Lifesaving for Beginners (2 page)

2 June 2011; Dublin

‘She’s coming round.’

‘Thank Christ.’

‘Kat?’

‘Katherine?’

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Come on now.
Wake up.’

‘Don’t crowd her.’

‘Kat?’

‘Easy now.
Take it easy.’

‘Thomas?’
My voice sounds strange.
Rusted.
Like I haven’t used it in a long time.

‘Give her some space.’

‘Am I in a hospital?’

‘Get her some water.’

‘What happened?’

‘It’s all right.
You were in an accident but you’re all right.
You’re all right now.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Calm down, Kat.
Take it easy.’

My breath is quick and shallow.
Panic isn’t far away.
I move my legs to see if I can move my legs.
They move.
I can move my legs.
I try to calm down, to beat panic back with both hands.

Someone puts a hand under my head.
Puts a glass against my mouth.
I think it’s Thomas.
‘Here, take a drink of water.’
That’s definitely him.
The soft, low voice.
It would make you think of Wispa bars, whether you wanted to or not.

The water goes down, cold and pure.
Panic falters.
Takes a step back.
Thomas’s hand is solid against the back of my head.
I keep my eyes closed, in case he’s looking at me.
In case he sees the panic.
And the gratitude.
I am weak with gratitude all of a sudden.

When I open my eyes, I say, ‘I’m not forty yet, am I?’
so that we can have a laugh and everything can go back to normal.
It works because everyone has a bit of a laugh and the atmosphere in the room slackens and there’s a chance that things can get back to normal.

Thomas says, ‘You’ve still a bit to go.’

The light grates against my eyes as I look around the room.
The hospital room.
I’m in a hospital.
I hate hospitals.
I haven’t been in a hospital bed since I was fifteen.

I do a headcount.
Four people.
They look tired, like they haven’t slept, or, if they have, they’ve slept badly.
My parents.
My oldest friend, Minnie.
And Thomas.
Almost everyone.

I say, ‘Where’s Ed?’

My mother says, ‘I had to send him home.
He was too emotional.
You know how he gets.’

‘He’s not on his own, is he?’

Dad steps forward.
‘Your brother’s fine, Kat.
Don’t worry.
I brought him to Sophie’s house and Sophie’s parents are there.
They’ll look after him.
You need to worry about yourself for now.’

‘What’s wrong with me?’
I feel far away, like I have to shout to make them hear me.

Dad says, ‘You got a bump on your head.
The doctor says it’ll hurt for a while.’

Mum says, ‘And you’ve got a fractured rib.
You either got it in the accident or afterwards, when they cut you out of the car.’

‘Jesus.’
I curl my hands into fists so no one can see the shake in them.

Minnie says, ‘It’s not even a proper fracture.
It’s just a hairline one.’

Thomas says, ‘You were lucky, Kat.’

I don’t feel lucky.
I feel far away.

Minnie looks at her watch.
‘Well, now that I know you’re not going to cark it, I suppose I should go back to work.’
She sounds annoyed but when I look at her, she’s got that pained expression on her face that she gets when she’s trying not to smile.

It’s only when Mum puts her hand on my forehead that I realise how hot I am.
Her hand is cool and soft.
I’d forgotten how soft her hands are.
Her eyes are puffy, like she’s been crying.
But she never cries.
The last time I saw her crying was in 1989, when Samuel Beckett died.

She says, ‘We’ll go too.
We’d better pick Edward up.’
She pulls at some strands of my hair that are caught in the corner of my mouth.
I try to sit up but I’m like a dead weight so I stop trying and lie there and try to make sense of things.

The room smells of heat and bleach.
The sheets are stiff and make a scratching sound when I move.
There’s a deep crack zigzagging along the ceiling.
Like the whole place is going to come tumbling down.
Right down on top of me.

Dad says, ‘Get some rest, Kat.
I’ll call you later, OK?’

‘Will you tell Ed I’m fine?
Tell him I’ll see him soon.
Tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’
Dad bends, kisses the corner of my eye.
I’d say he was going for my forehead but he’s a little short-sighted.

Minnie says, ‘The next time you’re going to have a near-death experience, could you do it on a Friday?
Get me out of the weekly meeting with the Pillock.’
Pillock is what Minnie calls her boss, and the funny thing is that they get on quite well.
She picks up her handbag and coat and is gone in a cloud of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle.

Now it’s just Thomas and me and, all of a sudden, I feel sort of shy, like I’ve been doing the tango in my bedroom with an imaginary partner before noticing that the blinds are up and the neighbours are gawking.
I grab the sharp edge of the sheet and pull it to my neck.

I say, ‘Shouldn’t you be spreading dung on some poor unfortunate turnips?’
If you ask Thomas what he does, he’ll say he’s a farmer, even though he’s a freelance journalist who happens to have inherited a smallholding in Monaghan where he grows impractical things like grapes that are never anything but sour, and sunflowers that, as soon as their heads poke above the earth, get eaten by his one goat, two pigs, three hens, a garrulous goose and a lamb-bearing ewe.

He doesn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed.
Carefully, like he’s afraid he might break something.
I want to punch his arm and tell him he’s a big eejit but I can’t because of the wires attached to my wrist.
I don’t think I can laugh out loud either.
My head feels funny: heavy and dense.
When I touch it, there’s a bandage, wrapped round and round.

I say, ‘This is a bit
Grey’s Anatomy
, isn’t it?’
My voice sounds nearer now but there’s a shake in it.
I clear my throat.

He smiles but only briefly.
Then he puts his hand on mine.
His hands are huge.
Like shovels, they are.
I pull my hand away.
‘What?’

He says, ‘What do you mean?’

‘You look kind of .
.
.
appalled.
Is it my hair?’

He smiles a bit longer this time.

He says, ‘I’m just .
.
.
I’m glad you’re OK.
When they said the car was a write-off, I thought .
.
.’

‘The car’s a write-off ?’

‘Yeah.
Sorry.’

‘I love that Mazda.’

‘I know, but it’s replaceable.’
He looks at me when he says that.
A really intense look like he’s cramming me for an exam.
For a terrible moment, I think he’s going to say something horrendous.
About me.
Not being replaceable.
Something heinous like that.

But he doesn’t say that.
Instead, he says this:

‘I thought you were dead.’

‘Jesus, this is actually cheesier than
Grey’s Anatomy
.’

‘Can’t you be serious for a moment?’

‘I’m as serious as a car crash.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘It’s a little bit funny.’

Thomas nods, thank Christ.
He’s not usually like this.
He’s usually got quite a good SOH, as Minnie calls it.
Even though she’s got Maurice and they’ve been smugly coupled up for years, she still reads the ads.
For me, she says.
I don’t know if she does it anymore.
The Thomas situation has been going on a fair while now.
Maybe a year and a half.

Although I think Thomas said, ‘Twenty-two months, actually,’ when I mentioned it the other day.

Thomas says, ‘Do you remember the accident?’

I nod.
‘Sort of.’

‘What do you remember?’
He can be such a journalist sometimes.

‘There was a deer on the road.’
What the hell was a deer doing on the road?
‘There was a truck.
It swerved.
Really suddenly.
And there was a car.
In front of me, I think.
A yellow one.
Really bright yellow.
Something about a banana written on it.
Then the airbag exploded in my face and then .
.
.
I don’t know .
.
.
I don’t think I remember anything else.’

‘You could have died.’

‘Are you going to keep on saying that?’

‘That woman .
.
.
the one in the yellow car.
She .
.
.
she died.’

‘You’re not going to cry, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Thank Christ.’

Thomas stands up.
Walks to the door.
Pauses.
Looks back at me.

I say, ‘Can you get the doctor?’

‘Are you feeling OK?’
He looks worried, like maybe I’ve got a brain tumour or something.

‘I want to know when I can get out of here.’

‘I’m sure they’ll want to monitor you for another while.
You’ve been out cold.’

‘I just want everything to get back to normal.’

He looks at me then.
Says, ‘No.’
Like we’re in the middle of an argument.

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean no.
Things are different now.
You could have died.’

‘Can you stop saying that?’

‘We’ve wasted enough time.’

I manage to prop myself up on my elbows.
I ignore the pain in my head.
My body.
I need to nip this in the bud.
I say, ‘Look, there’s no need for all this.
I didn’t die.
I’m fine.’

‘I don’t care.’
Thomas closes the door.
Puts his back against it so no one can come in.
There’s a feeling in my chest and I think it might be disquiet.
‘I’m just going to say it.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘I know.
But I’m going to say it anyway.
I love you.’

‘Where are my clothes?
I need to get out of here.’

‘I want to get married.’

‘Congratulations.
Who’s the lucky lady?’

‘And I’d love to have a baby.’