I try to sit up, leaning on my elbows. It’s painful, but just about possible.
‘Non, monsieur,’ a voice says, and someone gently pushes me back down.
Then I’m in a room, not entirely sure how I got there. There’s a woman writing something down from a monitor. ‘Hello?’ I say weakly.
‘Oui, hello, monsieur,’ she says, coming over to the bed, her smile wide.
‘What happened?’
‘You were in an accident, monsieur.’
Well duh!I want to say. ‘Yes, but is everyone all right?’
‘You were very lucky,’ she tells me. ‘It could have been much worse.’
‘But…’ I say, weakly, trying to find the words in my foggy brain to ask her DID I HIT THE OTHER CAR?
‘Your wife is here,’ she says. ‘She is coming up shortly, I think.’
‘I don’t…’ I begin. Then it hits me that the only person they could possibly mistake for being my wife is Sarah. And if it’s her, if she’s here and coming up, then she must be OK.
By the time that particular penny has dropped, she’s gone in any case, and I lay my head back on the pillow. I’m experiencing a curious mix of dizziness and adrenaline. Part of my brain is urging me to leap from the bed and run out of this place; the other part is urging me to lie still, close my eyes. I’m agitated, but clearly on some sort of medication too. I notice, for the first time, that there’s a needle going into my arm, and an IV bag hanging by the bed. I wonder what I’m being given.
I’ve closed my eyes again, so when a hand touches my arm, it makes me jump.
‘Sorry! Sorry.’
I open my eyes to see Sarah there, her face pinched and worried, a little like she’s been crying. I suddenly hate myself for doing this. What was I thinking? That I’d race up to her like some sort of white knight on a very rusty steed and sweep her up into my arms.
No matter what I do, how I feel, all I seem to bring that woman is grief.
‘Thank God you’re OK,’ I croak.
Her brows knit together. ‘What are you talking about? It’s you who… You were in an accident, Hal, don’t you remember?’
‘Yes, I do. I just… I couldn’t remember all of it. I wasn’t sure… did I hit your car?’
‘No. No, you swerved.’
Thank God. I close my eyes for a moment, relieved that the only person I hurt, physically at least, is myself.
‘But Hal, I do have some difficult news,’ she says, taking my hand.
I try to work out what that could be. The only person in that crash whom I care about is her and she is clearly OK, physically at least.
‘What?’
‘It’s Betty,’ she says. ‘She didn’t make it.’ She looks at me with such tender concern that I’m not sure how to react.
I mean, I do love that camper. I have worked on her lovingly and given her a name. And she’s taken me on many adventures. But moments ago, I wasn’t sure if Sarah was OK, if her driver was OK. I thought I might have hurt a human, hurt someone I loved. I was fond of the old rattle-bag, but I do still have perspective.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell her, and her face relaxes.
‘Thank God. I was terrified of telling you.’
‘You never have to be terrified of telling me anything,’ I say, my voice feeling more natural, although the back of my throat is still stiff and sore.
She opens her mouth for a second as if she’s going to say something. But then she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.
