‘No … you can stay.’ And after the doctor has finished, maybe I’ll get the answers from him I’m looking for.
Dr Sethi asks if she can take the armchair and I nod, then she motions for us to sit, so we end up lined up on the edge of the bed, me in the middle and Gil and Simon on either side of me.
For the second time in maybe ten minutes, I have proof I’m not completely emotionally numb. Anxiety becomes a low hum in my eardrums, a soft churning in my gut. Instinctively, I reach out and grab the hand beside mine on the edge of the mattress. It’s warm and familiar. I breathe out. Just this small piece of contact makes me feel safe.
Gil’s head snaps round, and he stares at me. I turn to meet his gaze, but out of the corner of my eye, I spot our fingers interlaced on the bed between us. He blinks, clearly perplexed but not horrified.
‘Sorry …’ I whisper, quietly enough for just Gil to hear me, and then I ease my hand from his, and reach for Simon with the other. It lands on his thigh and he covers it with his own.
‘So, Erin,’ Dr Sethi begins, ‘test results and blood work are continuing to look good, but I know going through each in detail will probably be draining for you so I’ll just give you the bullet points—’
‘Will I always be this way?’ I blurt out before she even gets going.
She doesn’t miss a beat, just answers me patiently. ‘Not necessarily. The brain has a marvellous ability to rebuild itself. You’ll see more improvements over the coming weeks. Most of the significant healing will take place within the first twelve months,but you may continue to see improvement for some years after that. It’s a waiting game to see which things will resolve themselves and I’m not going to lie to you, there may be a few lasting challenges. However, you were luckier than many people I see, Erin. Once the swelling in your brain went down, there wasn’t nearly as much damage as I expected, so while I know this is frustrating and sometimes confusing, take heart that the prognosis is looking pretty good for you, much better than for some of my other patients.’
I swallow. ‘Thank you.’
She places her clipboard on her knees and smiles at me. ‘You may or may not remember that we were considering sending you to the brain injury rehabilitation unit for a few weeks, but you’re doing so well we think you’ll be fine with outpatient rehab, so the good news is that, yes, you can go home soon.’
‘Today?’
She shakes her head. ‘In a day or two. We’re transferring your care to King’s College Hospital when you go home, so we need a bit more time to get everything lined up. The neurology department there will keep an eye on you, but you will also have sessions with the psychologist, a physiotherapist, and occupational health.’
Simon wraps his arms around me, pulling me towards him so he can kiss my hair and whisper in my ear. I’ve only seen Simon cry three times in my life and from the catch in his voice, I suspect I might be about to witness the fourth. ‘I’m so relieved, Erin. I can’t wait to have you back home. For while there, I thought I was going to lose you.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Present Day
I return to the flat I share with Simon two days later. I’m desperate to walk through the front door, but when I do, everything feels strange, the same way it does when you come home after a holiday. I know it won’t last long, but I don’t like it. I want everything to feel normal again.Iwant to feel normal again. But right at this moment, that feels as possible as if I’d flown home from Devon by flapping my arms.
Simon is amazing. If I thought he adored me before the accident, he’s surpassing himself now. I barely have to lift a finger. He doesn’t even open his laptop to look at work emails, something I usually chide him for when he’s supposed to be off. Instead he spends all his time pandering to my every whim. Not that I have many. Food and naps are pretty much all I require at the moment. Even snuggling up in front of the TV every evening is a bit of an ask. Most nights, I just doze off. By about 8 p.m., I’m good for nothing. When my brain decides it’s too tired to do one more thing, it shuts down. I can’t think. I can’t talk. I can barely move.
Other than that, the thing I need most is time with Simon.I know we didn’t end up having our wedding, but I’d been aching for our honeymoon because it would mean a fortnight alone with nothing to do but rest and relax. At least I’ve got that now and I’m grateful for it, even if it is in our two-bed flat in Herne Hill rather than under the Caribbean sun. Slowly, I emerge from my bubble of emotional numbness and feel more like my usual self. How could I not with all the love and attention he’s lavishing on me?
On Monday morning, about ten days after I come home from the hospital, I hear the door brush on the bedroom carpet and I roll over in bed and blink hazily. When I’m able to focus sufficiently, Simon is standing there beside the bed holding a tray.
I yawn and push myself up to rest against the headboard. ‘You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.’
He lays the tray down on my lap. This morning it’s a bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon – my absolute favourite – orange juice and a large mug of decaf tea, because I’m not allowed caffeine since the accident. It’s too much stimulation for my compromised brain. There’s even a small vase full of grape hyacinths and a napkin on the tray.
‘Yes, I do have to do this for you.’ He leans down to kiss my forehead as I reach for the mug. ‘You’re everything to me, Erin. I don’t always think I’ve been good at showing you that in the past. Or being the person you deserve.’
I reach out and touch his arm, my eyes misty. ‘Yes, you have.’ I think back to all the bunches of flowers, the over-the-top birthday presents, the surprise weekends away to Prague and Bruges and Paris. Simon has always known how to make me feel special.
He looks back at me seriously, rare for Simon who always seems to be on the verge of smiling or bursting into laughter.‘I don’t know how to express it, but I know what I’m trying to say.’
I nod, even though I don’t understand. Normally, I’m Nancy Drew, digging into the layers of nuance in everyone’s conversations, but since the accident, I don’t have the capacity. I let moments like these slide, and I have the feeling that one day I’m going to stumble over a pile of discarded half-thoughts I’ve let tumble to the floor and it’ll trip me up. Stupid, really, but I feel my head injury has definitely made me more anxious, possibly even a little paranoid.
‘When you’ve finished that, I’ll help you get dressed,’ he says. ‘You’ve got that appointment with the psychologist this morning, remember?’
I nod again. It’s becoming my default response to almost every question, even if Idon’tremember what I’m being reminded of. I know it’s not being entirely honest, but I’m so fed up with feeling so weak and useless. ‘I can manage myself,’ I tell him.
He starts to argue, but I give him a look and he backs away laughing softly, his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay … okay … But call me if you need me.’
I nod again. Another lie. When did it become so easy?
I manage to get dressed without Simon’s aid, even if I lose my balance trying to put one foot in the leg of my knickers and have to grab the chest of drawers. I’ve learned my balance is also a bit compromised but that it’s good to move around regardless, as it’ll help my brain recalibrate in a way that staying still, afraid to move, won’t.
