‘And what do I do when I get there?’ It’s like all my synapses are fried and I can’t think straight.
‘Just come to reception, ask for me, Dr Luther, or say who you are and you’ll be led in. You’ll be able to see your husband.’
‘But is he going to be all right?’
‘He’s in good hands.’ It’s the voice of a woman used to saying things like that to people, I think blankly and then she’s gone. I’m left holding the phone, sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the blood pumping through my skull and my chest as if I’m the one having a heart attack.
I stuff the phone back down and race into Rachel’s room. She’s there, in bed asleep, looking younger than ever, her long dark hair spread over the pillow. I can’t wake her, but somebody needs to be here for Joey. I run to Joey’s room and look at him, slipping in to stroke his face because he won’t wake up. Nothing short of an earthquake wakes Joey when he goes to sleep.
I race back into our bedroom and grab a bit of paper and scrabble among the detritus of the dressing table for a pen.
Your dad not well, in Vincent’s Hospital, gone to see him, stay here with Joey. I’ll call you if I need you, it’s ...
I realise I don’t even know what time it is, so I look at my watch and it’s 1.05 a.m.
I grab my handbag, throw my phone and charger into it trying to think sensibly but it’s impossible. Then I strip off my clothes and pull on leggings, a bra and a sweatshirt, all of which I was wearing around the house yesterday evening. I don’t care. Socks, runners, I don’t even pull a brush through my hair – it’s not important. And then I’m out and in the car, shaking as I grab the steering wheel.
I turn the radio off, I don’t want to listen to any music. I drive quickly, thinking of the last time I sped out of our suburban village towards the city, the night I thought Rachel was in trouble and I knew that if I had met any police car that night I’d just tell them and they’d help me, bring me, and now they’d do the same, wouldn’t they? But I can’t crash, so I slow down and try to breathe. He was OK, he was in good hands, he was stable, those were the words she said. They are good words, good news.
I park the car on a grass verge at the hospital, ignoring all the signs warning me that it will be clamped.
I don’t care about clamping. I have to get to the emergency department. What does a car matter?
I half run, because the heaviness in my chest since I got the phone call from the hospital won’t allow me to run properly. Or breathe. I need deep calming breaths.
Screw deep, calming breaths.
I need to be with him.
Now. Sooner.
I can keep him alive. No doctor can do it: he needs me, holding his hand, willing him back to life.
I don’t have time for the information desk – I know this hospital, see the double doors leading into the actual A & E itself, see a man pushing out of them and I race, grabbing one swing door just before it shuts.
I’m in.
Scanning. Peering in pasthalf-drawn cubicle curtains. A man throwing up vile black stuff.
Two cops standing outside another cubicle. A woman on a heart monitor.
And then there he is.
I see his hand lying limply. A hand that’s caressed me so many times.
I stand at the edge of thealready-full cubicle, about to speak when a doctor hangs her stethoscope round her neck and says: ‘I’ll talk to the wife.’
She’s gone instantly and I follow her, see her approach another woman. The doctor puts a comforting hand on the woman’s forearm.
‘I’m the wife!’ I say, my voice frantic.
And then, as the doctor spins around, I see the other woman, recognise her, see the horror on her face.
‘I’m his wife,’ I say, ‘not her.’
She looks white and, at first, she runs to me, then stops dead, her hands flying to her mouth.
Bea.
