‘Where are we?’ asks Mum, clinging on to my hand. ‘Why are we here?’
She’s lying in a hospital bed, and I’m sitting next to her on one of those hard plastic chairs that’s already made my bum go numb.
‘We’re at the hospital, Mum,’ I say, calmly. ‘You had an accident, and you needed some X-rays, so we brought you here. Everything’s all right.’
She nods, and settles, letting her damp head fall back onto the pillows. This is approximately the fifteenth time that she’s asked me this, and each time, I have to explain again.
She was rushed through triage and on to an assessment ward, where she was warmed up and given pain relief before being taken through for the X-ray. They’re holding off on giving her anything to eat or drink until we know if she needs surgery, but the staff here seem to think she’ll be okay. She was cold but not hypothermic, and other than the ankle, doesn’t seem to be hurt.
I’ve not left her side since we got here, apart from a quick trip to the loos to get changed. Laura turned up with spare clothes, which I’m now wearing – the red tartan jumper is way too big on the chest, and way too short on the arms, and the green leggings end just below the knee, but at least they’re dry. I’m finally starting to warm up, and have been force-fed hot coffee and chocolate croissants.
Cherie has opened the café early, and Laura’s headed back there now – sounds like it’s turned into a refugee camp for survivors of the Great Lynnie Longville Escape Plot, with Matt and Laura and Cal and Zoe and the teenagers and the Scrumpy J Jones Collective all retreating there to eat and drink and reassure each other.
Laura looked relieved to see we were all alive, but couldn’t get out of the place quick enough – I know from Cherie that she hates hospitals, a throwback to the time her husband David was on a life-support machine and she had to decide to switch it off. I appreciate the fact that she’s faced her fears, and done a charity run anyway, bless her.
Tom has also changed – Laura brought some of Matt’s things with her as well – and is modelling the same clownish look as me, in jeans that end above the ankle. Serves us right for being stupidly tall. Just like I’ve not left Mum’s side, he’s not left mine.
Auburn arrived half an hour after us, wet and bedraggled, her long hair snaked over the shoulders of her Berghaus coat, her face pale and stressed, and her huge eyes panicked.
‘How is she?’ she’d asked, running over towards us, her wet boots sliding on the floor.
‘She’s going to be all right,’ I replied, smiling. She looked terrible, and Laura hadn’t brought spare clothes for her because she didn’t know she was there. She was dripping all over the lino, looking far from fine, and once she was reassured that Mum was okay, I persuaded her to go off with Tom and find the canteen.
He didn’t want to go, but I insisted.
‘Please,’ I said, holding his hand. ‘She needs to calm down, and warm up, and you’d be doing me a favour. She needs a break and she won’t go alone.’
He’d nodded, and led Auburn away in the direction of the lifts. I watched them go, and felt a sense of relief that I wasn’t proud of. Truthfully, I needed a break too. I needed a break from worrying about Auburn, and a break from worrying about Tom, and a break from simply being around people. Obviously, I was still around people – even in the morning the hospital is busy – but they’re not people I need to do anything for.
I’ve towel-dried my hair, and taken off my boots, and can finally feel my toes again, snug in Laura’s fluffy red bed-socks. I lean back in the chair, and look at Mum.
She seems so small and vulnerable, tucked up in her bed. Her hair is bunched up around her like a halo, and her eyes are closed. I can tell she’s not asleep, but at least she’s resting and not in pain. I cling onto her hand, as much for my reassurance as hers.
Now that I’m finally alone, I let myself breathe. I let myself acknowledge how close I came to losing her, and how terrifying that was. I know that I’ll never, ever forget that sight – the sight of her, curled up in a ball in the mud in a zebra-print onesie, looking for all the world like she’d gone forever.
I feel the trauma seep through me, as chilling as the rain, and screw up my eyes in fatigue. Hospitals are always so bright, aren’t they? My eyeballs are sore from exhaustion and strip lighting.
Mum stirs slightly, and looks up at me. I know what’s coming before the words even leave her lips.
‘Where are we?’ she asks, her gaze darting anxiously around at the other cubicles and the passing nurses and the squeaky-wheeled trolley of tea being pushed by an auxiliary. ‘Why are we here?’
‘You had an accident, Mum,’ I reply, again. ‘You hurt your ankle, and we needed to bring you to the hospital for an X-ray. It’s all fine, honest. I’m here.’
She nods, and accepts what I’ve said.
‘Can I have a cup of tea?’ she asks, like a child begging for pudding.
‘Not just yet,’ I say, looking around for someone to bother. I see a harassed-looking doctor walking towards me, and stand up to get his attention.
He nods, and walks over, and I see the effort it takes for him to smile. He’s probably been on shift all night, and even in Dorset, has most likely been dealing with more than his fair share of drunks, drug addicts, and car crashes. We were probably just the cherry on the cake.
‘Good news, Mrs Longville,’ he says, patting my mum on the shoulder. She smiles at him, but I can tell she’s feeling uncomfortable – she doesn’t know who he is or what he’s talking about. Her short-term memory seems to be completely shot to pieces by the events of the night. All she knows right now is that she wants a cup of tea.
‘The ankle is broken, but it doesn’t need surgery,’ he tells us both. ‘It’s just a minor fracture, and should heal well. We’re going to keep you here for a day or so, Mrs Longville, with a splint on, until the swelling goes down. After that, if all goes to plan, we’ll fit you with a very stylish support boot – we have them in different colours, you’ll be the envy of all your friends!’
Mum looks at him like he’s mad, and I hold back a laugh. He’s trying to be nice, obviously, but it isn’t working.
‘I can’t imagine that I will,’ she replies, frowning. ‘If I’m wearing odd boots, that’s not going to get me on the Britain’s Best Dressed list, is it? Plus, it’s “Ms”, not “Mrs”. Can I have a cup of tea now?’
The doctor looks slightly taken aback, but agrees to the tea, which is when she loses interest in him completely. She lets out a mammoth whistle to attract the attention of the auxiliary with the trolley, and all seems to be well with her world, at least for the time being.
I let her get on with it while the doctor takes me to one side and explains more – she’ll take at least six weeks to heal completely, he says, but once the swelling is gone and the boot is on, she’ll be able to walk on crutches. She might need to use those for a couple of weeks, or possibly be able to bear weight sooner, depending on how it all goes.
‘She’s actually in very good physical condition,’ he adds, glancing at her sadly. I feel his pity, and decide I don’t like it. I like it even less when he carries on.
‘If you need more help, I can arrange for a visit from social services. You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone,’ he says, sympathetically.
‘I’m not alone, and we already have a social worker, and I’m fine. Thank you.’
My tone is maybe a little sharper than it should be – the man is only trying to help – and he raises one eyebrow at me.
‘Well, it’s not just about you, is it?’ he replies, not unkindly. ‘It’s about her. She was lucky tonight. These things happen, and it’s nobody’s fault – I’m just saying that if you need help, then get it. For both your sakes.’
I nod, and shake his hand, and keep my mouth shut – because of course he’s right. We were lucky. This could have all ended so much more badly than with a stylish boot, and I know I’m only being waspish because I’m feeling so guilty about everything. That’s my load to carry, not his.
I sit down next to Mum, who is gratefully sucking up milky tea from a plastic beaker and a straw. She finishes it off, and passes it to me with a satisfied sigh.
‘That was disgusting,’ she says, ‘full of sugar. My teeth might fall out immediately.’
I glance at the beaker – she’s drained every last drop – and decide it can’t have been quite that disgusting.
She seems exhausted after the effort of drinking the tea, and I press the button on the bed controller so she can lie flatter. Obviously I get it wrong first time and we spend an amusing few moments with her going up and down. It makes her laugh at least, and eventually she gets settled, sore foot propped up, head comfy, one hand still in mine.
She looks up at me, and around at the ward, and I can almost pinpoint the moment she loses her grip on the here and now.
‘Where are we?’ she says, tiredly. ‘Why are we here?’
I puff out a long, slow breath, and give her the usual reply, and encourage her to close her eyes and rest. I know she can’t help it, but I’m really very tired myself now, and it would be a relief to us both if she could get some sleep.
She nods, and closes her eyes, and seems to drift off. I tuck her hand back beneath the blankets, and stand up to stretch. Laura’s jumper rides up with the movement, and I flash the auxiliary with my belly button. Lucky devil.
I see Tom and Auburn heading back from the lifts, and smile as they walk over. I make a ‘shhh’ gesture with my fingers, and point to Mum, who at least appears to be sleeping.
Auburn has taken off the Berghaus, and also her jeans, which were soaking. She’s wearing a long shirt-dress over the top, which protects her modesty, if not her knee caps. Tom, I can see, has donated Matt’s socks to her cause, his bare ankle bones peeking out between his jeans and his still-wet Converse. I hope he doesn’t get trench foot.
Auburn is holding a plastic coffee cup, and her hands are so jittery, she’s splashing the liquid over the sides and onto her fingers. Tom notices, and takes it from her without a word. He puts it down on Mum’s table, and wraps me up in his arms for a hug.
He kisses me briefly on top of my head, then lets me go. I feel strangely distant from him – from everyone in fact – and slightly as though I’m having an out-of-body experience. Hospitals will do that to a girl. I think it’s the incessant beeping; it makes you feel like you’re in a science fiction film.
‘She okay?’ he asks, quietly.
‘Yeah, she’ll be fine,’ I reply, gazing at Auburn with some concern. She looks as though her head might explode sometime soon, like that scene in Scanners. Crikey. I really am losing it.
‘It’s just a minor fracture,’ I explain. ‘She’ll be all right, really. Thanks for all your help tonight, Tom.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he says, also looking at Auburn now. She’s moving from one leg to the other like she needs the toilet, and is chewing her lip so hard I can actually see it bleeding. She’s staring at Mum intently, tearing at the skin inside her mouth.
‘It’s all my fault,’ she whispers. ‘She could have died, and it’s all my fault. I’m bloody useless, and you’d both be better off without me.’
Tom glances over at me, and we both share a ‘WTF?’ moment. I reach out, and take her hands in mine. They’re shaking and cold and feel fragile, like brittle twigs. Her nails are bitten and the skin around them is raw and tattered and red.
‘Like Tom just said to me, don’t be silly, Auburn,’ I say, trying to steady her. ‘This isn’t your fault. If anything, it’s mine for being away from home. I should have known it was a mistake.’
I cast a quick eye towards Tom, realising as I say this that it sounds harsh, but he shakes his head to let me know he understands what I mean.
‘No, it’s my fault,’ she insists, eyes filling with tears that spill out and paint silvery lines down her grimy cheeks. I think I’m a bit grimy too, and definitely have a few scratches on my face from dashing through those bushes. We all look like we’ve been fighting a guerrilla war.
‘Why do you think that?’ I ask. ‘These things happen – she’s made a break for freedom before, you know. Even with all the security precautions we take, she sometimes manages it.’
‘That’s the thing,’ Auburn mutters, staring at the floor. ‘I didn’t. I locked up and everything, just like you told me. I got her settled off for the night – she seemed absolutely fine, she really did. I was a bit hyper, so I stayed up, arsed around on the internet for a while. Watched a bit of Grey’s Anatomy. Then … well, then I went out for a smoke, didn’t I? In the garden. It was before it was raining, and I sat out on the bench, and talked to Wurzel, and had a fag. I even felt quite pleased with myself for managing everything without you around. That’s when I texted you. And when I came back in …’
‘You forgot to lock the back door?’ I finish for her, trying to keep any judgement out of my voice.
She nods, pathetically, looking at me with her tear-stained face and tangled hair and aura of utter desolation.
I know I need to reassure her. Tell her it’s okay. That nothing disastrous happened, after all. Tell her we all make mistakes; that she won’t make this one again; that we’re all learning how to cope with a difficult situation. That she’s only human, and none of us are perfect.
I know I need to do this, but it takes a few moments for me to be able to actually translate that into words and actions. Because – in all honesty – I don’t want to. I’m wiped out, and exhausted, and angry, and kind of want to kill her. My one night away from home – my first night with Tom – was ruined, and Mum was put in a horrendously dangerous situation, all because of Auburn’s need for a nicotine rush.
I can only imagine what this morning would have been like if she hadn’t. Maybe I’d have woken up in Tom’s arms, and we’d have had naughty morning sex, and eaten the rest of the Mars Bars, and everything would have been different.
Now, though, I can’t even imagine being alone with him again – because this has been too much of a scare. I know I might change my mind, but at that precise moment, I can’t imagine feeling confident enough to leave Mum on her own at all.
I’m angry, and sad, and tired, and wired, and all over the place. I force myself to calm down, and squeeze Auburn’s hands.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, trying to sound genuine, trying to remember the lines that will make me the kind of human being I want to be, instead of the resentful cow I actually feel like. ‘We all make mistakes. You’re only human, and none of us are perfect.’
She examines my face, my forced smile, and I know she sees through it.
‘I know you don’t mean that. I know you’re upset,’ she says, pushing me just a tiny bit further than I am willing to be pushed.
‘I will mean it, later,’ I reply, sadly. ‘I know I will. For now, this is the best I’ve got, so please? Let’s just leave it. We’re all tired, and stressed, and there’s no point making it worse, is there?’
She opens her mouth to argue – because she’s Auburn, and she always argues. Because my big sister has never been able to let things lie. Because she always needs to take everything to its absolute limit.
This, more than the cigarette thing, annoys me – that she can’t just let it drop. Can’t just allow us all a moment to regroup. Can’t leave me alone even when I feel like I’m at breaking point, because it doesn’t suit her and her need for redemption.
I close my eyes, and pray for patience, and shove my hands under my own elbows.
As Auburn starts to say her piece, to carry on the self-flagellation that I just don’t have the energy to cope with, Mum wakes up. We all see her come to, suddenly, eyes snapping wide open. She looks around, at the cubicles and the nurses and the other patients, and she says: ‘Where are we?’
‘We’re in the bloody hospital!’ I shout, before she gets to the second part of the same sentence I’ve heard over and over again all day, on a constant repeating loop.
She stares at me, looking shocked. Auburn stares at me, looking horrified. The auxiliary stares at me, looking strangely sympathetic. Tom stares at me, looking incredibly sad. He reaches out to hold me, and I push him away. I can’t take his kindness, not right now. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it, and I certainly don’t deserve it. I wasted the very last shred of my patience on Auburn, when I should have saved it for my mother.
I ignore them all, and dash to Mum’s side. I take hold of her hand, and kiss her forehead, and whisper to her: ‘I’m sorry I shouted. I was upset and tired. We’re in the hospital, Mum. You had an accident, and we needed to get some X-rays done on your ankle. It’s broken, but you’re going to be fine. You’ll get a stylish boot, and it’ll all be okay. I’m sorry I shouted.’
She reaches up, and strokes my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears just like she used to do when I was a little girl.
‘It’s all right,’ she says, smiling at me. ‘You look like you need a sleep. You go off now, and have a rest. I’ll be fine here. My daughter Willow will be back soon. She’s just been for a sleepover at a friend’s house.’