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chapter 59
alex
Dad said in his text Mum was being rushed into emergency surgery, but he didn’t say why. When I arrive at the Mid-Surrey Hospital a little after midnight, the receptionist informs me Mum’s still in intensive care, but she can’t, or won’t, tell me what’s happened.
My fear intensifies as I follow the woman’s directions up to the ICU on the third floor. I thought I’d come to terms with Mum’s mortality after her cancer diagnoses, but I feel blindsided by the suddenness of this. She’s had surgery and chemo and radiation, she’s lost her hair, and aged ten years in less than two, but never, for one moment, have I believed I might actually lose her until now.
Dad’s text left me no choice but to come. Mum might die; of course I had to be here. I just pray to God Jack gets my messages and mobilises the police before the woman leaves the cottage. I can’t find the house on any property rental websites like Airbnb, so perhaps she and Lottie live there after all. And I’ll go back first thing tomorrow, when Mum’s out of the woods.
If.
Dad’s by her bedside when I’m buzzed into the ICU. His eyes are frightened above his mask. Mum is unconscious onthe bed and more pale than I’ve ever seen her, more pale than I’ve ever seen anyone still living. I tell myself the wires and tubes and monitors around her bed make things seem more alarming than they are.
I apply another liberal pump of hand sanitiser and take Mum’s hand. ‘I’m here,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Alex. I’m here, Mum.’
She doesn’t open her eyes. Tenderly, I stroke her hair back from her forehead.
Her skin feels cool, almost clammy, to the touch. She’s not spiking a fever, at least. That has to be good, doesn’t it?
‘What happened, Dad?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘Let’s go and find some coffee,’ Dad says. ‘You must be tired after your drive. They’ve got some fairly decent biscuits in the waiting room.’
I don’t want to leave Mum’s side, but I recognise Dad needs a break. I follow him to a small waiting area just outside the ICU. We’re the only ones here; this late at night, any visiting relatives are sitting with their loved ones, keeping vigil.
Dad inserts a coffee pod in the machine and pours me a cup, then makes a second for himself.
‘She started complaining of pain in her stomach yesterday morning,’ he says. ‘It got worse all day, but you know your mother, she doesn’t like to make a fuss. Then this afternoon she started vomiting, like nothing I’ve ever seen. She didn’t want me to bring her in but I had to. She was in so much pain she couldn’t even speak.’
I voice the fear that haunts us both. ‘Is her cancer back?’
‘The doctor said the CT scan showed a perforated bowel. It can be quite serious, so they whipped her straight into surgery. Mr Terpsichore said it went well, but she’s obviously going to be a bit under the weather for a while.’
‘But what caused it? The chemo?’
‘They don’t know. The important thing is, they caught it in time.’
He’s part of a generation that always believes the men in white coats and doesn’t like to challenge their authority by asking questions. I don’t blame the doctors for trying to project optimism, but I want to know the truth, however hard it may be to hear.
‘I’d like to speak to her surgeon,’ I say. ‘Find out exactly what’s going on. Is Harriet on her way here?’
‘Oh,’ Dad says.
I feel a brief pang of compassion for my sister. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll phone her.’
‘Thanks, love. I’m going to get back to your mum,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t want her waking up and me not being there.’
‘Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? I’ll stay with—’
‘It’s all right, love. I wouldn’t sleep anyway.’
As we return to the ICU, we’re met by a doctor. She looks tired and anxious. Her hair is very dark and cut into an asymmetric bob. She’s wearing a neat pair of gold earrings, shaped like horseshoes.
‘Mr Johnson, I was just on my way to find you.’
‘Is Mary awake?’
‘Are you family?’ the doctor asks me.
