Page 13 of All the Forbidden Things
“Mr Young.” He holds out his hand and looks between each of, I reach out and shake it. “Callum Wild.” Cal offers, and they shake. “Sorry to keep you both waiting. I’m Doctor Michael Jenner, please take a seat.” He gestures towards the small sofa.
I shake my head, declining his offer. Cal stands right by my side.
The doctor nods. “Okay, I’ll get straight to the point. Whitney was brought into us at just before seven this evening after being involved in an RTA. She’s suffered a significant injury to her head, causing a small bleed and some swelling on her brain. She’s received significant trauma to the lower end of her spinal cord—thecauda equina—which contains a lot of nerve roots, including the sciatic nerve. Nothing’s been severed, but she’s not responding the way we’d like to the tests we’ve carried out so far, and I feel a transfer to The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital will be in her best interest.”
I’m conscious of Cal's hand resting on my shoulder, his grip tightening the more the doctor talks.
“Can I see her?”
The doctor pauses for a beat. “You can. She’s currently in a medically induced coma, and we’re keeping her as comfortable as possible while we prepare to have her airlifted to The RNOH.”
“What . . . is she . . . is she gonna be okay? What about her head injury?”
“We have her stabilised, her head injury isn’t life-threatening, it’s her spine that’s our main concern right now. Her left cheekbone is fractured, she has several broken ribs and a fractured left wrist. In saying all of that, Mr Young, your wife was extremely fortunate. The driver of the car she was travelling in didn’t survive, nor did the passenger of the car they hit.”
I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the chest. Staggering back, I collapse back in the chair I sat in earlier.
“Was Alix in the car with her? Alix Gardener, was he the driver?” Cal asks. “He’s an acquaintance, the son of our band’s manager, so we’ll find out anyway.”
The doctor looks me over for a minute before apparently coming to some kind of decision.
“Look, I’m not sure exactly what’s been made official, but you’re going to find out anyway, yes, Mr Gardener was the driver of the car and was declared dead at the scene.”
“Do you know what happened?” I ask. Ignoring the confirmation that my wife was in the car with her lover. The lover she left me for just yesterday. The lover who’s now dead.
What does that mean?
What does it mean for her?
What does it mean for us?
“From what I’ve been told, the car they were in crossed two lanes, flipped over the barrier on the central reservation and landed on its roof before skidding into oncoming traffic. Mr Gardener wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Ms Federov was, but not correctly.” He pauses and looks from me to Cal, then back to me. “Her belt was fastened across her lap, but she’d freed her arm, so it wasn’t secured across her chest, which is why we’re seeing the extensive trauma to her lower spine.”
There’s a knock at the door, and two policemen walk in. I don’t think they’re the same two who came to the house, but I’m not entirely sure. I spend the next few minutes confirming Whitney’s personal details before being led to another small room where the medical team is preparing Whit for her short helicopter flight.
I pause at the door and draw in a deep breath.
“You wanna do this alone, or you want me with you? I’m here, dude, whatever you need.”
“I don’t want this to be happening, that’s what I need,” I admit to Cal. He gives another reassuring squeeze of my shoulder, and I gesture into the room with a tilt of my chin. “I think I’ve got this,” I tell him.
He nods, and I step forward, knowing full well that I sure as shithaven’tgot anything.
There are three women inthe room, but I’ve no clue if they’re doctors or nurses because they’re all wearing identical light blue scrubs. One is making notes on a clipboard, one is doing something to a drip, and one is pressing buttons on a machine. In amongst all of the noise and chaos, is my wife.
I come to a halt when my eyes land on her face, the left side of which is swollen beyond recognition. The area around her eye has coloured, a combination of blues, mauves, and purples, and her jaw the same. She has a bandage around her head, tape over her right eye, a tube down her throat, and several wires attached to her bare chest, which is also covered in purple bruises. The sheets are tucked neatly under her arms, the right of which has a blood pressure cuff wrapped around it. A drip feeds drugs into the back of her left hand.
The first sob escapes me before I can cover my mouth with my hand to hide it, and the second is so loud it can’t be hidden.
The three women wearing scrubs turn towards me. I attempt to say I’m sorry, but instead, a noise—raw and animalistic—escapes me as I shake my head.
I’m not sure if it’s by way of an apology. If it’s my rejection of the situation or the sight before me. I don’t know why, but I continue to shake my head.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I hear Cal exclaim from somewhere behind me. He attempts to steer me out of the room, but I fight against him and keep moving forward.
“Hey, my name is Effie.” One of the women wearing scrubs introduces herself. She then proceeds to tell me she’ll be flying in the helicopter with Whitney and then explains what all of the equipment is and how it’s helping her.
I move to reach for my wife's right hand but stop and look at Effie for permission. She nods, so I cover Whit’s long, slim fingers with my big hand, not in the least surprised at how cold her skin feels. Her hands and feet are always cold.
