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It's the big question, and I wish I knew the answer to it. Instead, I take a shaky breath and try to summon up some courage. “I hope so.”
22
The next day I wheel Max into the doctor’s surgery, taking a seat on one of the orange plastic chairs in the waiting room. Max is holding a cardboard book, eating it more than reading it, and I pull it away from his mouth, panicking about all the germs he could catch here. Ten minutes pass before we’re called in, though it seems like longer, and Max becomes bored, kicking at his chair, wailing to be let out.
I carry him into the doctor’s office. Doctor Jensen glances up at me when I walk in, his pale grey eyes taking us both in, and he nods at the chair next to his desk.
“How’s Max doing?”
“His breathing seems much better, and he’s eating well,” I tell him. “If we could just get him to sleep through the night my life would be complete.” I smile at him, letting him know what a relief it is to know that Max can thrive again. After the fear of the past few days, it’s a welcome respite.
“Bring him over to the couch and I’ll examine him.”
Max, of course, has other ideas. I have to hold him down while the doctor listens to his chest with a stethoscope, then attempts to look inside his airways to see if everything’s okay. Max protests at being held still, his arms flailing, his legs kicking, and he manages to hit the doctor right on the groin.
“Yep, he’s definitely feeling better,” the doctor groans, his eyes bulging out as he steps away from the examination couch. “I think he’s going to be a footballer when he gets older.”
The second part of the appointment is about me. Dr Jensen asks me about the PND group, and I confirm that until last week I’d been attending regularly, and I’m planning to go back next week. He asks me to retake the Edinburgh test, and as I tick the boxes I realise that I really am able to see humour in life again, and that happiness doesn’t seem like an abstract concept.
“Your score’s in the normal range,” he tells me, after he looks at my answers. “That doesn’t mean everything’s magically okay, but it means you’re making some progress. I have to say that’s a pretty good result considering everything you’ve been through recently.”
I think it is too. “Does that mean I’m discharged?” I ask.
He smiles. “I’d like to see you in a month, just to make sure everything is on track. Keep going to the group, and keep an eye on your feelings, but I think you’ve got things under control right now.”
Max squirms in my arms, making an attempt for freedom, and I have to pull him back. He’s getting stronger, enough for it to hurt sometimes when he’s wriggling, but after everything that’s happened, I love his hardiness.
As soon as we leave the doctor’s surgery, I call Alex with the good news. His warm, happy voice is enough to make my heart thump against my chest, and I realise that this newfound control I have doesn’t quite extend to my reactions to him.
* * *
Alex picks Max up at nine on Sunday. I stand behind the curtain, watching him out of the window as he pushes the buggy down the street. Though it's almost autumn, the weather is still warm, and he's wearing a thin shirt that does nothing to hide his muscles. I have to grab hold of the wall to steady myself, trying not to let the need for him sweep me under.
Are we ever going to get back to what we were?
His question echoes in my ears. I hate that I don't know the answer. He's my best friend, the love of my life, the man I wanted to grow old with.
And I'm watching him walk away.
The flat seems empty and hollow without the boys. Though I try to keep my mind occupied by cleaning madly, my efforts fall far short. Eventually, I tire of folding tiny clothes and dusting painted surfaces, and grab my jacket, shrugging it on as I leave the flat.
Autumn is my favourite time of year. Though the Indian summer is trying to cling on desperately, there's no hiding the leaves as they turn golden, and the pale blue of the sky as it readies itself for winter. When a gust of wind lifts up the tendrils of my hair I feel the chill against my neck, bringing goose bumps out on my skin.
I walk for a while, ending up at a small café in Hoxton Square. The whole place is heaving, full of people trying to get their fill of fresh air before the winter makes hermits of us all. I sit alone at a tiny table overlooking the fenced-in green. The trees sway softly in the breeze, dry leaves rustling. A small girl darts between the rugged trunks, chased by her dad, and I find myself wondering what Max and Alex are doing right now.
It's as if somebody is squeezing my stomach when I think of them. We should be here together, enjoying the last of the sun. Sharing a picnic as we watch Max trying to stand up.
Is this how it's going to be? Stilted conversations as I hand over our son. Lonely Saturdays spent thinking about what could have been. Sundays stuck in the flat, surrounded by silence and memories. A life none of us ever wanted.
Alex once told me I was everything to him. Held me close and whispered that nothing else mattered. I take another sip of coffee, feeling the bitter liquid burn at my throat, wondering if there's anything I can do to get my old life back.
“Lara?”
I crane my head to see Laurence Baines from group therapy standing over me. His tall frame blocks out the sun, casting a shadow across my table. I order my expression into a smile, seeing how awkward he looks, shifting from foot to foot as if he's fifteen, not fifty.
“Laurence, how are you?” Hastily, I stand up.
“I'm good.” Even his smile is awkward. “Am I supposed to talk to you? Outside of the clinic, I mean?”
