Page 58 of The Shape of Your Heart
‘Thanks, Al. He didn’t look good at all.’
‘He probably wasn’t oxygenated enough.’ She pauses. ‘Try not to worry. They’ll sort him out. I’ll let Sasha and Rita know.’
But Alice’s words are only mildly reassuring and I can’t shake the feeling of fear that hangs over me. I know from what she’s said before, that when it comes to hearts, it isn’t always possible to fix them.
While we wait for an ambulance to arrive, I help my mother pack a few things for my father to take with him. I offer to drive her, but after the ambulance leaves, she decides to follow in her own car. ‘It makes sense. I don’t know long I’m going to be there. Oh.’ She looks stricken. ‘I haven’t fed the dogs.’
I touch her arm. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll do it.’
After she’s gone, I go to the kitchen and let the dogs out into the garden. As I wait for them to return, I glance around the room, taking in the familiar furniture, the carefully framed photos of me and my sisters. My eyes settle on one of me and Liam and I study it closely, frowning at how much younger and freer I look.
But a lot has happened in a year. When the dogs come in, I feed them, leaving a light on in case it’s dark when my mother comes home, before setting off for the hospital.
By the time I get there, my father is already being assessed. As I wait with my mother, she surprises me. ‘Funny how when you’re young, you think you have for ever. And I know we all expect to lose grandparents. It’s more natural, somehow. But you somehow never think of it happening to you.’
It’s as though she’s talking to me woman to woman, rather than mother to daughter. ‘Dad’s going to be OK,’ I say anxiously.
It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking as she falls silent for a moment, before she turns back into my mum. ‘Of course he is. Why don’t we get a cup of tea?’
After carrying out some tests, they keep him in. But as I drive home, my mind runs away with me. Having lost Liam, the thought of losing my father is unimaginable, but when he’d seemed so well after coming home the first time, this sharp decline is worrying.
Back at home, I call Sasha.
‘I’m really worried about him.’ My voice wavers. ‘He doesn’t look at all good, Sash. I keep thinking…’ My voice breaks.
‘I know. I’m worried too.’ Her voice is anxious. ‘All we can do is take each day at a time. He’s in good hands. But I hate not being able to be there.’ She pauses. ‘I spoke to Rita earlier. She’s stuck with work commitments – she feels exactly the same.’
‘Like you said, it’s each day at a time.’ I try to feel more hopeful, grateful at least that I can be there.
That evening, in an effort to distract myself, I study my map of northern Spain. The route I’m planning to take is known as Camino del Norte. At 825 kilometres long, it usually takes around thirty-five days. I’ve chosen it because it’s the coastal route. But as I sit there, I can’t focus. When all I can think about is my parents together in the hospital, planning this walk seems trivial.
Picking up my phone, I call my mother. ‘Mum? How’s Dad doing?’
‘Not too bad,’ she says quietly. ‘They’re looking after him. You mustn’t worry.’
‘OK.’ But as I end the call, I can’t shake the feeling that hangs over me. He may be OK tonight. But I can’t help worrying about what tomorrow might bring.
* * *
The following morning, after an update from my mother, I have a sense of being in limbo. It’s an overcast day, and as I step outside, the countryside is veiled in mist, the damp clinging to every leaf and blade of grass.
After my shift at the bookshop, on the way home, I drive over to Nathan’s.
‘You’re just in time for a cuppa,’ he says as he opens the door. Studying my face, he frowns. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes and no,’ I say. ‘Could I come in for a moment?’
‘Sure.’ He holds the door open. ‘You look like you could do with something stronger than tea.’
‘Tea would be lovely.’ Then for no reason, my eyes fill with tears.
‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘Has something happened?’
My shoulders start to heave, and I can’t speak. Coming closer, he puts his arms around me. Leaning against him, I can’t help but breathe in the scent of him – wood smoke mixed with aftershave, my tears falling unstoppably as I feel one of his hands stroke my hair.
After a few minutes, I pull away. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Wiping my face, I take in his shirt, wet with my tears and smudged with my eye make-up. ‘I’ve made a mess of your shirt.’
‘The shirt doesn’t matter.’ He asks me again: ‘What’s happened?’
