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My mind races back to the first time Nick came to my house. He’d acted so strangely, refusing to come in until I’d formally invited him. At the time, it hadn’t made much sense, but now …
I pound my knuckles against my head. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
What the hell am I doing? I shouldn’t be wasting my energy on this crap. The only thing I should be focusing on is my father. He’s the one who needs me. Reading all this Hocus Pocus will only make me more paranoid and the last thing I want is to lose the plot completely.
In despair, I switch off my laptop and pad over to the dresser. Opening the top drawer, I pull out a pack of Marlboros; I almost tear the box to shreds trying to get them open. With shaky fingers, I light one and take a few shallow puffs, closing my eyes as the nicotine whips through my system. I take another puff and realise that I don’t feel bad at all; in fact, I feelexhilarated. In my head, I can hear Nick’s voice telling me not to, but I manage to blot it out. This is one battle he won’t win.
“Your treatment doesn’t work, Nick!” I shout at the ceiling. “Look, I’m smoking again. Ha, ha! You hear that? You’re not in my head anymore and I can do whatever I want.” I pause and take another drag. Laughing maniacally, I raise the cigarette in the air and wave it around like a royal scepter. I’m on an imaginary stage, performing for an imaginary audience. “Yes Nick, your hypnosis was a flop and I want all of my money back. I’m going to tell everybody you’re a fake and a fraud and your treatment doesn’t work. I’m smoking again and you know what? It feels fucking great.”
Taking a final drag, I stub the butt out and roll onto the bed, my body weak with exhaustion. I feel completely drained and detached from everything, like this is happening to someone else and not me. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m out cold.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mother
At precisely six o’clock, I step into the back of Michael’s shiny blue Range Rover. As I fasten my seatbelt, my mother peers anxiously at me from the passenger seat. She has short brown hair, warm blue eyes and a smile that makes you feel good. Dressed in a maroon Burberry jacket and Jimmy Choo heels, she oozes class and sophistication—a sharp contrast to Michael’s dishevelled windcheater and scruffy combat boots. As always, my mother looks a million dollars, which I always find funny. Years ago, before she divorced my father, she clothed herself from charity shops and virtually lived in baggy shirts and gypsy skirts. Then she married Michael, a successful businessman, and got used to the high life very quickly. No more shopping in Primark for her; no more cut-price shoes from eBay. Now only the best will do.
“Darling, you look absolutely dreadful.”
“And hello to you too,” I reply sarcastically.
“Katherine,” Michael warns. “Is that any way to greet your daughter?”
“But it’s true, Mike. Carly looks terrible. This thing with Steve has really taken its toll. I told you she wouldn’t be able to cope.”
Michael shushes her and steers the car onto the main road to join the town-bound traffic. After we’ve been driving for a few minutes, he asks how I’m doing and I tell him yeah, I’m doing okay, all things considered. Then he asks me exactly what happened to my father, and I give him a blow by blow account, even though Mum’s already told him.
Afterwards, Michael tells me a story about his cousin from New Zealand who had a stroke at thirty and made a full recovery. He says I should stay positive because he’s certain my dad’s going to be okay. Then he turns up the radio and we listen to a political debate on LBC for the rest of the journey, which suits me fine, as I have very little else to say. Every so often, Mum twists round in her seat and throws me a pitying glance. I smile and assure her I’m okay; Dad’s the one we should really be worrying about.
At quarter to seven, Michael guns the Rover into the hospital car park. After he’s locked up, we walk briskly through the night and enter Queen Victoria through one of the back entrances. We spend the next twenty minutes going round in circles, trying to find the elusive Churchill Ward; very few of the staff speak English and those who do seem incapable of giving coherent directions. After much toing and froing, we finally reach the third floor and I start to recognise my surroundings. Then Nurse Issey passes us in the corridor and I ask her if I can see my father. Cheerfully, she leads us to his room.
“Oh my God!” Mum gasps when she sees how frail he is. “My poor darling. How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Dad croaks. “The n-nurses have b-been … w-wonderful.”
I wince. His voice sounds so strange. He’s slurring his words and his tone has risen up an octave; one of the effects of the stroke, I presume.
Mum smiles and takes hold of his hand. For a second, I see real love there. A decade on from the divorce, my parents still have a heart connection, and the sight of it warms me immeasurably.
“Hey, how you doing, big fella?” Michael grins, taking Dad’s other hand. “Enjoying your stay at this five star luxury hotel? I hear the food here is really something.”
Dad chuckles, then has to stop abruptly. He makes a horrible gurgling sound in his throat. Then he starts coughing, so I tell him not to talk for a while. Soothingly, I reach down and stroke the side of his cheek. He beams at me and I start getting emotional, thinking about how devastating it would be if I ever lost him.
Dear God, please let my dad survive this. I’ll do anything you want,even start going to church again, just please, please let him live.
For the next hour or so, the three of us stand around the hospital bed, making jokes, trying to keep the mood light, but I’m only partially engaged. Images of Nick keep popping into my head and I’m finding it very difficult to concentrate.
I’m trying to engage in the current moment; trying to keep focused on Dad’s recovery, but my brain won’t let me be. I keep thinking about last night and doubt any of those events could actually have taken place. I figure I must have dreamed the entire episode. And yet … and yet, if that’s the case, why am I so reluctant to contact Nick? Why do I have no urge to call him? In fact, come to think of it, why hasn’thecalled me? If I really did imagine everything, then surely he would at least have tried to make contact by now?
There’s a quiet knock at the door and Issey enters. “I’m sorry to disturb you guys, but visiting hours are over. I’m afraid you’ll need to say your goodbyes.”
“Okay,” Mum says. “But first, I’d like to speak with Dr Noble. My daughter tells me he’s theConsultant Stroke Physician and the best placed person to give us an update on Steve’s condition.It’s about time someone gave us a full run-down of what we’re dealing with. For example, I’d like to know more about this MRI scan. I hope it doesn’t contain radiation.”
Issey smiles thinly. “I’m sorry, Dr Noble finished work at five. You’ll have to pass by the ward tomorrow during the day if you wish to speak with him.”
“But I want to speak to someone now. Look, who’s your supervisor?”
“Her name’s Annie, but she’s gone home too. Like I said, if you want to speak with someone, you’ll have to—”
