In spite of my teasing, she keeps her gaze firm on Dad’s bed.
‘Oh, Scarlett, really, I’m just trying to make conversation,’ she snaps, still refusing to make eye contact with me.
‘Sure,’ I purr, taking another Rolo from the packet on her lap.
Sandy slips out to the ladies’ and I stand, watching my dad sleep. ‘Come on, Dad, wake up for me. I know you can get through this.’
I lift my hand to my lips, being careful not to tug on his intravenous drip. I follow his bruises and marks from his hand, up his arm. Glancing at the doorway to make sure Sandy isn’t headed back, I move my dad’s sheet and look at his black and blue ribs, his frail, purple chest. Then I check his back, as far as I can see without disturbing him and the machines keeping him alive. I check his neck.
This is ridiculous.
He’s bruised because he fell down the stairs. But there was enough doubt in my mind to look.
Stop overthinking.
‘Sandy!’ I jump when she comes back into the room and I hurry to place my dad’s sheets back around him, as though I’ve been tucking him in.
Two hours, eleven games of hangman, three games of noughts and crosses and no change from Dad pass before Doctor Jefferson makes his rounds. His obvious procrastination as he reads my dad’s charts is further confirmation that things aren’t looking up.
‘Please, can you just tell us,’ I say impatiently.
He hangs the clipboard back onto the end of Dad’s metal bedframe, puts his Biro back into the top pocket of his white coat and folds his arms across his chest.
‘I’m afraid your father’s condition hasn’t improved as we’d hoped. His brain function isn’t improving as the swelling reduces.’
‘Can’t you wake him up?’ Sandy pleads.
‘It’s really about whether he’s strong enough to come ’round. You must understand he suffered a heavy trauma.’
‘There’s a chance he won’t recover.’ I don’t know whether I’m telling Sandy, asking the doctor to confirm what I already know, or re-telling myself the truth of the situation.
‘But he might?’ Sandy almost begs.
Doctor Jefferson is visibly uncomfortable and rocks from one foot to the other, pushing his hands into the pockets of his white coat. ‘It would be sensible to prepare yourself for the worst. There’s still time but we need to see an improvement. Doctor Heath’s body is weak and unresponsive but we’ll keep trying, waiting. I’m not suggesting you give up hope but you need to be realistic.’
Biting down on my gums, I see Sandy in my peripheral vision sink into her seat. ‘If it would help, I can arrange for someone to come and see you. We have an excellent counselling service here. Some people find it helpful.’
Sandy shakes her head, staring at her boss, her friend.
‘We’re fine,’ I say. He’ll come through, I know it. It’s not his time.
It’s there again, a small but repugnant sense of relief overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of hatred. For myself and everything bad in this world that happens to good people like my dad.
When the doctor leaves, I tell Sandy she really must get away from the hospital and do something for herself.
‘Where would I go?’ she asks.
‘Anywhere, Sandy. Go shopping, take a bath, bake, go to the cinema. I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to be here all day, every day. I want to be here too but Dad isn’t waking up.’
Moving to his bed, I stroke Dad’s cheek then place the most gentle of kisses on his warm forehead. ‘I love you. I always will and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Sandy and I walk the long corridor away from him arm in arm.
‘Let’s just grab Gregory and we’ll give you a lift to wherever you want to go. He’s visiting the children’s ward.’
Sandy follows whilst grumbling about putting us out. Like one lift is worth more than the twenty-odd years she’s spent running around after me.
Before we even see the children, the laughter and screams of delight are infectious. Three nurses dressed in navy, two-piece uniforms chuckle and shake their heads as they watch the activities of the general ward unfold. My feet move more quickly as my interest is piqued. Just before I turn the corner to see what’s causing the commotion, the almighty roar of a man’s voice vibrates in my ears. I glance at the three nurses; the tallest of the three, the most sensible looking, who wears her hair in a French chignon, says through her laughter, ‘Every time… every time we tell him not to get them too excited but does he listen?’
