Page 9 of Never Tear Us Apart
Chapter Six
Saturday 21stJune 2025, 10 a.m.
‘Maia? Maia? Can you hear me?’
The voice just reaches me from very far away. I don’t recognise who it belongs to, so I ignore it. Is this sleep or death? The distinction seems very hard to make. Pain throbs throughout my body in sharp pulses. Not death, then. At least, I hope death isn’t like this. Is it birth or rebirth? I feel as if I’m encompassed in a thick, viscous fluid that wants to rock me back to sleep.
‘Maia, Maia, open your eyes please.’ A woman’s voice, a stranger.
‘Maia, wake up at once please. You are scaring me.’ Kathryn’s voice sounds urgent and demanding.
I remember her kindness. For her, I start to slowly fight my way back from the dark. It hurts.
‘What’s happening?’ I squint against the bright light. A woman is bending over me, shining a torch in my eyes – I think it’s the same doctor who saw me after the crash. I bat my hands at her. ‘What the hell . . . ? Go away!’
‘Oh, my dear.’ I feel Kathryn stilling my flailing hand, holding it to her lips. ‘Hush now, hush. Dr Gresch is just trying to help you.’
I work hard to bring her face into focus.
‘Is this . . . ? Was it . . . the crash?’ I ask, my voice dry as dust.
‘No, dear, no. You were with me at Mnajdra, remember? I left you for a little while, but I got worried when you didn’t come to find me. Then soon after the temple opened to the public, a visitor found you unconscious, bruised, and with these deep cuts on your head. We brought you right back to the hospital. We’re not sure how long you were out for.’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head and pay the price as pain burns down my nerve endings. ‘I was down there for at least an hour, maybe more.’
‘Down where?’ Kathryn asks.
‘In a shelter, in the middle of a war.’ Then I realise: it was all a dream. I am in that most hated of clichés. Still, the sense of relief is a blessing. Just a dream – just my damaged brain conjuring images to haunt me with.
‘Our best guess is that you fainted and knocked your head on a rock or perhaps fell onto stones and cut it that way,’ Dr Gresch tells me. ‘Though it’s odd you have cuts on the back and front of your head. Maia, considering your family history and your mother’s illness, I’m concerned that I missed something after the accident. I want to do some more tests.’
‘But you said my scans were all clear?’ I ask, raising a tentative hand to my forehead. ‘I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD previously, Doctor. Do you think that’s relevant? I’m a war correspondent. But that doesn’t usually show up on scans.’
‘Well, actually, it depends on the scans, but I have ordered more to be safe,’ she says. ‘According to your records, from your insurers, your anxiety, the flashbacks and insomnia have been well controlled with therapy. Are you coping well?’
‘I am,’ I say.
‘Still, I will keep you overnight, I think.’
‘I don’t want to be kept in overnight,’ I protest, looking at Kathryn. ‘I’m fine, really. Well, I will be. The dream I had – it was so vivid . . . I saw a door, Kathryn, at the temple. And the stairs leading down, and then, somehow, I found my way into the Second World War, I think? There was this American and a child . . . I could hear the bombs falling – I couldfeelthem. It was so real . . .’
‘The Second World War, really?’ Kathryn asks gently, quickly adding, ‘Not surprising, I suppose, given your experience in war zones. I should have taken better care of you. I shouldn’t have left you. Your father told me you can be a little delicate.’
‘He did?’ I ask, baffled. ‘I’m a lot of things, but delicate is not one of them.’
Then I realise he must have been talking about my mental health, how my mind has constantly teetered on a knife-edge ever since Syria. Is Dad ashamed of my ‘issues’? Delicate? Fuck that.
‘Perhaps you didn’t have enough water, or you’re not used to the heat,’ Kathryn goes on. ‘I should have stayed with you. This is all my fault, Doctor.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I insist, trying to prise a clear thought out of my head. It feels like time is stuck in a short-running loop.
‘I will be the judge of that.’ Dr Gresch sits on the edge of the bed, frowning. ‘You need stitches. I’ll arrange it. It could be delayed shock, your body reacting to a drop in adrenalin. Or perhaps I missed something, so I need to keep you tonight. We will have more tests – agreed?’
‘I don’t like hospitals,’ I say.
Kathryn hands me a glass of orange juice.
‘Neither do I,’ Dr Gresch admits. ‘But you are injured, and I’m a doctor. What are you going to do?’
