Mrs Hunter is half hidden behind the biggest bouquet of flowers imaginable. Her daughter Savvy is carrying grapes, chocolate, a teen magazine; she looks scared – a million miles from the cool, confident girl who rules Year Eight at St Elizabeth’s. Her eyeliner is perfect, her glittery eyeshadow unsmudged, but still, her eyes look pink from crying.
‘Goodness,’ Laura Beech says. ‘What amazing flowers! Are they for Alice?’
‘We thought she might like them,’ Mrs Hunter says. ‘Brighten the place up!’
‘Well, yes,’ Laura agrees, taking the flowers and looking around for a nurse. Flowers are not allowed in Alice’s ICU room – it is all monitors and screens and smooth, scrubbable surfaces – but a helpful ward assistant takes the flowers, finds a vase and makes a nice display in the visitors’ waiting area.
‘I brought these,’ Savvy says, holding out her own offerings. ‘So she doesn’t get bored. And you always bring grapes to people in hospital, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure she’ll love them, when she wakes up,’ Laura agrees.
‘She’s still unconscious?’ Savvy checks. ‘Does that mean … well, will she be all right, when she wakes up? Will she be, you know, normal?’
Laura feels the breath catch in her throat. This is a question she hasn’t dared to ask, hasn’t even dared to think. But the doctors would have mentioned it, surely, if they felt that Alice might wake up somehow damaged. Not normal. The question tries to lodge itself in Laura’s mind, but she brushes it away impatiently and smiles brightly.
‘Yes, she’ll be fine, absolutely fine, don’t worry.’
Savvy nods, reassured. ‘And will she lose her memory? I’ve seen things on TV where people in a coma wake up and can’t remember anything. Do you think that might happen?’
Mrs Hunter frowns. ‘Savannah, that’s enough; we’re here to visit and be supportive, not to interrogate!’
Laura lets her gaze drift away to the window of Alice’s room. Inside, her daughter lies still and silent; a girl frozen in time. Laura knows the questions are natural, inevitable, and she tries to answer truthfully.
‘We don’t know yet, Savannah,’ she says. ‘Right now we’re so focused on waiting for her to wake up that we haven’t thought very far beyond that. There’s no reason to suppose Alice will have memory loss, or any other problems, but it’s certainly possible. It was kind of you to come, Savannah; we’re hoping that having one of her friends talk to her could help to bring Alice back to us.’
‘So she’ll be able to hear me?’ Savvy asks. ‘I can talk to her?’
‘I’m pretty sure she’ll be able to hear you,’ Laura says. ‘You can just chat away as normal; that’s what I do. The doctors say it might help. Shall we go in?’
She ushers Savvy into the room and gestures towards the chair at the bedside. Savvy perches on the edge of it, looking terrified.
‘Alice?’ Laura says, stroking her daughter’s pale cheek. ‘Your friend is here – Savannah. She’s been so worried about you, but hopefully now she can see that you’re definitely on the mend. I’ll leave you two girls together, shall I?’
Savvy watches Alice’s mum retreat, hears her asking Mrs Hunter if she’d like a coffee. The two of them move out of earshot, out of sight, and Savvy leans forward, her lower lip trembling, and forces herself to look at Alice.
‘Can you hear me, Alice?’ she asks. ‘Can you, or are they just pretending, just kidding themselves? Because you don’t look like you’re asleep, Alice. You look really sick, and all those wire things … those machines … it’s scary. I hope you get better. I hope you do wake up, because I have seen on TV and in the papers about people who stay in a coma for years and years, and never, ever wake up. I couldn’t stand it if that happened to you, Alice.’
Savvy reaches a hand out across the white waffle coverlet, letting her fingers touch Alice’s.
She bites her lip. ‘I just … wanted to say I’m sorry.’