Two hours after her shift had officially finished Anya was ready to leave, but rather than heading home she felt compelled to pay a quick visit to the Critical Care Unit. Julia Richardson had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day and each time she woke she asked about her friend. Anya had done her best to put her mind at ease but could offer only limited comfort. The reports on Helen Butler were far from promising, and Anya faced the prospect of a sleepless night herself unless she found out a little more about this friend who Julia appeared to have much more of a connection with than she did the husband she was still refusing to let near her bedside.
Anya’s feet and calves ached as she hurried through the hospital while chomping on a Mars bar and swallowing it back with a double espresso to give her enough energy to keep going. Turning the last corner she spied a dishevelled-looking man outside the CCU. He had his eyes closed as he rested his forehead on the wall with his hands in his pockets.
Although she had no idea who he was, Anya immediately recognized him for what he represented. He was one amongst many other relatives roaming the corridors in confusion and in some cases, despair. Without exception, they wore dazed expressions that suggested their brains hadn’t quite caught up with the day’s events. They couldn’t yet comprehend how it was possible that the loved ones they had casually waved off that morning should now be fighting for their lives, or worse.
At the sound of her approach, the man straightened up and turned towards her. Seeing only the uniform, his eyes widened in fear and apprehension. ‘My wife …’ he began and then shook his head. ‘I mean, my ex-wife and her friends were involved in the accident. What should I do? I don’t know what to do.’ He glanced over his shoulder, drawing Anya’s gaze to another figure approaching from the opposite direction.
Anya watched the young girl walking slowly up the corridor. She had her head down as she gave her undivided attention to the two plastic cups in her hand. Nothing else existed except those cups of water; nothing else was going to invade her consciousness or add to the distress that had already turned her complexion ghostly white and her nose bright red.
‘What do I tell my daughter?’ John asked.