she said.
‘Me? I’m fine. Just a bit of a dry throat at the moment,’ another quick sip, ‘but I’m fine really. Thank you.’
‘It’s just that I saw you earlier today and wondered if you were OK?’ her voice faltered slightly. There was a hesitancy.
‘Where was that?’ I said. ‘Did I not look OK?
No reply. Had she not heard the question?
‘Donna?’
‘Well… it was outside our house? When you were there… earlier?’
‘Today?’ I said.
‘About two hours ago,’ she said. ‘At least, I thought it was you? You were sort of in the shadows of the trees on the opposite side of the road. That was you — wasn’t it? I recognised the car first. You looked like you were looking up at our house. I waved from the window but I don’t think you saw me. By the time I came out to talk to you, you were gone.’
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t get my mind around what she was telling me. I couldn’t deny it — because I had no idea if it was true or not and I couldn’t acknowledge it as fact for the same reason.
‘Oh, do you know,’ I said, ‘I don’t know if I’m coming or going at the moment. I was so worried about Harry. But I am pleased he’s on the mend. It’s really lovely of you to phone as well. It’s so nice to know that there are people out there looking out for you.’
I wanted her off the phone now. I needed to think.
‘And you’re sure you’re OK?’ she said.
‘Donna, it’s so kind of you. But yes, thank you, I’m fine. And thank you so much for letting me know about Harry — please do pass on my best wishes to him, and Michael asked after him this morning. He really feels dreadful about it.’
She told me that she was pleased I was OK, and then put the phone down. I half expected her to ring back for clarification of whether it really had been me or not. But the phone stayed silent.
I finished my glass of water and refilled it. I needed to find my time-sheet, if only to confirm what I already knew. I had lost time again. I had apparently driven again, and I had no memory of any of it. Again.
The time-sheet wasn’t in my handbag. The pen was — but it was snapped in two. Thick blue ink dribbled from one half of it. My handbag was a mess.
I eventually found the time-sheet in my car. It was on the back seat, screwed into a tight ball. I brought it into the house and unravelled it as carefully as I could. I smoothed it out onto the dining table. All the time slots were ticked up to the 12:30pm mark. The next three entries 1:00pm to 2:00pm were marked too. But not with ticks. Each time indicator had been scored through so vigorously with the pen that the paper had torn. On the lines next to the obliterated times was a word. It looked like it had been scratched onto the page with the broken pen. It too had ripped the paper, and at first it was difficult to make out. But I think I already knew what it said.
“Bitch”.
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