Page 26 of The Moment I Met You
He shakes his head, and I nod in acceptance. I get to my feet, and draw in some deep breaths. I need to find the strength to get through this. I need to find some strength for Harry, and for his parents, and for myself.
I will think about telling them, about telling him, later. I will think about letting myself feel the full weight of this loss later. I will do it all later. But right now it would be an extra burden that I cannot expect anybody else to help me carry. I cannot add to their distress. For the time being, I will keep it secret. I will hoard that extra sadness, and deal with it when I can. When we can. I will know when the moment is right.
The doctor rubs my shoulder encouragingly, and I am momentarily gripped with a need to see my own mother, to be wrapped in her arms, to be told that everything will be all right in the end. Except even that is a false hope, a false comfort.
My mother is a good woman, and I love her – but she is not that kind of mother. She would be the one crying, she would be the one needing consolation, and even though I feel guilty at the thought, I am better off without her being here.
Dr Martinez knocks on the door, and pushes it open. One look tells me that this is not the moment – that I am right to stay quiet about the baby for the time being. There is already too much grief and pain inside this small room for me to even consider adding to it.
Harry lies in a bed. He is still and silent and pale. He looks almost asleep, almost peaceful. It is quiet, apart from the background hisses and beeps of the mechanisms keeping him alive. Plastic tubes have been inserted into his nose, and his body is covered up with white sheets. Like he is mummified. Like he is an exhibit in a museum of the damned.
The horror of it curdles my stomach, as I take a careful step towards him. Towards this man who was always painted so bright, and now seems so grey.
‘Elena! Thank God!’ says his mother, Linda, lurching from her chair, her usually pristine hair rumpled, her normally sleek outfit creased. She throws her arms around me and holds me tight and for a moment, I collapse against her, allowing myself a small window of respite before we pull away from each other.
We have never really loved each other, me and Harry’s parents. We have got along well enough for Harry’s sake, but the only thing we have in common is him. I know it is an illusion, this moment of motherly support; an emotional mirage that perhaps we both need.
His father John nods at me, and smiles sadly. He is always the epitome of a stiff upper lip, and is trying hard to maintain it here.
Linda stands back, embarrassed at her display of emotion, and smooths down her blonde hair with a shaking hand – as though another woman being in the room has reminded her that she looks bad. She looks me over, her eyes pausing at the stitches on my forehead, at my bruises, my bare feet.
‘We have your things, from the hotel,’ she announces. ‘We got them packed up and sent over. You can put some clean clothes on.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, genuinely grateful. It will feel ridiculously good to be in my own things – to encase myself in a suit of fabric armour.
I touch Harry’s hand, knowing he won’t respond – can’t respond – but still half expecting him to. I curl my fingers around his, and feel a rush of love and pity and anguish. I might not be in love with him, but he is still my Harry – still the man who has meant most to me in my adult life. He should be a force of nature, not lying here like this.
‘They say the brain swelling is going down well,’ says Linda, standing on the other side of the bed, stroking his hair away from his face with such tenderness that it takes my breath away. ‘They say they’re going to take him off the machines at some point in the next few days. Then they hope he’ll be able to talk, and … well. After that, we don’t know. Have they told you?’
‘Yes. A spinal cord injury.’
‘Incomplete, whatever that means.’
‘It means,’ interjects John firmly, ‘that he will get better. It means that he can get better, anyway. With our help. With our support.’
I feel the intensity of his gaze homing in on me. It’s like he can read my mind, and see all the doubts I was harbouring before any of this happened. Sees them, and judges me for them.
‘He’ll need us now,’ he says firmly. ‘All of us.’
I nod, and sway slightly. I grip the metal guard at the side of the bed, and hear white noise and see bright spots dashing before my eyes, swimming around my vision like tiny neon-coloured tropical fish.
Dr Martinez is right by my side, taking hold of my arm.
‘Elena needs to rest now,’ he says, looking directly at John, daring him to disagree.
I allow myself to be steered from the room, sit passively back into the wheelchair, stare silently at the pale green paint of the walls. The doctor emerges with a suitcase on wheels behind him, and looks around for someone to help. A male orderly is given the suitcase, told where to take it, and Dr Martinez pushes me away. Away from Harry, and John and Linda, and the suffocating silence of a life on hold.
When we reach my room, I tell the doctor I will be fine. I haven’t heard a word he has said for the last few minutes, but I am convincing enough that he leaves me by the doorway.
My suitcase is already waiting, at the side of my table. Someone else is waiting as well.
Alex is sitting on the bed, his leg stretched out in front of him, his ankle encased in a giant boot that under normal circumstances might have looked comical. He has been cleaned up, his hair thick and blonde again, and he is wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that saysI Heart Tequilain cartoonish red writing. The heart has a smiley face inside it.
As soon as I see him, I feel better. Calmer. Like I’ve come home on a cold winter’s night, to a log fire and a glass of whiskey. Like I am safe again, in a place where nobody will ask me for more than I can give.
Our eyes meet, and he smiles.
‘Hi,’ he says simply.
