Page 46 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘If you miss being single so much,’ David says, ‘why don’t you leave?’
Why don’t I leave? I think about the good days, which outweigh these awful ones. The way he looks at me with total adoration in his eyes when we’re lying in bed side by side. The support, the companionship, the love. I still want those things.
‘I don’t want to,’ I say.
‘Well then don’t’ – he stands – ‘fucking humiliate me like that.’
He pushes me, and I end up sprawled on the floor. I am so tired. From work, from life. I want to get into my bed and curl up. I want to be anywhere but here. He grabs me by the arms and pulls me up, and I know this is just the start of it. I go away somewhere, in my mind. To a white-sand beach, with the sea like glass and the sun warming my back. I stay there until it is overand I am slumped on the sofa, every part of me hurting, and he is gone.
25
NOW
Catheter out and I am finally free to roam. I have been back and forth to the toilets several times. Usually with Physio Fern on my arm. The first time, I didn’t even need to go, just wanted to look at myself in the mirror for a minute or so. I looked older, more tired. A little broken. Today, Fern isn’t working but she’s suggested I try going a little further. She thinks I’m ready. And I am. I don’t feel dizzy when I stand now. Dr Jenkins says my recovery so far has been nothing short of miraculous. I asked her about going home, and she said it wouldn’t be too long now, and I was half excited and half filled with dread, about what it will be like, back out in the world. About whether I’ll have to see David, and how that will go.
I hear the low drone of a TV and follow it to a waiting room. There are a handful of people looking sick with worry and pale-faced, like they haven’t seen the sun in weeks, and there’s a TV on the wall showing the weather. I stand in the doorway for a moment, pleased with myself for making it this far, and I see the weather segment end and a news section start. In the corner of the screen, there’s a time and date: 10.22a.m., 15 February – 2024.
I’m winded. What? It can’t be 2024. I feel dizzy suddenly, and like I might fall, so I take a few steps and collapse into one of the chairs. The worried relatives look over and I hold up a hand to show them I’m all right. But I’m not all right. I look at the woman closest to me. She is a decade or so older than me, with a small face and big glasses.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘What year is it?’
She looks puzzled. ‘It’s 2024.’
I nod my thanks and stand up, desperate to get out of this room, now, where people are looking at me and my world has tilted slightly on its axis, but everyone else’s has stayed the same. Because somehow, I have lost seven years of my life. I think about what Dee said, that they wanted me to work out for myself what’s been happening. I thought it was all to do with David and the attack. I never imagined this.
When I get back to my bed, Jamie is there. He takes one look at me and knows something is very wrong.
‘Shelley, what is it? Have you remembered something? Come here, sit down.’
Have I remembered something? So they know. They all know that I’m labouring under this illusion.
‘It’s 2024,’ I say stupidly, as if he’s the one who’s confused. I remember looking in the mirror in the hospital toilet, thinking I looked older. Not even considering that I was.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It is.’
I fire questions at him while he checks my obs, though he makes me stay silent while he does my blood pressure. It’s hard, because my head is bursting. I’m making connections, understanding things. The incident with David happened seven years ago. Have I been in a coma for seven years? I feel cold, shivery, and I pull the covers up and around my shoulders.
‘I’ll get Dr Ali,’ Jamie says. ‘I’m sure he’s around today. He’s probably the best person for you to talk to.’
Dr Ali. Hamza. I rake back over my sessions with him, the things I said. And he knew. It’s humiliating, isn’t it? No, not quite that. Because these people who’ve been caring for me, they’re not laughing. They’re full of compassion. So perhaps it’s just sad.
While I’m waiting for Hamza, I go over and over it. The argument with David, his push. It feels so fresh, so recent. But I have to get used to the fact that it isn’t. So I need someone to tell me what happened next. And the only people who can do that are David, who’s god knows where, or Dee.
‘Shelley.’ Hamza comes over to my bedside, a look of contrition on his face, my name a fact, a statement.
‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ I say. ‘Have I been in a coma for seven years?’
‘No.’ He’s clear and firm. ‘No, you’ve been in two comas. One seven years ago, and one recently. And you seem to have lost your memories from the intervening years. We hope it’s temporary.’
It’s such a lot to take in. How can you lose time like that? Lose whole years? Anything could have happened to me in that time. Or, more worryingly, nothing. Am I still married to David? Still living that life of pain and punishment?
‘Would you like to go somewhere a little quieter?’ He looks around at my wardmates, who must have heard my conversation with Jamie. I haven’t spoken properly to any of them, just the odd nod of greeting. But they’ve all had brain injuries too, of course. They could be in a similar boat. Still, talking in private, now that I’m free to move around, sounds like a good idea.
I nod, and Hamza waits while I get myself up, leads us down a corridor to a small, sterile room with a desk and two chairs in it. He gestures for me to sit, and I do. Hamza is settling himself,clearing his throat. What does he think of me, this serious, composed man? Am I the first person he’s seen with this kind of memory loss?
‘Tell me what you remember,’ he says.
I rake my fingers through my hair, which feels greasy and lank. I’ll ask Jamie to help me have a shower, after this. I’ll wash my hair and my body and I’m bound to feel so much better.
