Page 50 of Still Falling for You

‘What if he doesn’t make it and we never have a chance to clear the air?’ I hate how weak I sound.

‘You don’t always get the end you wish for, but that doesn’t change the get-going.’ He sounds so sad I can’t stop looking at him.

‘Your mum?’ My voice is barely audible above the steady rumble of his car. It starts to rain outside, heavy raindrops pounding against the roof, cocooning us in the white noise of the elements. For long moments, I don’t think he will answer my question, but he does.

‘She passed away three years ago. Liver failure. All that drinking caught up with her in the end.’ He gives me a strange look before he focuses on the road ahead of him again.

‘You took good care of her. I remember that.’ I say the words that nobody has probably said to him, words that he maybe needed to hear. His lips press together in what I nowknow is not disapproval but processing some strong emotion. I feel this sudden raw need to understand him.

‘Why are you doing this?’ The question comes out in an almost unintelligible stream like water rushing through a too-narrow opening. There’s too much inside me; my head and chest are overflowing, and there are no channels to release the pressure. Soon enough I will burst like a piñata into tiny little fragments of confetti and scattered thoughts.

‘Because you needed not to be alone,’ he says matter-of-factly like it’s a given. I’m glad there’s no trace of pity or satisfaction in his explanation. A part of me wonders whether he was alone when his mum passed away, but I don’t ask. I hate the idea.

Alex parks in the visitors’ car park, the closest he can get to the inpatients entrance. He opens the door for me, and I lift myself heavily out of the passenger seat and into the breezy air that attacks the layers of my clothing with cold fingers as soon as I’m out.

Hurriedly, we walk through the automatic sliding doors to reception. I’ve always sensed where Alex’s body is in relation to mine, so I can feel his hand hovering behind my back like he’s waiting for me to need it at any moment.

My mind bottoms out as soon as we start walking through one of the long clinical corridors after we get sent that way by an older nurse at reception. My back comes in contact with Alex’s hand when I come to a halt.

I can’t stop the words, ‘What if…’ but break off before I can finish the question out loud.

‘Until you go in, you won’t know and not knowing is much worse.’ His steady presence settles into my ribcage in a burst of warmth. It soothes the brittle edges of my lungs. A small part of me hates that he’s seeing me like this, but a bigger part of me is grateful.

We walk through the entrance to the cardiology ward, bigblack frightening letters stamped uncompromisingly onto a yellow sign.

‘Whatever happens, you’ll deal with it,’ he says simply. I’ve missed Alex’s pragmatism. He didn’t say my dad was going to be OK or it always looked worse than it was. None of the empty phrases that Aaron would fill the space with. I appreciate the words more than anything else that could have been said.

I nod briskly, suddenly feeling thata thank youwould be inadequate, and yet, I need him to know that I appreciate this, him. He copies the gesture but changes his mind and reaches the space between us with his steady freckled hands and tenderly takes my shoulders. He envelops me in his arms, and without overthinking it, I fit my body flush against him; his heartbeat is my anchor. I breathe him in for a few moments until a throat clears behind his back, and I plunge back to reality. I look over Alex’s shoulder and step away quickly. It’s my mother.

Alex coughs and says, ‘Mrs Collins. I’m sorry for intruding. I’m just dropping Holly off.’ My mother stares at him strangely for a few beats but eventually snaps out of it and whispersthank you. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her fingers are gripping her elbows so stiffly I’m worried she’ll break the skin with her nails.

He turns to me and adds more formally, the gap between us opening once again, ‘Please let the school know if you need anything.’ This impersonal Alex is a whiplash to the warm, solid Alex of a minute ago. With those words, he turns around and leaves me alone with my mother.

The faraway beeping machines and rubber shoes sticking to the lino flooring as staff move briskly from one end of the corridor to the other are the only sounds between us.

Does she blame me for what has happened? I’m terrified to move, but then the time unravels, and my mother rushes to me and hugs me so hard my ribs are about to crack despite her not ever being a hugger. I embrace her back, even though I take after her in that respect, and bury my nose in her hair. The smellof hair spray and Chanel are bitter in my nostrils, and yet, I revel in the scent. She feels different in my arms, more fragile. Over her flattened-down hairdo, I spot a male nurse giving us space. He’s clearly here to see us but doesn’t want to intrude on a private moment.

When we separate, the nurse steps closer to us and informs us kindly, ‘Mrs Collins, Dr Sanjiv is ready for you.’

The nurse leads us through the warren-like corridors at an efficient pace. Finally, or too soon, I can’t decide which, we end up in the main open-plan ward. It’s separated into sections by blue curtains, some drawn shut tight and some drawn partly back. They separate the room like an ice cube tray, cold and impersonal. The smell of disinfectant and rubber is turning my insides. A doctor in her forties is waiting by the farthest bed that is blocked from view by a partially closed curtain. I stiffen. My mother carries on walking and because she has wound her arm through mine, I’m propelled forward by the motion. At the sight of the person in the bed, I flinch.

The man lying in the bed is and is not my dad. His usually unruly grey hair is flattened around his pale face that is barren of his old-fashioned glasses, and his lips are chapped. He doesn’t smell like my dad either, of old books and cologne. The sight of him looking diminished and with a machine beeping along with his heart makes me take a proverbial step back. I’ve been so angry at him for such a long time, and now, at the sight of him so helpless, my anger unravels like a coil of string into nothing. That’s when the dam breaks and tears leak down my cheeks. I let them run.

22

The doctor checks my dad’s vitals and tells us he was lucky my mother immediately called the ambulance and they managed to get him to the hospital before any permanent damage was done. To our relief, she also informs us that we are to expect a full recovery, even though a change of diet and lifestyle will be needed.

After the doctor has gone, my mother wipes away a stray tear with her pink-shellac nail. She tries to hide it, adding more firmly, ‘If you ask me, she was too young to be a doctor. Maybe we should ask for an older doctor that is bound to be…’ She leans over my dad’s bed to me and finishes with, ‘…more experienced.’

She’s been gripping my dad’s hand for the last two minutes. I know she’s coping the only way she knows how to, so I let her say her bit even though I don’t think antagonising the people who saved my dad’s life is the right course of action. At the thought, my mind goes quiet. He could have died today.

‘Has he woken up at all since he collapsed?’ My eyes flash towards his jaw where stubble has started to dot his usually smooth face. Mother calls it grey whiskers, like a cat’s. She hates my dad’s stubble with a passion and always bugs him to shave, but when I watch her absentmindedly stroke his cheek, I think it’s the last thing on her mind now.

‘He was awake when we got him in, but then they gave him some sedatives and told me he was unlikely to wake up until much later.’

We stay by his bed for an hour or maybe longer. I can’t tell because every minute seems to be dragging on, time only separated by the faint beeping of all the machines surrounding us. I’ve never realised how a hospital is just a jungle of white noise and whispered prayers. Dad’s own machine is so loud in my ears it feels almost static. With every beep, it builds this electric current in my body until it’s almost painful. Until I can’t take it any more.

‘It’s my fault he had a heart attack.’ I drag the confession out. At first, I can’t seem to look at my mother, but eventually, I tell myself to be brave and force myself to meet her eyes.

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