Page 14 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘Lucy. How are you feeling? Have you got any pain? How’s your breathing? Do you need oxygen? Jag, get a nurse in and let’s get you on some oxygen,’ says Emma.
‘Ems… just give her a moment.’ The man’s hand goes to her back again.
‘Why am I here? Ems?’
I force my eyes open again and take in the room, the faces, the air around me. I’m in a room with a television on the wall. I don’t remember watching that television. I wriggle my toes. It feels important to make my toes move. I saw that in a film once. I hold my hand up, seeing that a needle is running into my hand and the crook of my arm. And who’s been drawing on me? There are pictures on my arm. I sit up, short of breath. Why? Ems sits down next to me and encourages me to calm down. I claw at the tubes going into my nose.
‘Lucy, you were in an accident. On Waterloo Bridge. You were on a bike. In a dress. You are so lucky. You got hit by a bus, dressed as Elsa,’ Emma says in loud, accentuated tones like she’s talking to a foreign grandma.
‘Who?’ I gasp.
‘You. You were hit by a bus,’ she replies.
‘But who’s Elsa? Are you a doctor?’ I say, turning to the gentleman in the room.
‘I’m Jag?’
‘It’s nice to meet you.’
He looks over at Emma tentatively.
‘She’s just confused. Lucy, you suffered quite a traumatic head injury. They operated, they had to put you in a medically induced coma to control the swelling to your brain. You’ve been asleep for weeks.’ She explains everything slowly, holding back tears. I was on a bike? Like, Dad’s bike? Who the fuck is Elsa? She sounds German. German… I remember a German man. Do I?
‘We’ve been taking it in turns to come here and sit with you. I mean, you’re awake. That’s everything.’
I reach up to my head, it’s bandaged. My hair. Someone cut my hair? I hope it wasn’t Meg. She did that once and gave me some pretty rubbish levels on my fringe. I was in a coma? I rub my tongue along the underside of my teeth, everything is dry and fuzzy. I study Emma’s face. She looks different. Sad, yes, but there’s something else.
‘When did you get old?’ I ask her.
‘You’re such a cow,’ she replies. She throws herself over me again, laughing but crying and not really caring too much about the fact she’s snotting all over me. So grim. ‘Oh god, I don’t know what we would have done had we lost you.’
I pause to take that all in. They nearly lost me. I nearly died? The man called Jag keeps looking over at me. Whilst Emma’s face reads relief, you can tell he’s thinking things through a bit more. All I’m thinking is that I think I’m wearing a nappy.
‘And if I look old as hell, it’s because you’ve probably aged me ten years, that’s why.’
I look down to a badge on her shirt. Emma Callaghan-Kohli. Who?
‘You’re a paediatric cardiologist?’
‘Yeah?’ she replies.
‘Fancy.’
‘Well, her sarcasm mode is still in good nick,’ Emma says to Jag.
I am silent as my mind whirrs through everything. How long have I been asleep? I cough. Everything feels stiff and unused. There’s a window that overlooks the river and I see sky. It’s so blue. No clouds. And a hint of buildings, a line like on an Etch-a-Sketch. I look down at my arm again. Someone didn’t draw on me. That’s a tattoo. What the actual mother of shite? That’s a bloody leopard. Why have I got a leopard on my arm? Why does he look slightly drugged? My eyes shift about the room.
‘Luce, it’s Mum and Dad,’ says Emma, who’s on the phone. ‘They want to speak to you. Mum won’t believe it until she’s seen it.’
‘LUCY!’ My eyes focus on a phone screen to see my parents in our living room. They’re on the phone. Like a picture? No… they’re moving. It’s a video. It’s so clear. And when did my sister get this posh phone? This must have cost a crapload of money. When did this happen? Dad is sobbing, his hands cupped over his face. Mum has one hand to his back but her eyes stay fixed on me, studying me intently. I can’t say a word. They look older too but Mum’s hair is still the same, the same bob she’s had since forever.
‘Lucy, we’re going to make our way down now. We will be there really soon. Stay awake for us, love, OK?’
It’s very Mum. When her girls do good there’s a nod of the head, a clench of the jaw, a fire in her eyes. She doesn’t crumble, at least not in front of us. I don’t know what to do so just wave. Can they hear me?
‘Emma, is she comfortable? She doesn’t look comfortable? What does this mean? Why is she so stunned? Is she on some sort of new drugs? She looks pale. Someone make her a cup of tea.’
That is also classic Mum but the sound of her voice is soothing.
