Throughout the month of September, Amy made her twice-weekly visits to Jude. By now, she no longer found the train journeys daunting but whenever she entered the hospital she felt as though her heart was in her mouth. Never knowing quite what to expect she had, for two interminable hours every Wednesday and Sunday, sat beside him praying for him to acknowledge her presence, say her name, or give her a smile. More often than not he sat quietly gazing out of the window, his eyes like two pits of empty blackness and his mouth twisted in a sardonic sneer.
Not one to give in without a fight, Amy talked and talked, her voice gentle as she told him about Kezia’s progress and what she herself had done since she last saw him. Jude sat with his hands clamped to the arms of his chair, and as she talked Amy stroked the back of the nearest one. He gave no indication that he felt her fingers caressing his skin. One day, when his hands were rested in his lap she had reached out and held them. Then, he had looked directly at her. His mouth had twitched and she thought he was about to speak, but just as her spirits soared, he had tugged his hands free. She’d held his hands again on the next visit and he hadn’t resisted, but since then she had had to be content with stroking. Nurse Brennan had told her it was a good sign; he was improving. But then, from somewhere deep inside, the growls and yells and blaspheming would pour in torrents, outbursts of such extreme anger that had Amy fearing for her own sanity, let alone Jude’s. On those days, she had gone home feeling as though there was no hope.
Now, on the last Sunday in September, she sat with her chair angled towards him, almost forcing him to look at her as she talked. The afternoon was drawing to a close, almost time for her to leave to catch her train. She had been talking and stroking the back of his hand for almost two hours without any response from Jude. Her mouth was dry and her fingers ached but she still battled on. ‘Kezia says to tell you that she’s been helping Granny Bessie feed the chickens and milk the goats. She loves spending time on the farm whilst I’m here with you,’ she said, keeping up a steady patter of the one-way conversation. ‘Oh, and by the way, Mrs Hargreaves gave me some more books to add to your collection. Our bedroom’s coming down with books, books, and more books, everywhere you look.’
Jude blinked. He leaned forward, his face close enough for her to smell his breath; it was sour. He blinked again, and it was as if someone had drawn back the curtain from a window in a darkened room. His eyes gleamed as they searched her face. Amy let the silence swell and grow. Then, tentatively loosening his grip on the chair’s arm, she lifted the hand that she had been stroking and wrapped both her own round it. It felt like a dead fish between her warm palms. She gave it a gentle squeeze. Jude continued to stare at her, his eyes troubled, as though they were fixed on a puzzle he could not solve.
Amy smiled warmly, loving him with a pain that almost cleaved her heart in two. His eyes widened, and then she felt it: a faint responding pressure, steadily increasing as the squeeze was returned. Amy’s heart lurched. She held her breath.
She lost track of time as they sat, eyes for no one but each other and her fingers starting to numb as he held on, but she didn’t care – he was telling her something, she was sure of it. Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, but Jude did not see them. He had closed his eyes, and the bitter sneer that had been on his lips each and every visit had been replaced by something resembling a smile.
They had turned a corner.