“Well,” she finally says, “aren’t you just a gift from God.”
14
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 8—FIRST DAY
I grab the keys to the lodge, pull on my running shoes, and let the door bang shut behind me. I need to get my run in before work, as it’ll be pitch black by the time I get back. It’s drizzling slightly, which I actually like, the scent of rain fresh and pure in the early-morning air.
I decide to take a route out through the back gate of the garden that looks like it heads deeper into the woods. I want to see the forest in the daylight. I need to get used to it somehow, this dark tangle encircling me. I unhook the gate and set off at a brisk pace. The uneven ground is more interesting to negotiate than the well-kept footpaths of Regent’s Park. It’s only when my watch starts beeping that I become aware I’m soaked, my hands are numb, and my buzzing mind is finally clear. Time to turn and head back the way I came.
Back at the lodge, I cook a quick breakfast and hop in the shower, letting the warmth seep back into my bones. I’m not entirely sure what the traffic is like between here and the hospital, so I decide it’s best to set off early; they’re expecting me at nine o’clock. Once I’m dressed, blow-dried, and made up, I dash out through the rain again to the rental car, my new friend, my connection to the outside world. I think about turning on the radio but decide that I don’t want to break the soft bubble of silence surrounding me just yet.
The comforting aortic pump of the windshield wipers is my only company for the rest of the drive. The quiet beauty of the countryside thins as I near the bland gray of King’s Lynn, and finally I see Princess Margaret’s rise like a concrete lighthouse from the drab sea of the suburban town. I feel my pulse quicken; the last time I was here things were not good. I try not to think of that night…the coughing, the blood. But my cortisol spikes regardless.
I park and look up at the hospital, my view blurring as rain splatters the windshield.
I’m here for a reason, I tell myself. Somewhere inside is my patient. Waiting. The knot to be loosened.
Near the hospital entrance the news vans are setting up for the day. Crews milling, bustling with umbrellas, coffee orders, production runners with anorak hoods up, darting between the gaps in a recently erected press cordon, huddled together texting and laughing.
It won’t be like last time, I tell myself. They won’t know who I am as I slip past them, at least not today. This afternoon they’ll find out I’m the new doctor on the Mr. Nobody case but nothing more. They won’t know who I really am; that information would take a lot more than an Internet search.
But then, I suppose, time has a way of releasing the truth from its bedrock and floating it up into the sunlight.
I might get mobbed with questions as I leave tonight. But it won’t be like last time. And for now, I am no one.
I grab my bag, filled with my notes and my laptop, and dash from the dry heat of the car through the wet of the car park.
I pull my coat collar up high over my head as I run, partly to protect my first-day hair, partly as a barrier as I near the press area.
But no one even glances up as I pass by.
—
I’m early. The clock above reception reads 8:39. I let my eyes drift over the lobby: The two security guards standing by the entrance of the main corridor to the wards, are they there to stop the press getting in? I wonder. Or to stop someone getting out?
Normal hospital life flows about me, nurses arriving for shifts, visitors buying morning papers in the small shop. The layout is different from what I remember, it’s been refurbished recently. A fledgling queue is forming already at the coffee concession opposite the reception desk, which I make my way over to. I sign in with the elder of the two receptionists and she peers down suspiciously at my name on her list. “Dr. Lewis?” she says, looking back up at me, frowning. “Oh, right. Well, that’s a surprise, we assumed you’d be a man.” She sounds annoyed. I attempt a smile but she remains unimpressed. “It’s the ‘Lewis,’ I suppose,” she posits. “Sounds masculine.”
Okay.
I give her a supportive smile. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “Lewis” that tipped the gender balance in her mind. But I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt—first day, isn’t it?
She holds a small camera aloft to take my picture, prints out the photo ID, then wordlessly assembles my day visitor lanyard and hands it to me. I stare down at it, unsure exactly what’s supposed to happen next. The younger receptionist finishes giving directions to another visitor and smiles over at me. “Dr. Lewis, isn’t it?” she asks. I give her a grateful nod. “Someone from HR will be up in a minute. You can have a wander if you like.” She indicates the lobby newsagent and coffee bar. I thank her but head over to the metal seating near the windows. More coffee would probably not be a great idea.
I look down at my lanyard, a grainy digital image of me caught off guard, below it the name Dr. Emma Lewis. That’s me. That’s who I am.
Visitor ID lanyards aren’t usually hospital practice, nor are the security guards on the ward entrance. At least not in any hospital I’ve ever worked in. But this situation is slightly different, I remind myself. This is a different political climate. And given the media outside and the government’s interest in who this patient is, or could be, a little added caution can only be a good thing, right? ID verification stops outside threats.
After all, I could be anyone, couldn’t I? I could be a journalist. I could be paparazzo. I could have a hidden camera embedded in my bag filming everything. I could be making a BBCHorizondocumentary on poor healthcare.
I bet those press photos spread all over my bedroom floor back at Cuckoo Lodge made someone a hefty amount. There’s definitely a market for information. People want to know.
I feel eyes on me. But when I look up, everyone in the reception area is going about their own business. No one is looking. I let out a sigh. I need to relax. I’m not on display yet, nothing has happened yet.
I swivel in my seat and look out at the rain-soaked car park. Watching the weather is grounding, relaxing—there’s neuroscience behind that but I won’t bore you with the details and take away the magic. I watch the rain collect and twist in rivulets as it glides and judders down the glass panels.
I notice his hair first. Across the car park, a man stands talking to an older woman. I recognize that close crop of blond curls, at least I think I do. Neither is carrying an umbrella. His back is to me, so I can’t quite tell yet, for sure, but I feel the queasy tingle of nerves in the pit of my stomach regardless. It’s funny how just recognizing someone in a crowd can cause such a strong physical reaction. He’s tall too, just like I remember. I brace myself for him to turn, to see me staring back at him through the smear of rain, for the spark of recognition to flare in his eyes. I steel myself for the inevitable look of disappointment on his face. The woman he’s talking to gets into her car and he turns. It’s not him. Relief flashes through me so powerfully that I shudder. He’s nothing like him really; it was silly to think it was him. Good. The last thing I needed was a school reunion on my first day in a car park full of press.
