‘Can you squeeze my hand? … That’s it. Good girl … Can you close your eyes and open them again? … Excellent.’
Dr Mills was bent over Jemima. There were four other doctors in attendance now, several nurses and a flock of medical students hovering near the door, keen to witness a patient emerging from a coma; they were writing notes, standing on tiptoes, clipboards sparring.
Steffie and Greg had stepped out of the way again, had rounded the bed and were waiting near the window. Steffie had her arms wrapped around her. Greg was standing close to her and was rubbing his stubbly chin, making a faint tskh tskh tskh sound. Helena was sitting in Greg’s chair, handbag on lap, stiff-backed, staring at the staff, awaiting news.
‘Now, can you tell me your name?’ Dr Mills said.
The room fell silent.
Jemima frowned. Steffie nibbled a fingernail.
‘Jemima Lee,’ Jemima said croakily.
The medical students began to murmur and whisper.
‘That’s right,’ said Dr Mills. ‘And who’s that there?’
Everyone, including Jemima, turned to look at Steffie.
Again, the silence.
‘Mummy,’ Jemima said.
At this, Steffie felt her face contort as she fought tears. She clenched her hands, smiled encouragingly at Jemima, tried to look as though this were a routine sort of a day, a general check-up.
Greg edged closer to Steffie, placed his hand lightly on her shoulder and then squeezed. Despite everything that had occurred between them, the hand was an anchor and she felt it steady her, felt it telling her that she could do this – could stand there and not cry.
They watched as Dr Mills checked Jemima’s vitals and charts, as he consulted with colleagues.
‘OK …’ he said, approaching them, his voice low. ‘Jemima’s currently in a confusional state.’
‘Oh,’ Steffie said. ‘Is that normal?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s what I was hoping for.’ He folded his arms, rose up and down briefly on his heels. ‘She’s by-passed the vegetative and minimally conscious states, which would have indicated damage to multiple brain areas. And now hopefully she’ll make a full recovery. But it’s impossible to say how long that will take, and whether she’ll be left with any long-term health problems.’
‘Long-term …’ Steffie said. Greg’s hand was still on her shoulder, squeezing. She nodded, trying to accept the doctor’s words. ‘OK.’
She hadn’t thought of that – that there could be long-term problems, lingering after-effects. Maybe in days to come, she would look back and realise that there were holes and flaws all over her time here – big gaps, where logic and reality had poured through, as though in a giant colander. What else had she missed?
‘Are you anticipating any problems?’ Greg asked.
‘It’s impossible to say,’ the doctor said. ‘I don’t want to give you false hope. That said, there’s a lot to be thankful for this morning.’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to run some tests, and Orthopaedics will want to see Jemima about her fractures.’
Steffie nodded. She had forgotten about the fractures; faced with the big issue of the coma, the broken bones had flown straight through the colander.
‘She’s still got a long way to go,’ Dr Mills said, ‘but this is excellent progress.’
‘Excellent,’ Steffie said, knowing that she sounded fake.
‘Well done,’ Greg said quietly in her ear, removing his hand from her shoulder and stepping away. She had done it; she hadn’t broken down. The staff were filtering from the room in a draught of noise and white jackets. One of the nurses was tending to Jemima’s nose tube, removing it delicately. There was a faint sense of dismantlement. Everyone was moving – even her mother, rummaging through her handbag for something and standing up. Only Steffie stood still, wondering, absurdly, whether she would be the one left behind – that Greg wouldn’t be here any more, would return to Olivia now, his job here done; Jemima would heal, walk, run, dance; only Steffie wouldn’t change, wouldn’t move on.
And then she snapped out of her reverie because the nurse was talking to her. ‘So that’s it for now, Mum … Dr Mills will be taking her for tests about eleven. All right?’
‘Fine,’ said Steffie, nodding.
And then the nurse left the room, closing the door behind her.
That was new, Steffie thought. They hadn’t closed the door before, had kept it permanently open in order to be able to access Jemima urgently.
Things weren’t urgent now, were calmer. As a family, they were being afforded privacy, separation, as though somehow, subtly, with her awakening their daughter was being handed back to them.
Her mother was talking quietly to Greg. Steffie stole the opportunity to speak with Jemima alone.
She approached her daughter, feeling strangely shy, timid. Jemima had her eyes closed again, looking exactly the same as she had when unconscious. Steffie glanced over her shoulder at the door, wondering momentarily whether it were possible for Jemima to regress, to slip back into a coma. But that was stupid. They wouldn’t have shut the door. They were safe now.
‘I’m not sure …’ she began. She was going to say that she wasn’t sure how much Jemima knew about what had happened, but then changed her mind. It was best not to speak about it yet.
The staff could have helped them with that, she thought – could have told them what to say, how to behave.
But then that was stupid too. This was her child. She knew how to talk to her.
She reached forward to Jemima, touched her forehead, tucked her hair behind her ear.
‘My dear sweet Mims,’ she said. ‘I love you so much.’
At the sound of Steffie’s voice, Jemima opened her eyes and turned her head stiffly to look at her. A flicker of a smile touched her lips.
And then she opened her mouth and gave a shrill scream, her tongue curled, her eyes petrified.
Steffie stood back in shock.
Greg was wrestling with the door handle, calling for help.
The nurses came rushing in, darting looks of faint accusation, Steffie felt. Or maybe it was her imagination.
They were sitting with Jemima now, stroking her limbs, pressing a cloth to her head, calming her. ‘It’s OK, my lovely,’ one of the nurses was saying. ‘It’s all right.’
Perhaps they could have warned us about that, Steffie thought, accusing them silently in return.
‘Steffie, love,’ said her mother, leading her by the elbow to her chair. ‘Come and sit down. You look pale.’
Steffie sat down, held her hands to her head. Her mother was telling her that everything was going to be fine. But she couldn’t really hear her – couldn’t think. Her ears were still ringing with the sound of Jemima’s scream.
She gazed at her daughter who was serene again, asleep, as though nothing had happened.
The nurses made a few notes and then left the room, leaving the door open this time.
Jemima had a liquid meal for tea which she managed to drink through a straw, her head propped up on pillows. She was sluggish, groggy, had slept most of the day. Her emotional outburst was down to her confused state, her inability to separate dreams from reality, and the trauma she had endured. More of such outbursts were to be expected and were entirely normal in the circumstances, Dr Mills had assured them.
The Orthopaedics had confirmed that no surgery was required for Jemima’s fractures. As far as dancing went, they saw no reason why she wouldn’t be able to participate at the same standard in future, but it would take some commitment on her part and great determination.
Looking at the wispy child lying in bed now, it seemed an unlikely outcome, even for an optimist. The hope that Steffie had sensed in the room during the short period when the door had been closed had been ushered out by Jemima’s scream.
And now teatime had ended, the trays had been taken away, darkness had fallen, and the detectives had just arrived.
They were hovering by the door, where Greg was waylaying them. He was trying to tell them not to come in yet, to return tomorrow, but they were insisting on asking Jemima a few questions. Steffie could hear them countering Greg’s objections, until sure enough, he stepped aside. And the detectives approached Jemima, heavy-footed, sombre in black trench coats, like undertakers.
Jemima was staring up at the ceiling blankly, a dab of liquid food on her lip. Steffie leant forward protectively, wiped Jemima’s mouth with a tissue. She had drawn the chair beside the bed to be close to Jemima.
‘Hello, Jemima,’ the sergeant said. ‘We haven’t met before, but I’m Detective Sergeant Lamb. And this here is my friend, Detective Constable Whyte. We’re very pleased to meet you. And we’d like to ask you a couple questions, if we may. Is that all right?’
Jemima didn’t reply, made no sign of even seeing him.
The sergeant pushed his hands in his pockets, jangled his change. ‘So how much do you remember about the accident, Jemima?’
Steffie glared at him in consternation.
‘Do you remember falling, Jemima?’
Greg stepped forward. ‘I really don’t think you should—’
The sergeant held up his hand to Greg to stop him approaching or speaking. It wasn’t rude, as such; more, assertive, dogged. He had come here for something and he was going to get it. ‘Do you remember entering the rec room, Jemima? Either the first time or the second?’
Again, no reply, no sign of hearing or listening.
Maybe Jemima really couldn’t hear the man, Steffie thought – was somehow blocking it, unable to remember or communicate yet.
‘Is it that you don’t remember? Or that you don’t want to tell me?’
Nothing.
The sergeant exhaled, his lips puffing, cheeks wobbling. ‘Well, young lady … it’s our belief that someone has committed a serious crime against you. And we need to find that person. But we can’t do it without your help.’
There was a patter of footsteps behind them. ‘I’m sorry,’ one of the nurses said, ‘but we need to give Jemima her bath now.’
The nurse shot Steffie a quick smile when the sergeant’s back was turned. It was a smile that said that no one else would be troubling the patient tonight.
The sergeant was nodding, but making no show of leaving. He gazed solemnly at Steffie. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said.
‘OK,’ said Steffie, trying to sound pleasant, nonplussed.
But in truth, they were the last people she wanted to see, for so many reasons – most of which had escaped her through the hospital colander.
Helena sat in a green chair by the window and watched Jemima sleep. She glanced at her watch. It was eight o’clock. Steffie and Greg had gone to get something to eat. When they returned, she and Steffie would head off to the hotel, and Greg would pull out the ward bed. It was a pattern that could go on for some time.
She had rung Wimborne Primary yesterday to report the news to the Head, knowing that Steffie wouldn’t have thought of it in all the turmoil. Jemima had missed two days of school already. So much had happened since Saturday. Yet now there was hope.
She could remember feeling exactly the same as Steffie – petrified, witless – albeit on a lesser scale, when Steffie had gone to hospital aged seven to have her appendix out. Steffie had insisted on bringing her Sindy doll in nurse’s outfit into the operating theatre with her. As they had wheeled Steffie and Sindy off, Helena had thought her heart would crack neatly, almost satisfyingly, in two, like a chocolate Easter egg.
And then it was over. Steffie had come to; and then was up and running again.
But the toll that the anguish took on a mother’s heart was never forgotten, was always embedded there – could be retrieved just by the smell of a certain disinfectant or an emotive hospital drama on TV. Helena would never forget Steffie and Sindy being wheeled into surgery; Steffie would never forget Jemima’s accident.
Creases in the heart – that was how Helena thought of a mother’s painful experiences: tiny lines that no one could touch or smooth away. There wasn’t a power iron in the world that could obliterate them – not a housewife’s tip, a grandmother’s trick or celestial intervention grand enough to have any effect.
And yet perhaps someone would think of a way to do that soon – a pill, a procedure that would remove anything painful or unpleasant from the heart, from life as a whole.
Certainly, Helena thought, looking around her at the weary décor – at the industrial bins, the equipment, the stark metal and chipped woodwork – no one liked hospitals. They were a reminder of mortality, of the fragility of life. A short stay here – even just a daytime admission for something minor – would serve its message loud and clear, with recovered patients returning home brimming with gratitude and thankfulness. And then life continued and the gratitude dissolved and everyone went back to cursing the traffic or the rain.
But those little lines on the heart? They couldn’t dissolve, were permanent.
They were the privilege of motherhood – a badge of honour, that you were there, that you served, that you cared, that you loved.
Helena heard a little noise that caught her attention. Jemima was trying to sit up, for the first time in Helena’s knowledge. She was struggling, wincing with pain, her left side helpless in casts.
‘Wait …’ Helena said, standing up and hurrying to her granddaughter. ‘Lie still, poppet. Don’t wriggle. You’ll hurt yourself.’
As Helena approached, she glanced at the open door furtively. She wasn’t sure why exactly. It was just that the situation felt clandestine. She didn’t think Jemima ought to be jiggling about. She was still wearing the wrist catheter and sensor pads on her chest.
And yet Helena wanted to encourage this progress. She plumped the cushions behind Jemima’s head, helped her raise her head slightly without disrupting the wires.
Then she sat in Steffie’s seat. ‘There,’ she said.
‘Grandma,’ was all Jemima said.
Helena nodded receptively, but felt intrigue prickling her skin in goosebumps.
Beyond the room, the corridor sounded very quiet. The little child from the room opposite – the one that cried a lot – had left earlier and hadn’t been replaced. Maybe sometimes everyone left at once and the beds were all empty. She wondered if that ever happened.
She looked at her granddaughter, placed her old sun-spotted hand on Jemima’s casted hand. ‘Talk to me,’ she said.
Jemima was staring at the ceiling, frowning. ‘Who were those men?’
Her voice sounded different, Helena thought. It sounded as though it had been at the bottom of a river for a long time. It was thin, reedy.
‘Policemen,’ Helena said. ‘They’re investigating why you fell.’ She said this tentatively, not sure how much she should say, how much Jemima could recall.
‘Where’s Noella?’ Jemima asked.
‘Noella?’ said Helena. ‘Well, she’s back at her studio, I think. She was here for a little while and I expect she went home because there was nothing more she could do.’
‘Oh,’ said Jemima.
‘Do you need her for something?’ Helena asked.
Jemima shook her head. ‘No.’
She said this rather adamantly, Helena noted. Was there something in that?
She gazed at the door, aware that at any moment one of the nurses could enter and tell her off for interfering with the patient. Or Steffie. Steffie would be cross with her. They hadn’t tried to talk to Jemima yet about anything other than whether she needed a drink of water or a change of position.
‘Am I in trouble?’ Jemima said.
She looked so different, Helena thought: so much older than before, so ashen, so perturbed.
‘No, poppet,’ Helena said, tapping her hand, ‘absolutely not.’
‘So why were they asking me about the rec room?’ Jemima said, looking away from the ceiling and at her bed sheets. Her breathing was laboured now. Helena was beginning to feel uncomfortable, as though speaking to her granddaughter was a very bad idea.
Yet she couldn’t stop herself. ‘Why do you ask?’ she said. ‘Do you remember going in there?’
Jemima didn’t reply.
Once more, Helena glanced at the door. She stroked Jemima’s hand. ‘Tell me.’
Jemima rolled her head to look at her. ‘I remember it all,’ she said. Two tears trickled from her eyes. Helena reached forward, wiped them away. Somehow they seemed like evidence. ‘But you mustn’t tell anyone.’ Suddenly, she grabbed Helena’s hand. ‘Grandma, you mustn’t.’
Helena gazed at Jemima’s bloodshot eyes. ‘Jemima,’ she began, ‘I’m—’
It was Steffie. Helena immediately sat back in the chair. Jemima had closed her eyes, was feigning sleep.
‘Any change, Mum?’
Helena, who didn’t want her granddaughter to hear that she was lying for her – hadn’t, in fact, made up her mind yet whether to do so – replied wordlessly with a shake of her head.
Steffie sighed, straightened the bed covers, smoothed Jemima’s hair. Greg was unfolding the bed from the wall. Their little evening routine had begun.
Helena watched her granddaughter lying there innocently, mutely, as Steffie tidied the room, gathered her things.
She felt guilty, and sorry for Steffie – her tired, hard-working, loyal daughter – for whatever betrayal this was. For it was most definitely one of some sort, even if just a whisper behind a back that had stood watch so faithfully, for so long.
And Helena knew in that moment that she was going to have to carry out her own betrayal too. She would tell her daughter what had just occurred. Because that was the other thing about being a mother, no matter from which decade they were sprung, no matter how smooth or lined their heart: their own child came first.