‘What do you mean?’
‘Something like that only happens if there’s some huge emotional trauma. Something bad must’ve happened to make her shut down.’
‘But she’s awake for now. And quite jolly,’ I say. I’m not really trying to cheer him up. I’m just saying it like it is.
‘And I am so lucky,’ says Eddie. ‘I always thought she might wake up. But now that she’s awake, it’s like I can finally hear what the doctors were saying all along – that people in comas don’t usually recover. That, mostly, whatever trauma put them there is permanent. They always said it, but I never heard it. The longer she was out, the worse her chances were. And hers was pretty long. Even the best stories on the net are about months, not years.’
I think Eddie’s forgotten who he’s talking to. But it’s not like I haven’t been told – I too know the statistics. Mike’s been in a coma for so long, and information has shifted around over the years. But it’s always been a grim prognosis. And every time Mike gets a new doctor – seven at the last count – they sit me down and explain it all over again. And I nod and I smile and I go back to Mike and tell him that his doctors are fools because obviously he is not brain dead like they say, and obviously he might wake up. Jack is dead, but Mike isn’t.
But standing outside Miriam’s room – having witnessed the miracle that should prove to me that all my hope has been based on fact; that people do make inexplicable and complete recoveries – somehow, for the first time, I’m understanding the exact reverse. Maybe it is hearing it from the voice of the one person who had hoped, like me, who had dreamt, like me, who was determined to keep the faith, like me. Maybe hearing it from Eddie makes me take in the words like I never have before. But suddenly I think of Mike – unresponsive, unmoving – and I know. People in comas almost never wake up. And when they do, it’s not pretty.
Mike is not going to wake up. There’s nobody in there. I’ve spent twenty-six years talking to a living corpse.
I don’t know what to do. My whole life seems meaningless in the face of this truth.
I don’t know how I say goodbye to Eddie, but I’m alone and I’m walking as fast as I can towards the exit. For the first time, I can’t be bothered to say goodbye to Mike as I leave. What would the point be?
What is the point?
I can feel a sob building up in my chest, like an animal waiting to be released. I don’t want to release it. I don’t know what to do.
And then my phone rings.
Claire
When I pick up Mackenzie from school, I’m still in a good mood. Julia’s managed to misdial me again, and I hear her yelling ‘No’ in the background, which makes me laugh. Does she realise that I can hear her? It’s been one of those days when nothing’s going to get me down – the sort of day that seems to be becoming more and more the norm.
As Mackenzie gets into the car, she’s talking about the baby. Not that there’s anything unusual about that – she’s pretty much obsessed with the baby, so it’s lucky I’ve made my peace.
‘How will Julia know when it’s time for the baby to come out?’ she asks.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘she’ll feel really sore, and she’ll know.’
‘What if she thinks she needs a poo? That can be really sore.’
‘When I started to have you, I was pretty sure you weren’t a poo.’
‘Of course I’m not a poo, Mummy!’ says Mackenzie. ‘I’m nothing like a poo.’
‘True.’
‘What if Julia’s alone and she’s sore?’ says Mackenzie after a while – I presume spent thinking how un-poo-like she is.
‘She’ll phone someone.’
‘Daddy?’
‘I guess. Or her mum. She has a really helpful mum.’
‘I know,’ says Mackenzie. ‘I know her mum. She’s a bit weird. But really helpful.’
‘And then Daddy or Helen will take Julia to hospital to have the baby,’ I explain.
Mackenzie thinks a bit more. ‘She should choose her mum.’
I smile. ‘Daddy will want to be there. He loved it when you were born.’
For a moment I feel the loss. I think I will always feel the loss.
‘Anyway,’ I say to distract myself, ‘you can usually tell when a lady is going to have the baby. She gets a bit nutty sometimes, and cleans everything, and pretends she can’t feel any pain and . . .’ I stop midsentence, thinking about the messages I got from Julia this morning. Thinking about that last missed call. That ‘No’ that I heard, which now that I think about it, sounded pained.
We’re nearly home, but I don’t want to wait. I grab my phone from the console and throw it to Mackenzie in the back.
‘Phone Julia,’ I say. ‘Ask her if she’s okay.’ Mackenzie is thrilled with the responsibility.
I wait.
‘She’s not answering,’ says Mackenzie. ‘It goes to mailvoice.’
‘Voicemail,’ I say reflexively. But I’m worried. I pull over. ‘Give me the phone.’
‘No, but I can—’
‘Give it!’
I dial Julia’s number but it goes to voicemail again.
We’re two minutes from home, so I decide to drop Mackenzie there and go straight to Julia to reassure myself.
‘Phone Daddy,’ I tell Mackenzie as I drive.
‘Mailvoice,’ says Mackenzie with a sigh, as if she never expected anything different from her father. Then again, why did I?
Once Mackenzie is safely at home with Thandi, who looks faintly disapproving when I tell her where I’m going, I decide to take the risk of driving and phoning. I try Daniel again, and leave a message. I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have Julia’s mum’s number – why would I? – so all I can do is wait until
