As they leave the ward I start to shake. I press the buzzer for the nurse, and this time a different one arrives. I tell them I’m in pain. A ten, I say again. And soon enough they inject me with something that sends me right back to the warm nothingness. I drift off, hoping desperately that by the time I wake, Cooper will be back in the land of the living.
46
The next three days bring nothing more than sporadic waves of consciousness. I wake in the morning and am wheeled down to see Cooper while my brain is still fresh from sleep. I spend half an hour talking to him, pleading with him to come back.
In between waking and sleeping, various people come to visit me, though I’m mostly hazy and not much use to anyone. I vaguely remember Mr. Yoon popping in, speaking to me through the VOCA. And Frida brings me a packet of Marks & Spencer’s nightdresses and a box of black thongs because they had no full briefs available. I think I have conversations with people, but the only ones that seem to remain in my memory are the guttingly one-sided ones I have every morning with Cooper.
After day four of this routine, I press my buzzer for my usual eleven o’clock fix of mind-softening drugs. Manny, the head nurse of the ward, turns up and perches on the edge of my bed.
“We’re cutting you off,” he says plainly.
“What?”
“No more morphine. No more sedatives. The doctor said you shouldn’t need them at this point.”
I tut. “But I do! I really need them.”
“I know your beloved is down in the ICU. And that is troubling, for sure. But drugs are not gonna fix the pain, believe me.”
“That is literally what drugs do.”
“No more.” He throws me a smile, full of pity. “Your knee is improving. I’m sorry, Delphie. The doctor says it’s time to start reducing the meds.”
When he’s hurried off to help another patient, I huff and grab my phone for a distraction. There’s a text from Mum. I squint my eyes and scroll up, realising that I appear to have texted her yesterday. I don’t remember doing that—I must have been drugged up.
My text to her says:
Mum I’m in hospital. Car accident. Knee, ribs. Ward 8 UCL. I miss you x
I scan her reply.
Darling, oh no! Sorry to hear it! Get well soon!
I stare at the message for several seconds. Then I scroll upwards and upwards and upwards. All the messages from me, all the brush-offs from her. My chest aches. I think of what Cooper said the night of the gala after Jonah ran away from me. If people want to go, sometimes it’s easier to just let them.
I tap into my contacts and finally delete her number.
The next afternoon I am in possibly the worst mood I’ve ever been in in my entire life. This morning the doctor told me they were having trouble understanding why Cooper had not yet woken up and that I needed to be prepared for the prospect of it never happening.
I’m having myself a little cry when Leanne shows up. She’s dressed in a jumpsuit made out of yellow and green pineapple fabric that looks lit up amongst the muted pale blues of ward eight. Her eyelashes are somehow even longer than they have ever been and so heavy it looks like they’re slightly weighing down her eyelids. She’s holding a carton in her hands and approaching me gently, eyes wide, like I’m a lion in a cage and she’s a kid tempted to stick her finger in between the bars but is too scared to do it. My face must be an exact reflection of my mood right now.
“You look like you used to,” she says.
“What?”
“Grumpy. Like you don’t want anyone to talk to you.”
“Yet here you are.”
“I brought you soup,” Leanne says softly, waving the carton at me.
“Why?” I lean forward and sniff the carton. It smells good.
“That’s what you’re supposed to do when people are sad,” Leanne says.
“That’s what who does?”
“People. Pals.”
