7 February 2006
The call handler recognizes her name.
‘Our Kerry Smith?’
My Kerry Smith. Did I do this to her?
‘Yes. She collapsed and I’ve got her on the floor, in recovery position but I think . . . I think she’s going into shock. She’s borderline tachycardic at ninety but her BP has been dropping and she’s in and out of consciousness.’
‘We’ve got a vehicle en route. Is there external bleeding? Vaginal, anal?’
I look down at her groin. No sign of discharge. I should remove her trousers to make sure but doing that here, in Maria’s living room, seems indecent.
Get a grip, you stupid bastard. I begin to fumble with her belt . . .
‘Tim—’ Kerry’s mouth goldfishes and I lean in.
‘The ambulance is coming, Kerry, it’s going to be OK.’
‘I came here . . . went there . . . to tell you . . .’
‘It can wait. Don’t try to talk, focus on breathing.’
‘No! Listen to me!’ She grimaces from the effort.
‘Where is the pain? Show me.’
As she gestures up towards her shoulder, I try to work out what it could mean. ‘Just that side?’
She nods.
Shit. Her vital signs tell me this has to be more than a muscle injury. Referred pain, then? It suggests internal bleeding, but where and why? Think.
‘Tim. I’m . . . pregnant.’
At least, I think that’s what she says. I repeat. ‘Pregnant?’
The call handler repeats it back to me. ‘Kerry’s pregnant? OK. How many weeks?’
‘It’s what I needed to . . . why I came,’ Kerry says breathlessly.
I close my eyes. Mine? Obviously, it’s mine. I think about the last time we had sex. ‘New Year?’
She nods.
‘Early,’ I tell the operator, ‘no more than five weeks.’
There is a long pause and I think the call handler must reach the same conclusion as me at the very same moment.
‘They’ll be with you very soon. I’ll let them know what to expect . . .’
The surgeon steps into the room. ‘Is Mr Smith here?’
‘That’s me. Kind of.’
Miss Eliades does a double take. ‘Shit, it’s Tim, isn’t it? I’m so sorry but I’ve forgotten your surname.’
‘Palmer. Don’t worry, it’s been two years since I did my rotation with you. Kerry is my wife. Is she . . . has it gone OK?’
‘Yes.’ She nods, though there is caution in her eyes. ‘Let’s sit down. The abdominal bleed was significant, but she’s had three units and she’s otherwise healthy so I would expect her to make a full recovery. Except, well, as I’m sure you know, unfortunately there was no way an ectopic pregnancy could progress successfully so . . . I’m sorry, but she’s lost the baby.’
The baby I didn’t even know about until three hours ago.
I don’t say that. ‘It was very early, wasn’t it?’
‘Around five weeks. Her left fallopian tube has been too badly damaged to repair, but as you know, with monitoring, she should be able to have a normal pregnancy in future.’
‘Right.’
‘Would you like me to take you to recovery now?’
As we walk down these familiar corridors, I wonder if Kerry will send me away, because of what I’ve done. But her folks and sister are on holiday in the Canaries so it’s me or no one, though I guess she’ll have a steady stream of work friends once she’s on the ward.
The nurse steps aside as I approach the bed. Kerry’s make-up-free face reminds me of the first time I saw her, the day after we moved into the bungalow, and her sister drenched us with a hose before Kerry dried us off and we ate four packets of Wagon Wheels to make us feel better.
‘Hey.’ I kiss her forehead. She smells of theatre, but underneath that, I can almost taste Tropical Sun coconut tanning oil and the warm PVC of the Smiths’ paddling pool . . .
‘I went all the way to your hospital to tell you about the baby,’ she says, her voice hoarse from intubation. ‘As soon as I realized, I came.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s all going to be all right, you—’
‘Who is Maria?’
‘We shouldn’t do this now. You’ve only just come round.’
Her eyes fix onto mine. ‘I’m not that woozy. And it’s not like I’m going to forget.’
I get closer so people can’t overhear us. ‘Maria is a friend from NA.’
‘I didn’t think you had any friends except me.’
Ouch. I don’t respond.
Kerry winces, though I don’t think she can be feeling physical pain. ‘She looked like a lot more than a friend. Do you love her, Tim?’
The question is too soon and too blunt. I don’t have time to invent a lie. ‘I don’t know.’
Kerry closes her eyes and I hope she’s drifted into sleep again. But when she opens them again, they’re full of reproach.
‘I . . . I haven’t cheated on you, Kerry, I promise. We’re close, but nothing like that has happened.’
Yet.
When Maria first showed up at NA last March, I tried so hard to keep my distance. And when we did start talking, after a few months, I told myself that our connection was about our shared commitment to staying clean, nothing more than that. I convinced myself we only swapped numbers so we could keep each other on track, if our resolve weakened.
But some things you cannot ignore. Like the fact that when we’re together – or even when we’ve talked for hours on the phone – everything feels crisp and sharp, in a way even Wilcox and Joel’s supplies never achieved.
With her I feel – possibly for the first time ever – it’s all right to be me.
‘Why did you go to her after things went wrong, and not come home to me?’
‘Please, Kerry.’
‘Don’t you dare fob off a sick woman, Tim. I might die and then how would you feel?’
‘You’re not dying . . . But OK. I went to Maria’s because I didn’t want to disappoint you again,’ I say, tentatively, watching her face. When she stays silent, I add, ‘When I see your expression after yet another one of my failures, I feel terrible.’
‘But Maria loves you as you are, is that it?’ she says sarcastically.
‘I don’t know about love but . . . she knew me before she ever knew or cared about me being a doctor.’
‘That’s unfair. So did I. I’ve only ever wanted to help you be what you wanted, Tim.’
She’s right. But till Maria, I’ve never had the guts to tell anyone outright that I didn’t want a life of patients and crises and gossipy doctors’ messes. That I don’t want to be a doctor at all.
The porter comes through the double doors, ready to move her onto the ward. He coughs. ‘Ready to rumble? Heigh-ho, it’s off to gynae we go!’
The nurse gets the drip and monitors ready to move, and I prepare to walk with them.
‘Go home, Tim. You look knackered and I need sleep. Come tomorrow. I’ll need you then.’
I consider arguing but I can see from Kerry’s face there’s no point. I lean in to kiss her lips and she moves her head so my lips graze her cheek instead.
Home hasn’t felt like home since Mum died, not really, and as I unlock the front door into the hallway full of pictures, I long for the minimalism of Maria’s place. I hang up my coat and see that the 2005 Scottish Lochs and Castles calendar still shows a misty photograph from last July because neither Kerry nor I have noticed it needed changing.
I take a shower and pour myself a large brandy, knocking it back fast so that the roughness doesn’t linger too long on my throat. I run a bath with Mum’s favourite Fenjal bath oil because there’s a part of me that wants to trigger memories and let all the emotion and guilt spill out, now I am alone.
I’ve messed up so many times, starting that bloody night on the Lawns. My failed exams. My disgusting drug use. Mrs Lomas, who I almost killed with my stupid mistake. My career. My future.
Our marriage.
Our baby.
Why has it taken me this long to realize that my mother got it wrong? She believed I was meant to be great, but I never had it in me.
The house wakes me up with its familiar sounds. The heating creaks on, the post drops through the letterbox. I call the ward: Kerry had a comfortable night. I call her parents and update them before I text her to say good morning. When I don’t get a reply, I remember I brought her phone home with me to recharge. When it turns back on, the screen lights up with worried messages from her colleagues. News travels fast.
I start packing a bag for her: a pot of Nivea face cream, the book on her bedside table. Something to replace the nasty hospital nightgown? I pull out the drawers and look for old clothes she won’t mind throwing away afterwards.
The red T-shirt at the bottom is good quality: that would be soft on her body. I unfold it. The logo on the front looks familiar. I turn it over.
Lyonshall Manor Mini-Triathlon, July 2004.
Instantly, I know why it looks familiar. I picture Joel, at the top end of Hazelmere Crescent, his broad chest filling out an identical T-shirt.
He was there, with her. The weekend she was deciding whether to leave me.
I sink down onto the bed.
Maybe I always knew. Even someone as dense as me couldn’t completely ignore the fizz and buzz whenever they were together, like an unstable current. I almost allowed myself to acknowledge it last year, when he delivered that card and I sensed there was something more.
But I chose to ignore my gut.
Was she unfaithful? I want to believe she wasn’t. But even if they didn’t have sex, I know now that you can be unfaithful just by holding hands.
I get up, tear around the house, put the washing on, clear up the kitchen. Anything to stop the noise. But it doesn’t work, my brain speeds up, recalibrating our shared history. Me, Kerry, Joel, locked together, since the last minutes of 1999.
I should hate him, and her. Instead I think of Maria. Before I met her, I was utterly sceptical about the idea of fate, or the idea that there was The One. I wouldn’t say I am now a believer, but I am open to the possibility that some things are meant to be.
Maria and me.
Joel and Kerry?
Should I call him? He would want to know she’s sick because . . . well, you do want to know, when you love someone.
I pick up my phone, and stare at it for five long minutes before I start to type.
A message pings back almost instantly.
Still I’m waiting for the anger to kick in. I walk into the hall and retrieve the post. There is a letter for me from my deanery, asking me to call HR at my earliest convenience to organize the disciplinary.
I don’t think I am ever going back.
Under the junk, there are two letters for Kerry, both with NHS franking. The first comes from the hospital she visited two days ago – is it that recent? It feels like months – and the thinness of the white envelope makes me certain it’s a rejection, just as she predicted.
That can wait.
But the other is in a brown A4 envelope and has heft, the kind that comes from accommodation forms and health questionnaires and . . . it has a London postcode.
Some things are meant to be.
I push on my trainers, check I have my keys and launch myself out of the house. Outside it’s cold and misty and I almost turn back to grab my coat, but instead, I begin to run towards the hospital because I don’t want Kerry to have to wait a single second longer than necessary to find out she’s finally getting what she deserves . . .