Page 100 of Special Delivery
The call was answered on the first ring. ‘Fire, police or ambulance?’
‘Ambulance,’ Poppy gasped. ‘Quickly!’ Forcing herself to form coherent sentences, she relayed the address and nodded furiously at the lady’s instructions: check Mary’s airways, observe her for spinal injuries, move her into the recovery position—and above all, don’t leave her.
An ambulance arrived seven harrowing minutes later. A paramedic with a blonde ponytail strode in purposefully, not bothering to knock, and without greeting Poppy put a ventilator over Mary’s face. With the help of her partner, she rolled the old woman onto a stretcher and wheeled it outside.
Poppy watched numbly as the back door of the ambulance was opened and the stretcher was rolled inside, just like that. She felt winded, as if a semitrailer had just knocked her clean off her feet. Maeve was still on her hip, her wailing having settled to a low whimper. Poppy squeezed her in what she hoped translated as comfort.
‘Can we travel in the ambulance?’ she heard herself ask the blonde paramedic, surprised she still had words, could still make sounds.
The paramedic shook her head. There were no child restraints, she explained. She’d have to follow them to the emergency department in her own car.
The paramedics got in the van—one in the front and one in the back with Mary.
‘Please,’ Poppy called, her voice cracking with the effort. ‘Hold her hand.’
CHAPTER 42
‘I came as soon as I got the message,’ said James, running through the doors to the waiting room. ‘I was in the delivery suite, phone on silent. Mum and Kate are on their way …’ He trailed off, running his hands through his hair. ‘How is she?’
Poppy sat with Maeve on her knee in one of the grey vinyl chairs, a pile of dusty magazines on the table to her left. The smells of antiseptic and hospital food mingled in the air.
‘She’s in surgery.’ Poppy’s knees felt so weak it was a miracle Maeve could sit on them.
‘Shit, so …’ James’s eyes searched the room, her face, for answers.
‘I’m so sorry,’ gasped Poppy, trying to catch a breath before the terror constricted her airways, curling around her like a snake. Words and letters were scrambled in her mind, shooting out in fits and starts, spluttering like a leaking faucet. The magpies. The blood. The tiles. Mary’s leg in a cubist V. All playing on a relentless loop in her mind.
The doctors had said she’d most likely fallen and broken her leg then passed out from the pain. The blood at her temple seemed to be circumstantial, but they’d scanned her for brain injuries just to be sure. At the very least Mary would need a steel pin in her leg to replace the shattered femur, and any recovery would be slow and painful, especially for someone her age. Technically speaking, though, a full recovery was possible.
‘She’s eighty-nine,’ James muttered to himself, staring out the window to the atrium garden below. Poppy knew what he meant. Mary wouldn’t be starting from a level playing field. Everything would be slower and harder, the gains so much smaller, the setbacks more severe. Normally they spoke of her age with reverence and incredulity.Eighty-nine and acing the crossword! Eighty-nine and using an iPad!And, most frequently,Eighty-nine, can you believe it?But they all believed it, profoundly, because they couldn’t imagine life without her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ squeaked Poppy. Her arms were wrapped tight around her daughter’s chest.
‘Poppy,’ said James, closing the space between them to stand in front of her. He put his hands to her jaw and gently tipped her face up, his eyes locking on to hers. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Poppy pulled her head away and buried her face in the crook of her daughter’s neck, her tears falling onto Maeve’s soft skin. ‘It is,’ she choked. ‘If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have been in the kitchen.’
James crouched beside them, bringing his hand onto her back. ‘Poppy, you know Mary. She was always pottering around. No-one made her fall, especially not you.’
‘But the tea …’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ James repeated, his hand still resting on her back.
Poppy wondered what would happen if she leaned towards him and put her head on his shoulder like she wanted to. She wanted to let the pain seep out; she was exhausted, she was scared. She wished she could cry in his arms and they could share the pain, but she couldn’t feel sorry for herself, not now, not in this grey room with its plastic chairs and scuffed floors. That would be the ultimate self-indulgence. It would be pathetic and selfish, and everything she was trying not to be. But she did feel sorry and she did feel scared and she hated herself for it and that made it worse.
Poppy lifted her eyes. ‘James, I want to say something. Ineedto say something.’
He stood up and turned away from her. ‘Not now, Poppy,’ he said wearily. ‘Mary’s in surgery, my head is a mess. We’ll talk. But not now.’
Poppy’s stomach coiled. ‘When?’ she asked him quietly.
He sighed. ‘Soon.’
Maeve whimpered and reached for James. He looked at Poppy for permission then scooped Maeve off her lap.
‘She’s miserable cooped up here,’ said Poppy. ‘She’s been whining since we arrived.’
‘I can take her for a walk to the ward,’ he said. ‘I’ll only be five minutes and there are toys there. I need to pack up anyway and’—he paused, swallowing—‘I need to hug someone.’
