Thank god you got back when you did, Jen, Fionnoula says to me, gripping my hand in hers, but I know I am to blame. He shouldn’t have been there, shouldn’t have had to work late. He was doing my job, packing in all those extra hours because I was too consumed by my own selfishness, my stupid fucking ghost-hunt, my past life.
I’m so sorry, I tell them. So, so sorry. But every time I say it, every time I crumple at the thought of what I’ve put them through, I am held, reassured. Put back together again.
That afternoon, after I have found out that Ali will make it, I call Denz. Tell him about the phone call with Sandra from Kew Gardens. He is quiet for a long time and I have no idea what he is thinking, feeling. In the end all he does is ask me if I’d like to go for a walk sometime.
I visit the hospital every day, armed with sustenance from the caff. Ali won’t touch the food the nurses bring, the plastic trays congealing beside him until someone takes the hint to clear them away. Fionnoula is always there, fussing, plumping his pillows and straightening his cover and making sure his pajamas are fresh. Only when I arrive does she allow herself a break, nipping out to use the facilities or grab yet another stewed tea from the vending machine.
She’s driving me up the wall, this zaneh, Ali says to me, throwing his hands up to the sky as soon as Fionnoula is out of the door. It makes me laugh.
She’s only looking after you, Ali. You have just had a bloody heart attack.
I’m fine, he insists. Absolutely fine. All a lot of commotion over nothing. What I need is to get back to work. It’s too much to run that place all by yourself.
I tell Fionnoula that I’ll be able to manage the caff on my own while Ali gets better and at first she says no, but eventually she relents. I’m so busy that I barely have time to think about Denz and Danny and everything that has occupied my head all these weeks.
I lose count of how many people ask after Ali and Fionnoula, my heart filling with all the ways they show their love for them. The greengrocer with his crates of fruit dropped off at the back door, the florist who brings fresh cuts of rainbow-colored bouquets wrapped in brown paper. Casseroles and cakes and hotpots and lasagnas, card after card after card, a pile of pastel envelopes teetering on the worktop by the end of every shift. I chat with the customers more in those weeks than I ever have, matching names to faces that I’ve known for years. Esther, Mo, Colin. Turns out Sandy’s real name is Greg, although he doesn’t like to go by that anymore.
Belongs to another life, he tells me, and I nod.
I know what you mean.