Page 24 of The Lie
Rex sighed. ‘Honestly? You wouldn’t think so to look at him, Mum,’ he said. ‘But they say there isn’t anything wrong with him now – meaning he’s not critically ill, I suppose.’
Nobody spoke.
‘They basically told us that as soon as we’ve organized what Staff Nurse Weeks calls his “ care package ”, he can be out – even as early as the end of the week.’ Leo gave an anxious grimace.
‘Thisweek?’ Romy shook her head. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t decide what she should worry about first. Because even while understanding perfectly well that Michael was coming home, being responsible for the care of such a damaged person still seemed a bit unreal, something that would happen eventually but not yet, not so soon. It reminded her of the terror of bringing Leo home, two days after he was born. She’d been convinced that without the nurses’ reassuring support shewould do something dreadful and the vulnerable little bundle in her arms would suffer. Michael wasn’t a baby, obviously, but he was perhaps equally vulnerable.
‘They’re sending someone round to assess the flat, tell us what equipment we need,’ Leo said. ‘Like grab rails for the shower and a seat, so he can sit when he’s washing.’
‘And Anezka?’
Leo shrugged. ‘I doubt she’ll stick around once he’s home.’
‘So sad for your father,’ Romy said.
For a moment they didn’t speak. Rex messed with some spilt coffee and drew it across the table in a figure of eight. Romy wanted to slap his hand away, as she would have done when he was a child, but she stopped herself.
‘Well, boys,’ she said, straightening her shoulders and summoning every ounce of strength in her body, ‘looks like it’s down to us. So we’d better get on with it.’ Finch’s military master plan rang in her ears. She would do this. She would make it work for them all. And she would try not to think about all the things she was missing out on at home, try not to worry about how her defection would impact on her burgeoning relationship with Finch.
18
When Romy glanced at Bettina, she saw her friend shake her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with disapproval.
Romy didn’t need her friend’s help, though, when it came to Magda. The Hungarian woman, in her fifties, was charmless and tough. She would probably be very efficient – there was nothing she didn’t know about strokes – but not necessarily kind.
When the woman had been dispatched, Romy flopped down next to Bettina and sighed.
‘That’s the fourth. They’re all so …’ She cast her mind back through the people she’d interviewed.
‘Grim?’ Bettina offered, pulling a face as she flicked her blonde fringe off her tanned face. She ran an upmarket bakery in Hastings with her Swiss husband, Jost, but she’d taken Thursday off to help choose a live-in carer for Michael.
‘I’m trying to put myself in Michael’s position, imagine myself in bed, feeling rough, and the door opens and in walks Magda.’
They started to giggle.
‘It might motivate him to get out of bed really, really quickly.’
‘Or send him straight back under the duvet.’
They fell into a subdued silence.
‘Well, we’ve got Daniel next. I have high hopes for him,’ Bettina said, ‘even if I am biased.’ Daniel, twenty-five, was the son of a friend of Jost. He’d just finished his master’s in mental health and wanted a job in London for a while before going back to Switzerland. ‘And he might be better with a man looking after him ? a guy would be stronger, for a start, lugging Michael about. And it’ll be less embarrassing for Michael.’
Romy nodded. She wasn’t sure. ‘He’s a bit overqualified to be a carer.’
‘He seems happy with the idea … and if you think he’s suitable, you wouldn’t need to stick around too long.’
Romy had told Bettina how cornered she felt by the situation. But since knowing the date for Michael’s discharge – the following Monday – she had thrown all her energies into the task in hand. Finch was right: it made her feel calmer.
The final brick had fallen out of the wall of her resistance the other day, when she’d been sitting beside Michael in the blue hospital chair while he slept. She had been reading, when suddenly she’d felt his eyes on her.
For a moment he stared at her, as if he were trying to focus. Then he said, ‘I’m finished, Romy,’ as he unsuccessfully bit back the tears. With his good arm he had indicated his body beneath the sheet. ‘Have you ever seen a one-armed, one-legged silk who can’t remember the day of the week?’
When Romy didn’t immediately reply, shocked he should see himself in such terms, Michael had given her one of his knowing smiles and turned away.
She quickly pulled herself together. ‘Don’t say that, Michael. You’re improving every day, even if you can’t see it.’ She heard the false brightness in her tone, and finished more gently, ‘It’ll just take time.’
Michael nodded wearily. He’d heard it all before. Then he reached for her hand and clung to it, his eyes anguished as he met her gaze and a torrent of words came spilling out in his slow, compromised speech. ‘I’m so frightened, Romy. For the first time in my life … I can’t manage even the simplest thing. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what the hell’s going to happen to me.’ He swallowed with effort, furiously rubbing the tears from his face.
