Jeanie can’t reconcile this woman Bridget is talking about with her mother. She turns her face to the window.
“It’s the eviction I can’t understand,” Bridget says. “Why Spencer Rawson would chuck you out of the cottage. Your mum said he always had a soft spot for you and Julius.”
“That was his wife’s doing,” Jeanie says. “I suppose that’s who Nathan is—was—working for.”
Bridget sighs again. “But it belongs to Rawson, doesn’t it? The farm, the cottage?”
“She didn’t tell him she’d had us evicted. She must have thought she could do what she wanted if he wasn’t there to stop it. He told me we could move back in,” Jeanie says.
“To the cottage?” Bridget sounds excited, hopeful for her.
“He suddenly wants to play happy families. Pretend everything’s all right. Have me and Julius over for tea or something. Like he can replace Dad.” Jeanie can feel the bump of her heart, insistent. Her breath steams the window and she sits upright.
Bridget glances at her and the car weaves. “Would that be so bad? Not a replacement, but he did love her, you know, and she loved him.”
Jeanie makes a dismissive pfff.
“What did you say?”
“What did I say? You have to ask? I told him to get out.”
They are in the city now and Bridget slows the car to a crawl until someone hoots behind them. “Bugger off!” she shouts, and then, “Wait, I have to concentrate, I have to see where to go.” She peers to look up at the road signs. Aloud, she reads, “Hospital, A&E.”
30
Jeanie lies on the stained orange sofa and closes her eyes. They are dry and itchy, all of her is dry, as though the fabric beneath her is drawing the moisture out from her body, and if she lies here for long enough she will become a hollow husk, some kind of giant chrysalis from which no butterfly will ever emerge. She knows she won’t be able to sleep, and she knows that Bridget will make a fuss if she doesn’t appear to be trying. There’s a single long window in the Relatives’ Room which overlooks a car park. Bridget is out there having a cigarette and putting a permit in the car, which the Neuro Intensive Therapy Unit receptionist has given her. Already Jeanie is learning the terminology. She wants to open the window for some air but there is not even a locked catch. The sky is a light cloudless blue, and she thinks about the things that need doing: the plants in the greenhouse and polytunnel that should be watered, the fence behind the compost heaps where rabbits are getting in which must be mended, and in Saffron’s garden the newly planted lavender will be demanding attention. She has to phone the council about Maude; where is Julius’s phone, and his clothes? There was a policeman here earlier, but he’s gone now. Julius was wearing a good shirt and he’ll want it back. Jeanie’s thoughts run on. She and Bridget have been waiting for hours. Someone, they were told, will come and speak to them when the operation is over.
When Bridget returns, she brings sandwiches and two teas in disposable cups, and asks Jeanie if she’s slept, though Bridget must have been gone for less than fifteen minutes. The smell of her recently smoked cigarette hangs around her. Jeanie worries about the cost of the sandwiches and the tea, calculating prices in her head and wondering whether Bridget will expect her to buy the next round. She takes a bite of her sandwich but can barely swallow. She doesn’t want to eat, and she doesn’t want to talk. Just as she lies down again, two men come into the room and she sits up. One, in blue scrubs and a matching cloth hat, introduces himself as Mr. McKenzie, the surgeon who has operated on Julius. The other man, Mr. Jones, says he’s an intensivist, and when he doesn’t explain further, Bridget leans towards Jeanie and says in a confidential tone, “That’s a doctor who specializes in the care of very poorly patients.” They all sit.
“Your brother has made it through the surgery,” Mr. McKenzie says to Jeanie. “But he did come to us pretty poorly.” She wonders if there are similar coverings to his hat but for beards, or whether they simply wear the hats upside down. “Three shotgun pellets went into his brain and unfortunately I wasn’t able to remove any of them.” The surgeon’s shoes have rounded toes like clogs or those Crocs that everyone was wearing a few years ago. His are splashed with brownish marks. Jeanie has been given a pair of paper slippers to replace her muddy boots. Mr. McKenzie is still speaking, something about a piece of Julius’s skull being stitched into his abdomen. Surely she has misheard? She feels Bridget’s hand touch hers and clasp it. She tries to focus.
“I wasn’t able to save his left eye, but there’s no damage to his right.”
“He’ll be able to see, then,” Jeanie says. “One eye is enough, isn’t it?”
Bridget squeezes Jeanie’s hand.
“Well,” Mr. McKenzie says. “It’s not his sight I’m worried about.” He leans, bare elbows on blue knees, hands clasped. “We’re keeping him asleep and we’ll just have to see what happens over the next few hours and days.”
“A medically induced coma?” Bridget says.
Jeanie sees a glance shared between the two men.
Mr.
