Page 101 of The Worst Guy Ever
“It’s fine, I’ll play nice and let them know. I’ll call you later.” I won’t. I never call her. She’s lucky if she gets a reply to a text.
I find Mum and Rick dishing out burgers at the barbecue and give them a polite goodbye.
“I really would love to see more of you Hattie,” Rick says, and somehow I do believe it. “Me and your mum.”
“That would be lovely.”
I’m not making any promises, but the way Mum’s face lights up makes me think it might be worth a shot just to get to see her do it again. I find Teddy for a big squeeze, and then make my escape down the path that runs along the side of the house.
“Hattie, wait…” I turn back to see George chasing after me.
“Yeah?”
“I’m pregnant again,” she says, stopping a few metres away from me, one delicate hand pressed to her belly. “It’s twins.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, you idiot.” It’s out before I can stop myself.Why am I like this?This is wonderful news and I’m being a bitch, as usual. I hold my hands up. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologise, I know that’s your own way of telling me how happy you are.” I laugh and pull it together for my sister. I can’t be mad at her, it’s not her fault I’m the way I am. I walk back towards her and wrap my arms around her.
“I am happy for you, really. I think four kids is fuckingunhinged, but if you’re happy then I’m happy.”
“You could be happy too, you know.” She rubs my back and strokes my hair. My face has fallen against her shoulder and I can tell that she just knows how hard this all is for me. “You could, Hattie. There’s enough happiness to go around.”
I want to laugh, but I rein it in. If that were true, surely I’d have had a little sprinkle somewhere along the way. Just a splash. A dash even. The only time I think I’ve ever been happy was…
Oh shit.
Yep. Brenda is definitely earning her hourly rate this week.
I take a deep breath and turn to leave before she sees me crying, but the tears still fall. It’s the most heart-breaking realisation. There was a good thing, and as usual, I ruined it.
Chapter 43
Rob
Ahandwrittenenvelopelandson my desk. The lettering is shaky but I recognise it instantly and tear open the paper, careful not to damage the contents.
Folded inside the letter is a photo, and when I turn it over in my hands my breath catches in my throat.
Marek.
Marek was twenty-six when he was walking home from his shift in a bar two years ago. He was mugged, pushed hard, and never remembered any of the other details. We knew from his injuries and scans that he’d fallen face first and hit the ground at full force. We don’t know how long he was unconscious before he was found by a passer-by who called an ambulance.
By the time he made it onto my caseload he was able to stay awake, but he was in a bad way. Everything else was a struggle; memory, speech, attention span. Standing made him dizzy, lying down gave him headaches. He was often confused and angry, and who could blame him? We worked together for months to regain cognitive function, and I know we’re not supposed to have favourite patients, but Marek was mine. Eventually he was able to move home under the care of a community team, and the last I heard he’d been well enough to return to work.
And here in my hands is a photo of Marek now, beaming at the camera, with a baby in his arms. I have to blink back tears before I can read his letter.
Dear Dr. Rob,
Our son was born last month. He wouldn’t be here without you.
His name is Morgan.
Thank you always,
Marek and Sarah
Baby Morgan.Jesus Christ, I can’t cope with this.I sit with my head in my hands and take a few deep breaths before standing to pin that photo to the noticeboard above my desk.
