spasm. ‘He’s very heavily sedated, Louise.’
Claire checked his vital signs as she did twice each day. No change. She wrote up a drug order to override the one that was about to expire and then she turned her attention to Louise. Gunmetal-grey shadows stretched from the mother’s eyes down to her cheekbones. Claire was familiar with the signs of relatives at the end of their rope.
‘How are you sleeping?’ she asked, despite the signs that the woman wasn’t sleeping very much at all.
The exhausted mother shrugged and tilted her head towards the rollaway bed. ‘It’s got springs in interesting places.’
‘We can get you another one,’ Claire offered, having no idea if that was even possible. With all the talk of the probable sale of the hospital land and relocating the facility to one of the home counties, the powers that be weren’t spending any money. If push came to shove, she’d buy a rollaway bed herself. At least it would feel like she was doing something other than this interminable waiting.
Louise sighed. ‘To be fair, it’s as much the disturbed sleep as anything. I wake up every time the nurses do their hourly check.’
‘Would you consider taking a night off?’ Claire asked carefully. She’d learned to tread very gently with families.
‘I doubt I’d sleep any better at home.’
‘Your GP can prescribe some sleeping tablets. Believe me, eight hours sleep in your own bed would do you the world of good.’
Louise gave her head a brisk shake. ‘I want to be here when he wakes up.’
‘I understand.’ She pulled up a chair and sat, putting herself at eye level with Louise. ‘The thing is, Ryan doesn’t have to be alone. I’m sure there’s someone in your extended family you could ask to give you a break? You know, so both you and Colin can get a full night’s sleep.’
Louise glanced between Claire and her redheaded son, whose freckles seemed darker than ever against his porcelain-white face. A tear spilled over and ran down her cheek. ‘I’m beyond making decisions. My mind feels like it’s encased in a wet, London fog.’
‘Then let me make the decision for you.’
She looked uncertain. ‘I’ve never felt this exhausted in my life. It’s like fatigue’s not only invaded my soul but it’s set up residence. All I want to do is curl up under the duvet and sleep for a week. I want to forget about the fire and how it turned my life on its head in an instant. But how can I? This is my new reality. Ryan can’t leave and forget. If I go home, aren’t I letting him down?’
Claire had heard variations of this story from grieving parents many times before. She gave the woman’s knee a gentle pat. ‘If you don’t look after yourself, Louise, you risk getting sick. If you fall apart, then you’ll be away from Ryan a lot longer than twelve hours.’
The enervated mother suddenly sagged as if utterly defeated by a fortnight’s emotional trauma and associated sleep debt. Her weary moss-green eyes met Claire’s. ‘If he wakes up while I’m at home, you must call me.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’ The woman visibly brightened. ‘Perhaps my leaving will trigger him waking up. You know, like when you take an umbrella with you every day and it’s always dry but the moment you leave it at home it rains.’
Claire couldn’t quite see the connection.
‘I’ve been here for days,’ Louise explained, ‘and nothing’s changed. It stands to reason that if I leave, he’ll sit up and start talking.’
A worrying sensation roved along Claire’s spine and she had to resist the urge not to wince. ‘Medicine doesn’t really work that way, Louise,’ she said gently. ‘Would you like me to contact your GP about the sleeping tablets? And I can ask the ward clerk to call you a taxi.’
‘Thank you. That would be great.’ Louise leaned over, brushed the hair from Ryan’s forehead and kissed him. ‘See you soon, buddy.’ She smoothed his hair back into place and then stood up. ‘Promise me, Claire, you’ll telephone if he wakes up.’
‘I promise,’ Claire said easily. ‘Wild horses couldn’t stop me from giving you good news like that.’
* * *
Alistair high-fived Tristan Lewis-Smith. ‘Way to go, Tris,’ he said with a grin.
The kid had just whooped him at virtual tennis—twice—but he didn’t care. He was too busy rejoicing in the fact that the ten-year-old had been seizure free for a week. That hadn’t happened in two years and it was moments like these that reminded him that what he did each day mattered. Hell, it reinforced his mantra that every single day mattered and life should be lived to the full.
He’d almost lost the opportunity to do that, and when he’d woken up in the coronary care unit, he’d vowed never to forget how life could change in a heartbeat—or the lack of one as the case may be—and how close he’d come to death. He’d been blessed with a second chance and he never took it for granted. He was thrilled to be able to give Tristan a second chance at a normal life.
‘Right-oh, mate.’ He pulled down the sheet and patted the centre of the bed. ‘Time to tuck in and pretend to read or the night sister will have my guts for garters.’
Full of beans and far from quiet, Tristan bounced onto the bed. ‘You’re just saying that because you’re scared if you play another game I’ll beat you. Again.’
‘There is that,’ Alistair said with a grin. ‘Hurry up. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.’
Tristan scrambled under the covers. ‘Nurse Saunders said you couldn’t stay long because you’ve got a hot date.’
‘Did she now?’ Funny that Lindsay appeared to know more about this hot date than he did. He found himself automatically tucking the sheet around the little boy, only this time an odd feeling of something akin to emptiness accompanied it.
He immediately shook it off. He had no reason to feel empty or lonely. Life was good. He had a job he loved and a spacious and light-filled apartment just off the Portobello Road that he’d filled with curios from his world travels. Three years ago, he’d added to his property portfolio and bought a pretty stone cottage surrounded by fields of lavender in Provence. When he was there, he revelled in the sensory delights of sunshine, hearty Mediterranean food and great wine. He visited at least once a month, either alone or with a companion depending on whether or not the woman he was dating was still focused on having fun. The moment a woman started dropping hints about ‘taking things to the next level’ she was no longer welcome in France. Or in Notting Hill for that matter.
He loved women but he didn’t do next levels. It was better to break a heart in the early days, well before things got serious, than to risk shattering a life, or worse, lives. His childhood was a case in point, and furthermore, no one ever knew precisely the duration of a second chance.
Surprised by the unexpected direction his musings had taken him—he didn’t do dark thoughts and he certainly wasn’t known for them—he left Tristan’s room and contemplated the hour. It wasn’t quite eight. As it was a Thursday night there’d be a sizeable hospital crowd at the Frog and Peach and he’d be welcomed with open arms for his dart skills. Oddly, the
