While he was out cold, Mitchell dreamed.
It was another kiln-hot summer day where the air shimmered and people gathered in the pub for shelter from the sun. A woman with copper curls pushed in next to him at the bar.
‘A pint of cider, please,’ she said, even though it was Mitchell’s turn to be served. She glanced at him and pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, you were next?’
He shrugged, a little irritated. ‘It’s fine.’
‘No, it’s not. Really. The barman was cutting into a lime and the smell always reminds me of this holiday I went on to Ibiza in my early twenties. It was supposedly cool to drink beer from a bottle with a slice of lime sticking out of the neck. Even though I didn’t like the taste, I drank it for a whole week and…’
Mitchell laughed despite himself. ‘I once forced myself to drink the same thing at a barbecue because my friends liked it.’
She returned his smile. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is sorry, and can I get you a drink?’ When he started to protest against her offer, she jokingly placed her elbow in front of him. ‘I’ll get this,’ she said to the barman.
She wasn’t his usual type, with a round face and messy red hair when he was usually attracted to brunettes. But when she grinned at him, he liked how her eyes crinkled at the corners in a fan shape.
Mitchell asked for a cider, too, and they carried their drinks outside together, grumbling about the hot weather, and sat down at the only free table. She told him her name was Anita and she was waiting for a friend who was always late.
She raised her glass at him. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ He clinked his in return.
When Anita pressed her lips against the glass, she savoured every sip of the fizzy amber liquid as if it was the finest champagne, and Mitchell realized he actually fancied her. She was the kind of person who could find adventure in the simplest of things.
A delicious sensation tingled in his chest as he thought about where their conversation might take them both.
Mitchell closed his eyes as he drank his cider. However, when he opened them again, his glass had vanished from his hand. The table and the pub were no longer there. Anita had gone, too.
He woke up and found himself woozy and sore, lying on a hospital bed. There was an electronic beeping sound to his right, and a cannula tube taped to the back of his hand. He wore a starchy, patterned gown and a wristband with his name on it.
He forgot about his dream and tried to sit up. ‘Poppy,’ he cried out.
A bag with an Upchester Hospital logo sat on a chair beside his bed and he could see his clothes were folded inside it. On top of the small table next to him, his keys, wallet and mobile phone were sealed inside a plastic bag that was foggy with condensation. He stretched to reach for it, but realized a nurse was pointing a finger at him from the end of the bed.
‘Leave that alone,’ she ordered.
Mitchell tried to sit up again. ‘You don’t understand—yow!’ A pain shot down his spine and he screwed his eyes shut.
‘What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?’
Mitchell opened one eye and took in the nurse’s blue uniform, tight black curls and steely brown eyes. ‘Sorry, but I need to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’m late to get my daughter from school. She’ll be worried…’
‘Even if you have a dinner date with the queen, I’m not letting you go anywhere.’ Her name badge said Hello My Name is Samantha and it made her sound friendlier than she looked.
He clawed at the neck of his gown. ‘I’m absolutely fine, honestly.’
‘That’s for me to say, not you. As it stands, your oxygen levels, temperature and blood pressure are okay. You’ve had a CT scan, and the good news is you’ll be fine.’ She tapped the side of her own head. ‘You’ve had a couple of stitches.’
Mitchell felt like he’d been battered with a meat tenderizing hammer. He reached up to feel the spongy softness of gauze taped above his right ear. ‘Poppy’s only nine, and she has a guitar lesson. What time is it?’ When he saw a wall clock displayed 7.25 p.m., his insides cramped. ‘I have got to go.’
He imagined Poppy staring expectantly at her watch as the other kids were picked up from the club and she was left behind. She’d be twitchy, frightened even. Exactly the same as the fateful day Anita didn’t arrive to collect her.
‘You need to calm down,’ Samantha ordered. ‘Won’t her mum have things covered?’
Mitchell wondered why she’d assume this. He tried to reply, but the words stuck in his mouth. ‘No. She’s…’
Samantha crossed her arms expectantly.
‘There’s only me.’ Mitchell looked down at his hands. ‘Poppy’s mother… well, she died.’
Samantha unfolded her arms and fiddled with her name badge. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll find out what I can.’
Mitchell nodded. ‘Please.’
He’d never fully settled on how to describe Anita. She wasn’t his wife because they weren’t married, and they’d never got engaged. The word partner sounded like a business arrangement, and soul mate was too soppy. Girlfriend was too young, and the mother of my child suggested Poppy was the result of a one-night stand. He usually called her Poppy’s mum.
If he ever had to explain his circumstances, he often found himself consoling people, rather than the other way around.
‘You weren’t to know…’
‘I’m sorry to tell you…’
‘It’s one of those things…’
What he really wanted to say was, ‘Imagine being told you’ll never feel sunshine on your skin ever again. That’s what life is like without her. And every minute and hour of each day, I feel like it’s my fault she’s no longer here.’
But he kept this to himself.
He tried to picture himself as an armadillo, curled up against the world and displaying an armoured shell. Even though three years had passed, he still needed this protection.
Samantha returned a few minutes later. ‘Your friend Barry Waters is listed as an emergency contact at the school. I understand he picked up your daughter and took her to her music lesson.’
‘But that will have finished…’
‘That’s
