I wake with a start.
I’m back. In the cabin. With Cal.
But as my eyes search the room I realise that’s not the case at all. I have no idea where I am. It’s a room I’ve never seen before. It’s very white. Very clean. There’s an odd smell that I can’t quite place. A deep ache sits in my body, making it so that I don’t think I could even sit up from this bed if I wanted to. But then memories filter back to me, slotting together like the pieces of a puzzle, scratching at the surface of my brain. The cabin. Cal. Running through the trees. Falling into the loch.
I jerk bolt upright as one thought hits me harder than all others.
My baby. Where is my baby?
‘It’s OK. You’re safe. You’re in a hospital. Everythin’ is gon’ te be OK.’
The voice is like silk stroking my ears, despite the strong Scottish accent. I rub my throbbing head and peer round to my left, where the voice came from. The old lady stands in the doorway, tray in hand. She’s smiling and I think it’s the kindest thing I’ve seen in months. I can’t quite believe I’m looking at another human being. The first new person since my replacement.
At the thought of the hiker my stomach turns and my head starts to throb. The old lady must see my discomfort because her face twists in concern and she steps towards me, placing the tray on the table next to me. It holds a glass of water, a glass of orange juice and two slices of buttered toast.
‘Ye need te get your strength back,’ she says, passing me the glass of water. I sip it gratefully. It slides down my dry throat and feels divine.
Her words finally register.
‘Did you say I’m in a hospital?’ My eyes dart around again. This doesn’t look how I remember hospitals to be. It’s cosier.
‘Aye. Not one of the big city ones, mind. This is a small, specialist ward. But you’ve made excellent progress these past few weeks.’
‘Few weeks?’ The panic descends again. A few weeks without you. What’s happened to you? How have you been fed? How could I have missed the first few weeks of your life? I hunch over, tears overtaking me. I know I need to stop, to calm myself down enough to talk to this woman properly and explain everything that’s happened, but the sobs need to come out of me as sure as you did when it was time for you to be born.
Finally, I catch enough breath to get out a few words in between my blubbering. ‘The baby. Is she … OK? Where … is she?’
I try to untangle myself from the bed sheets. I need to get out of this room. I need to get to you. To make sure you’re all right.
The woman rests a hand on my arm. ‘Mary, listen to me. Everythin’ is gon’ te be all right.’
‘No, I … I need to see her.’
I can’t breathe. If my heart doesn’t calm itself I’m going to end up having a heart attack. Something stirs then, a moment of realisation. I stare at the woman, at her kind, kind face.
‘I never told you my name.’
Her eyebrows flick up for the briefest of seconds. ‘Your husband told us your name.’
Fear like I’ve never felt erupts inside of me. I’ve been lying here for two weeks. Unconscious. Vulnerable. And he’s been here. He’s been saying who knows what. Oh God. What if he’s got to you?
‘No, listen to me, you can’t trust him. He’s not my husband.’
‘Aye, we’re aware. Ye told us yesterday. And the day before tha’. And the day before tha’.’
‘What are you talking about?’ The fear is being taken over by something else now. Annoyance. This woman, the angel I thought was my saviour, is talking absolute nonsense. I haven’t spoken to her since she found me on the hiking trail. She must have me confused with another patient.
‘I’ve never told you about him.’
Her lips fold in on themselves, making her look vaguely familiar but I’m certain I’ve never met her before. She leans over and pulls a clipboard out of the end of the bed, resting it on her lap.
‘Your doctor says physically you’re very well. You’ve recovered nicely from your ordeal near the loch. He was able to save your foot, though it will be sore and you need to keep it bandaged for a wee while. There doesnae seem to be anything physiologically wrong. No head injuries.’
I frown. ‘You’re not my doctor?’
‘I’m a different kind o’ doctor. A psychologist. My name is Dr Stewart.’
I stare at her blankly, confusion clouding my mind. A psychologist? What is going on here?
It’s then that I see them. The restraints attached to the edges of the bed. One for each of my wrists. One for each of my ankles. A cacophony of alarm bells erupts in my head but I force myself to try to remain calm.
‘I don’t understand. You just said I’m fine. I need to see my baby.’
Dr Stewart regards me steadily, her eyes filled with sympathy. ‘Mary, I know this is very confusing for ye.’
‘My name’s not Mary!’ The words come out a strangled scream, my attempts at calm lost, but Dr Stewart is unfazed. She pauses, waits for me to finish, then resumes her sentence. ‘But you’ve been through a significant trauma. It’s normal in situations like this for the mind te need time to recover.’
I shake my head sharply, panic rising in my chest. ‘No. Listen, I need to get out of here. I need to find my daughter before he does.’
Dr Stewart places a gentle hand on my arm. ‘Mary, I want ye to take a deep breath with me.’
Against my better judgement, I follow her lead, inhaling and exhaling slowly.
‘Good, just like that,’ she encourages. ‘Now, I want ye to really listen to me. There is no baby. You arrived here alone four weeks ago, exhausted and talkin’ of a deranged man holding ye captive. But there was no sign of an infant with ye.’
I want to scream. Attack this woman. Curse at her. Make her see the truth.
‘No! You have to believe me. I left him. I escaped.’
‘I know you think ye did, but tha’s where the line between reality and delusion starts to blur.’ She pauses, her gaze never leaving mine. ‘Mary, we’ve been over this. You’ve been having delusions. Your brain has conjured up this entire story. Paintin’ your husband as a monster when in reality all he’s been doing is tryin’ te help you. The pregnancy. The baby. It’s all part of a traumatic stress reaction to what really happened to ye. What your parents did to ye that made you leave and go off grid with your husband in the first place.’
‘But … I …’ I trail off. Images flash into my mind: your kicks, the hunger, the pain, the birth. But when I try to piece them all together they scatter like autumn leaves in the wind. Dr Stewart nods encouragingly as if she can read my mind.
‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I gave birth to her, I saw her.’
Dr Stewart’s expression softens. ‘I know this is hard te hear, but we all have your best interests at heart. Your husband explained about your infertility. About how long you’ve both been tryin’ for a baby. I believe you’ve been sufferin’ from a delusional pregnancy. It’s not uncommon in situations like yours, especially with the isolation and stress of livin’ out in the middle of nowhere without having properly dealt with your issues.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘This isnae the first time you’ve been with us, Mary. Your husband has been beside himself with worry. You’ve been actin’ strangely for weeks, accusin’ him of things that aren’t true. He tried to help you, Mary.’
‘My name isn’t Mary!’
‘Then what is your name?’
I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes. It’s there, my real name, drifting in front of me, but I can’t quite seem to reach out and snatch it back.
‘He’s manipulating you,’ I whisper instead. ‘Please don’t believe anything he’s telling you. I’m not crazy. I’m not.’
Loss blossoms inside me. I scream and thrash and soon there are hands gripping my arms firmly and a sharp scratch in my upper arm and the feeling of the restraints on my wrists and ankles and suddenly things are twisting, distorting, clouding.