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Mid-January 2005
Warsaw, Poland
Something held my eyelids down.
I took a laboured breath through a parched mouth and the air ripped at my throat. As my brain hauled itself from unconsciousness, like tyres inflating, my muscles came to life, too.
What had I done?
Remembering where I was, who I was, and why I was here, I stopped myself from tearing at the light dressing that covered my eyes. My life flashed through a drugged mind, as I imagined it would do at the point of death.
And then Joe’s image emerged inside my darkness. Had Joe’s short life replayed in front of him before his death? This thought caught me, taking away more of the oxygen that my lungs craved. Joe.
Unable to see, my other senses were heightened. The nurses spoke in Polish and I understood nothing.
What had I done? Joe, what have I done?
The nurses giggled. I tried to talk, to interrupt their conversation, let them know I was there, awake, but no sound came from my mouth. My throat itched. I needed a drink.
I needed my son.
The thought of iced water made me try harder to form a voice. Finally, I croaked. ‘Please, please may I have a drink?’
I heard the door open.
‘Ona budzi!’ A nurse shouted.
‘Malina! English please. I’ve told you. English, please.’
It was Marek Gorski. He coughed, clearing his throat.
‘Doctor, I think she’s awake,’ Malina said in English.
‘She should be awake now. The anaesthetic was mild,’ he said gently.
I heard him moving towards my bed; his shoes squeaked on the lino floor. He was a big man; not fat, but tall and heavily set. When I’d first met him, before I fell pregnant with Joe, I’d thought he looked nothing like a doctor, a cosmetic surgeon, at all. Thinking of my first meeting with Marek, of Sorojini Jain, about my life, brought my thoughts in a full circle back to Joe. I read somewhere that a human life moved in seven-year cycles. The image of Joe imprinted behind the bandage was vivid, brilliant; his blue eyes like small pools of ocean, his hair the colour of thick, golden honey. I squeezed my eyes shut beneath the gauze.
Seven-year cycles.
There was a light touch on my hand and I smelt a waft of aftershave.
‘How are you feeling?’ Marek asked.
‘A little rough,’ I said, feeling the cool touch of his finger on my arm.
‘You’ll be fine. In a few days you’ll feel completely normal. This is all routine stuff.’
Again, Marek’s touch, and it calmed me, yet I heard mild exasperation in his voice. Was he was already regretting his agreement? But I heard warmth in that voice, too. When I’d asked him to be my surgeon, he had asked very few questions, sensing I would go elsewhere if he said no. ‘I want to know as little as possible, Rachel,’ he’d said. I had only to remind him once that now Rachel wasn’t my name.
I tried to move further up the bed and failed. I was too weak. My fists clenched; it was a misguided rage and I knew it.
‘I’ll be fine. Please can I have some water?’ It was difficult to talk. I’d never realised just how wide a mouth has to open to form coherent words.
‘Water? Of course ... water,’ he said, as he scraped the chair back.
More movement; another trail of aftershave, then Marek placed a cold glass in my hand, pressing my fingers against its contours with his own.
‘Try to relax.’ His hand remained touching mine for a moment longer. ‘There’s a straw. You’ll find it difficult to sip.’ Then I felt him gently taking away the dressing from my eyes, but I kept them closed.
I sucked the liquid, ice cold and heaven to my parched mouth, and immediately it loosened my vocal cords. The thought of heaven brought Joe back. I wanted my beautiful son to be there, but he was not. He was still waiting.
Already my throat felt better, but a smile never made it to my lips. I said nothing.
‘Get some rest,’ Marek continued.
I heard the sadness in his voice. ‘I will,’ I said.
The squeak of lino told me he was moving away.
‘And, ladies, please converse in English while in this room, even if talking about personal matters ... which, of course, you shouldn’t be.’
‘We will,’ I heard Malina say. Malina was the nurse I’d met when I’d first arrived at the clinic. I liked her, and so did Marek.
The door closed with an industrial, fire-door click.
‘Now is time for soup.’ I felt a warm, soft hand on my arm and a lighter scent. Malina.
‘I’m really not hungry,’ I managed to croak.
‘No matter, you need to eat. I lose job if do not.’ She was silent for a moment, but then carried on. ‘My little boy, Kacper, no eat after Dr Gorski fixed his ears ... I told him, you won’t feel better unless eat. It took me three days to get food inside him. Please do not take three days.’ She rubbed my arm and moved my feet back under the blanket, and then, efficiently, tucked it securely under the mattress. ‘Too tall for bed.’
How old was her boy? Why did she have to mention her son? Malina had no idea, and why should she? I was a single, middle-aged, childless woman, whom Malina saw as a rich westerner, spending thousands on improving her looks. She must despise me. However, her tone was jovial and reassuring.
‘Six feet,’ I said, opening my mouth so Malina could feed me soup.
‘Good girl,’ the nurse said, her Polish accent somehow soporific.
My head lolled to one side and I smelt her sweet breath. Malina said something in Polish; I had no idea what, but it sounded lyrical. I felt myself falling into semi-consciousness, allowing only the most sublime of thoughts to pass through my mind. I imagined a strong wind blowing unwanted images away, as they might do to billowing grey clouds on a winter’s day – revealing the crisp blue of a morning sky. But, as always, it was an impossible task. Exhausted acceptance slithered in. There was no escaping. Against my will the image, as always, appeared.
A tall man with long, muscular limbs. A bald head. Perhaps the hair had left its follicular home in protest, not wanting to belong to such a soul as Michael Hemmings. His face came into focus and then fragmented, and he became unrecognisable.