Bryony Masters clattered down the hospital corridor, handbag swinging wildly on her shoulder, skirting round patients and staff as they ambled without direction in front of her. She flew past the bookshop with paperbacks on a rotating stand and buckets of colourful flowers prepared in bunches for visitors to purchase. Her heart smashed against her ribcage. Tears had blurred her vision and the signage was incomprehensible: Cardiology, X-ray department, haematology, paediatrics, ENT, Wards 1–11. Where was Intensive Care? She drew to a sudden halt and cast about. A woman dressed in white trousers and tunic with hair scraped from a round face in which were set kindly, silver-grey eyes, noted her distress and approached her.
‘Can I help you?’
Bryony nodded, not trusting her emotions. ‘Intensive Care,’ she blurted before the tears could flow.
‘Come on. I’ll take you.’ The woman spun on her heels and walked beside Bryony, her calm demeanour exactly what Bryony needed. She talked all the while, her singsong voice anchoring Bryony to the here and now, preventing panic from taking hold of her.
‘It’s not far, just down this corridor and on the left. You meeting anyone here, or are you alone?’
‘My mother. She’s here.’
‘Then, she’ll no doubt be in the waiting room. We’ll head there first and you can meet up with her. That’s where all relatives wait. There’s a coffee machine and water and even biscuits.’
Bryony strode beside the woman, the smell of disinfectant and something medicinal that was omnipresent in these places assaulted her nostrils. Please let him be okay.
The woman drew to a halt and gave her a smile. ‘The waiting room is just there.’ She pointed out the blue sign over double glass doors. ‘Someone will be inside to answer any questions you may have.’
‘Thank you,’ Bryony said as the woman turned to leave. She adjusted her handbag, now dangling from her forearm. Her mother would need her to be strong. She pushed open the doors and spied the figure huddled on the front chair, hands cupped around a plastic cup, head lowered. She froze. Was she too late?
‘Mum.’
Her mother looked up at the sound, issued a cry and, dropping the empty cup to the floor, hastened towards her daughter, throwing her arms around her waist. Bryony hugged her tightly, letting her cry.
‘Is he…?’ Bryony couldn’t bring herself to speak the word.
Her mother pulled away, eyes shining with tears and shook her head. ‘No. It was a severe stroke but the doctor managed to give him a clot-dissolving tissue plasminogen activator, within what he called the ‘golden hour’. It might just have saved his life and prevented any more brain cells from dying. He’s going to be okay but we don’t know what state he’ll be in. He might never regain his speech or walk. We’ll have to wait and see how well he recovers. He’ll need lots of therapy and there’s always a chance he could have another stroke – and if he does, he might not be so lucky next time. Oh, Bryony, what would I do if I lost him? I couldn’t bear it!’
‘It’s okay, Mum. He’s survived before.’
‘That was different. A stroke is different to a nervous breakdown.’
‘He’ll make it,’ Bryony said, although her head was in turmoil. ‘How did it happen?’
‘The stroke?’
Bryony nodded.
‘He was looking through some old photographs we keep in the cupboard. He was on the floor, going through them and I was in the kitchen making dinner when I heard a groan. I went running and found he’d keeled over.’
‘Photographs?’ Bryony asked warily. A buzzing began in her head. This was her fault. Her father had collapsed and suffered a stroke because of her. ‘Which photos?’
‘Hannah,’ said her mother as tears trickled down her pale cheeks, leaving two shining trails.
Bryony enveloped the frail woman in her arms, wondering if she could hear the loud hammering of her heart. Hannah. Of course it was Hannah. Bryony had to fix this, once and for all. It was now or never. There might not even be enough time left but she had to do everything she could to make things right. She had to find her sister, Hannah, before it was too late.