He’s alive. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
We’re huddled on nailed-down metal chairs, drinking something lukewarm Oscar got from the vending machine. I can’t tell if it’s tea or coffee. The doctor came to see us a couple of hours back; we can’t see Jack yet. He’s in surgery, she said, in a quiet, reassuring voice that actually frightened the hell out of me. Head injury. Broken ribs. Fractured left shoulder. I can handle broken bones, because I know bones can mend. It’s the head injury that terrifies me; they’re going to get him scanned, or whatever it is they do, then they should know more. I couldn’t digest everything she said because my red-alert panic button was screaming inside my brain. Head injury. People die from head injuries. Don’t die, Jack. Don’t you dare die on us. On me.
We sit on either side of his bed, Sarah and I. We tried to get hold of his mum in the confusing minutes after we located him at St. Pancras Hospital, but then Sarah remembered that she’s in Spain with Albie, Jack’s brother. I left the message rather than Sarah, so we didn’t frighten the life out of her.
And so we watch over him together, and we wait, because we’ve been told that’s all we can do for now. He’s out of surgery, out of immediate danger, but they won’t know the extent of his head injury until he’s conscious. He’s shirtless and pale and absolutely still aside from the rise and fall of his chest. A mess of bandages and tubes cover him, hooked up to all kinds of machines and drips. I’ve never been this frightened. He looks too fragile, and I find myself worrying about what happens in here if there’s a power outage. They have backup, right? Because I don’t think Jack’s keeping himself alive right now, he’s beholden to the national grid. How ridiculous. Across London people are boiling their kettles and nonchalantly charging their phones, using up precious energy when it should all be saved up and sent here to keep Jack alive. Please stay alive, my lovely Jack. Don’t leave us. Don’t leave me.
Intensive Care is a strange place of quiet industry laced with panic; the constant soft footfall of the nurses, the clatter of patient notes against the metal bed-ends, a background symphony of bleeps and alarms.
I watch Sarah re-secure the plastic fingertip peg monitoring his oxygen levels as a nurse writes Jack’s name on a whiteboard over his bedside cabinet, bright blue capitals. I close my eyes and, though I’ve never been remotely religious, I pray.