I nod, but I know, better than most people, how damn fragile the human body can be. I once got called out to a scene where a teenage girl tripped over her skateboard – one fall was all it took. She ended up with a brain injury that left her paralysed. Another time, Miguel and I found a guy near the lake, got stung by a bee and had an allergic reaction. Dead before we got there, his golden retriever running around him in circles, barking. Then there was a woman who fell in the shower, blocked the drain, and drowned in three inches of water. Unbelievably bad luck.
The list goes on and on and on, and I know the opposite is true also – some people survive the very worst, like being thrown off a parking lot, or emerging from a multi-vehicle crash on the freeway with only scratches. None of that computes right now. All I can think about is Sandy, and Kate, and saying goodbye to them both.
‘Drive faster,’ is all I say, my knuckles white and my heart filled with dread.
TWENTY-FIVE
KATE
Ouch!
Tears roll down my face as the nurse stitches up my head. But they aren’t from pain – at least not the physical kind.
I don’t really remember the journey here to the hospital. The day has passed in a blur of tests, questions, and being poked and prodded. I’ve lost track of time, because hospitals do that thing – no natural light, no normal rhythms, everything feeling disconnected from the real world.
Rosie called in, I think – I was still pretty confused by that stage, my head pounding and everything still all mushed up in my mind. I know I fell, even though I don’t really remember it actually happening. And I know why I fell…
I fell because I was distracted, not paying attention. I fell because I told Brody I loved him, and because of the look on his face when I let those stupid words slip out.
He was terrified. There’s no getting away from it. It’s not just that he didn’t say it back – I would never expect that – it’s that he seemed so very deeply disturbed by it. I think about it as the nurse continues to stitch up my head, which is probably not a good idea as I keep crying.
‘Och now,’ she says, sounding like an exasperated mum, ‘don’t be such a baby!’
She thinks I’m crying because of the procedure, and I let her think that. She’s a nurse, not a psychologist, so she probably can’t help me with the other issue. Truthfully, the stitches don’t hurt that much, they gave me a local anaesthetic. I just wish they could inject some directly into my shattered heart.
I can’t believe I told him I loved him. I’ve been feeling it, creeping up on me like a stealth emotion bomb, lurking behind all my thoughts. I don’t think, though, that I’d even fully acknowledged it to myself until today – I was as surprised as he was when I spoke like that. Surprised and, I remind myself with an embarrassing sob, horrified.
I am in love with Brody. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that now. But he very clearly does not feel the same, and I have to learn to live with that. He never promised me more than what we have, and he was always honest about what he could offer. His life, his heart, his memories – they all live in Chicago, and I only ever had him on a short-term basis. I knew all of that, I accepted it – but it still hurts. Replaying the shocked expression on his face, the way he froze like a hunted animal, makes me cringe inside.
I’m an idiot. Harry was a complete moron, and he didn’t love me, so why would I ever think that a man like Brody would? I’m not exactly the catch of the century. I have no career, no family, nothing to offer apart from sex. And while the sex has been spectacular, admittedly, I now know it’s not enough. It’s not just my body that’s fallen for him, it’s my whole being. I’ve fallen harder for him than I did from that stepladder.
He’s currently hanging around outside the cubicle, having been chased away by the nurse when she started the stitches. We haven’t been alone since he arrived, between the tests and moving between different departments. I’m glad, because partof me really does not want to face him. I feel so foolish, so incompetent. Like such a bloody disaster zone.
The nurse finishes up with my stitches, sits back and admires her handiwork. ‘There. I can tell Moira you’re all patched up now.’
‘Moira?’ I echo. ‘You know Moira?’
‘Aye, of course I do – everyone knows Moira McLeod! You’re one of her waifs and strays, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose I am.’
She nods, and continues. ‘You’re lucky it was mainly on the scalp. Only a wee bit on the forehead, so you won’t look too much like Frankenstein.’
Wow, I think. That’s a low bar. I can now add facial scars to my list of attractive features. I thank her, and she settles me back in the bed, tucking my blankets in with a maternal efficiency that threatens to make me weep again. I don’t think I’ve ever missed my mum and my gran so much.
‘Now,’ she announces, ‘I’m going to let the big man in. He’s been pacing around out there since you arrived, scaring my staff. Is he your other half, hen? Are we allowed to talk to him about your care?’
‘No!’ I say firmly, shaking my head in a way that makes me feel instantly dizzy, and not a little nauseous. ‘No, he’s… uh, just a friend.’
She looks at me doubtfully, but replies: ‘If you say so.’
She leaves, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I cannot cry in front of him. I cannot make this any worse than it already is. It’s time to put on a show, for both our sakes.
He pushes his way through the green cubicle curtain, almost tugging it down, and stands over me. Big as ever, but now pale and drawn as well.
Our eyes meet, and I see him examining me, looking at the stitches, taking in the plasters and dressings where most ofmy blood has been drained away for more tests. I must look absolutely irresistible.
He drags a chair over, sits beside me. Gently takes one of my hands in his.
