Page 10 of Never Tear Us Apart
She smiles; I smile. It hurts.
‘What about Dad?’ I remember a little too late to ask after him. ‘How is he doing?’
‘Your father is doing exceptionally well for a man of his age who has devoted so much of his life to smoking and drinking and other pursuits,’ Dr Gresch tells me. ‘He is frustrated and bored, but I take that to be a good sign. Would you like to see him? I can arrange for a porter to take you in a chair once we’ve got you properly cleaned up?’
‘Oh no,’ I say at once.
‘Not today,’ Kathryn says, tilting her head to look at me. ‘You don’t need any more agitation.’
‘I’m an adult woman in a perfectly safe place,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll be OK. The doctor here is probably right – it’s a delayed reaction or something. I’m fine, honestly – a bit groggy but fine. I could probably come back to yours tonight, Kathryn, and come in for another scan tomorrow . . .’
‘No,’ Dr Gresch and Kathryn say in unison.
‘Youarelike your father in some ways,’ Kathryn chides me. ‘You think the laws of physics don’t apply to you, that you are invincible.’ She reaches for her bag and brings out a large, glossy paperback, which she lays on the bed.Malta: The George Cross Island at War. ‘No reading today, but I bought this for you at the museum earlier. I have my own copy at home. There’s quite a bit about our grandmother in it. But no reading today – promise?’
‘Promise.’ I nod, picking up the book to look at the cover image of Spitfires flying over the harbour. They blur, double and refocus. No reading today.
‘I’ll come again tomorrow, in the morning. Do as you are told.’ Kathryn kisses me briefly on the back of my hand as she leaves.
‘Ugh, I hate doing as I’m told,’ I grumble under my breath.
Dr Gresch remains after Kathryn has gone, reading something on the iPad that’s attached to the bottom of my bed. She’s in her forties, I think, tall and attractive, with the kind of glossy, neat hair that I have never managed to achieve. She gives off an air of calm confidence that is reassuring.
‘So, Doc?’
She looks up from the iPad.
‘Give it to me straight. Did you miss something bad? Am I going to die?’
Dr Gresch smiles. ‘I don’tthinkso.’
‘Not quite as much reassurance as I’d hoped for.’ I laugh.
‘The brain is an enigmatic organ,’ she says. ‘Any serious injury should have shown up on the scans, but sometimes the effects of an accident can be invisible. It’s possible, though unlikely, that slight bruising or some swelling has developed since the scans. Or the incident could have triggered the PTSD, reactivating some of the more distressing symptoms.’
‘Oh good,’ I say.
‘Count yourself lucky – sometimes after an accident like yours, people start speaking a new language perfectly or their personality changes completely. I once authored a paper about a woman who lived the rest of her life with a constant sense of déjà vu.’ She shudders at the thought and gives me a slight smile. ‘It’s more likely to be like the ringing you mentioned you are experiencing in your ears – an after-effect of having your body thrown around. You might experience a little dizziness and some fainting, and you will perhaps need to take extra care for a while. Try not to be worried, and if you start to speak fluent Maltese, let me know. I’ll take you to meet my mother.’
‘What, not even dinner first?’ I quip weakly.
‘You should sleep,’ she says, smiling generously at me. ‘The nurse will bring you some meds for the pain in a little while. There is nothing to do but rest.’
‘I’ve never been very good at resting,’ I explain. ‘I’m not keen on having time to think.’
Dr Gresch pauses for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. ‘Your doctors in the UK sent me your records. I see you were injured in Syria.’
‘It’s not as if I’m a veteran – just a reporter who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, I’ve done the therapy; I’m fine now. Basically.’
‘As I mentioned, the shock of the crash may well cause a resurgence in symptoms: flashbacks, anxiety, perhaps even hallucinations. Please, tell me if that happens. Don’t try to brush it off. Listen to your body and ask for help. I am a world-leading neurologist and psychiatrist, I’ll have you know, and I’m at your disposal. Make use of me.’ She raises a commanding finger at me just as she leaves the room.
Of course I will do no such thing, but even so, I like Dr Gresch. If I were ever to truly confide in a medic, it would be her. But experience has taught me never to tell them everything – especially not how I can never forgive myself for being alive when so many innocent lives have been lost around me. One because of me.
For a moment, I feel a pang of guilt about not being able to see Dad today, but he’d probably prefer me not to. I imagine his irritation at being confined to bed will only be compounded by seeing me, the architect of his downfall.
There’s a little part of me that worries, though. A nagging thought that it wasn’tjustthat I forgot to check my mirrors when I pulled out of that lay-by. An idea that it was more that I simply didn’t care what happened next.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d played roulette with my life in the years since Syria.
