monotony.
I reached out a hand. It was shaking horribly. I wanted to touch him. Would he feel cold to touch? No, how silly. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically, accompanied by artificial sucking and blowing noises, which would have sounded comical, except that they were anything but. I took Luke’s hand. It was warm. Warm, but motionless. I gripped his hand, willing him to respond. His face remained immobile, his eyelids not even fluttering at the touch. He wasn’t Luke.
Dr Wallis was still talking. ‘The next few days will be critical. How Luke responds to his injuries early on will be a key indication of his overall recovery, but there is much for him to get through. If he stays in the coma for a few days or more, we’ll probably run a CT scan. This rules out bleeds or infarcts.’ His expression, when my utter bewilderment gave away how little I was following, was apologetic. ‘As traumatic as this is for you to see, Luke’s coma is probably helping him right now.’
I nodded. That I remembered. The coma was protecting Luke from the pain – it was the body’s way of shutting down and coping. The specialist murmured a few more words to Dee, then left. The nurse stayed. Protocol in ICU; I knew that.
‘He’s going to be all right,’ Dee said, putting her hand on mine. Her voice sounded artificially bright and I knew without turning round that she was crying. ‘He’s going to pull through and when he does, he’s going to tell us to stop being so silly and emotional.’
‘He … he doesn’t know about the baby, Dee.’ My chin quivered. ‘Should I tell him about the baby? What do I …? I don’t know what to do.’
‘Oh, darling.’ Dee bent down and curled her arms around my neck.
I felt her rest her face against my hair, her cheeks wet. I swallowed, twice. I could feel something rising up inside me and I knew that, when it took hold, it was going to overwhelm me. I willed Luke to wake up and make my world right again. He didn’t and it wasn’t.
My heart clenched. I had lost our baby. I had lost our baby and my best friend, the one person I needed to talk to about it, was lying in a coma. I needed Luke’s arms around me. I needed him to tell me it was all going to be all right, even though I knew it wasn’t. I just wanted to hear his voice.
When Joe – Luke’s paramedic partner – urgently dashed in and started telling me what had happened, I found myself unable to be brave any longer. Hearing Joe’s earnest, apologetic account of the ghastly details, I broke down and sobbed.
Thirty minutes later, Patricia arrived at the hospital. Inside Luke’s room, she stopped abruptly in front of the bed. She wasn’t prepared … she hadn’t known what state he would be in. Lucy had left her a garbled message and, as soon as she had received it, Patricia had pulled on some clothes and driven to the hospital. But she hadn’t expected this – she hadn’t anticipated seeing her son looking as though he’d been broken in half and battered with a hammer.
Patricia felt hysteria coiling up inside her. My boy. My beautiful boy.
‘What happened? How could this have happened?’ Her voice became shrill even though she wasn’t sure who exactly she was addressing. A nurse looked up. She was unperturbed by the emotional outburst and seemed about to speak, but when someone else entered the room she placidly returned to her notes.
‘Mrs Harte. I’m so sorry.’
Distraught, Patricia turned. The young man who had just entered the room was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She willed her brain to catch up.
‘I’m sorry. Have we … do I know you?’ Patricia noticed that he was wearing the same teal outfit Luke wore. He was a paramedic.
‘I’m Joe, Luke’s partner,’ the man explained. He was pale and his uniform was streaked with blood.
Patricia stared at it, sickened. Was that her son’s blood? She put her hand to her mouth. She was in danger of throwing up all over Joe’s trainers if she didn’t concentrate with every fibre of her being. Patricia turned away. She focused on Luke again, trying to make sense of everything.
This wasn’t right; she wasn’t meant to see her son’s life hanging in the balance like this. If anyone should leave this earth first, it should be her. Not that he was going to die. She wouldn’t allow it. She would gather him up in her arms and bloody-well breathe for him if it came down to it.
Patricia was stricken. What could she do for her boy?
‘I – I drive the ambulance,’ Joe said, raising his voice a little. He rubbed a hand over his neck, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from Luke’s inert body.
‘Were you with him when this …’ Patricia waved a shaky hand in Luke’s direction, ‘happened?’ Her vision swam and she was grateful when Joe guided her into the chair next to the bed, worried she might faint. She couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
Joe took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I was with Luke. I – I can’t believe this.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
Patricia knew she sounded peevish but she wanted to know the details.
Joe started speaking in an uneven tone. ‘We were driving to a house on Charlotte Street … a woman had fallen down the stairs, suspected broken leg. We were almost there and I was about to turn … I checked both ways. Right, left, right. It’s automatic, isn’t it? I do it twenty … forty times a day.’ He paused, the horror of the accident reflected in his eyes. ‘I turned, with plenty of time to avoid oncoming traffic and this lorry came out of nowhere. It was going so fast, but I saw it and I tried to avoid it. I nearly made it, too; it was only a glancing blow.’ Joe wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘It ploughed into Luke’s side, Mrs Harte. Right into it. The ambulance spun round once, maybe twice and then it tumbled right over and we hit the side of a house.’
Patricia sat numbly, gripping her handbag in order to contain herself. She sat primly, her knees and ankles rigidly locked. She was sure she must look frightful. Her hair was uncombed and she wore a crumpled top and skirt, the first thing she had happened upon when she had got Lucy’s message.
Patricia could hear Joe speaking, but she could barely register what he was saying. In the distance, Patricia heard a piercing cry and she panicked that she had voiced the horror spiralling up inside her. But no, it was someone else in another room. Patricia relaxed fractionally. Her agonised shrieks were still under wraps. Just about suppressed.
‘I’m just so sorry, Mrs Harte,’ Joe was saying, wringing his hands. ‘I keep going through what happened in my head, reliving it to see if there was something I could do differently.’ He shook his head. ‘But I honestly don’t think I could.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, Joe,’ Patricia replied automatically. She had no idea whose fault it was, but she felt the need to reassure this poor man who clearly blamed himself.
‘Get yourself a cup of tea,’ she told him, feeling that he might appreciate some motherly concern. It was the best she could manage, in the circumstances.
