Dead
I stare wildly around me, before realising that I’m still in the bright light of the hospital room. There are no swaying branches, only stark white blinds and the beeping of a heart machine. I fall back against the pillow in relief, the anxiety slowly seeping away, replaced with questions. I close my eyes again, asking her.
Did you do that?
Was that you?
Was that me?
A deep disappointment fills me when I hear nothing, although I can smell a perfumed fragrance, but that could have been from anyone. Maybe it’s the unconscious me? She had said that she was part of me. Perhaps I’m just remembering the flowers round my wrists, or being found in a basket. The knock on my head must have opened up a memory of my true mother – but how can it be if she jumped? I breathe deeply, keeping my eyes closed, trying to remember the silky hair that framed the soft face and the green eyes. I instinctively reached for my own, twirling it and wonder if hers changed with the seasons. It must have been summer when she left me, sixteen years ago, in a forest. But left for whom? A bitter, metallic taste fills my mouth – why would anyone leave a child in a forest? It doesn’t make sense. I don’t remember being told about who found me, and took me to the adoption agency. For the first time in my life, I have questions, real questions and need real answers from real people. The pain of the memory feels so raw and real and I try rubbing it away, flinching when I realise that everyone is still looking at me. How long have I been asleep? It can’t have been long – they are still standing in the same place. It feels so weird, as if time has stood still. Amber is still in Andrea’s arms. Mum and Dad are still sitting in the same place next to me. Mum’s head leaning on Dad’s shoulder. I notice that Hawk has still not bothered to turn up, just like earlier. I must have seriously upset him, he seemed so certain that I was special. That I was as special as the next person, although I might be a little crazy at the moment, but I’m allowed to be - which teenager in my shoes wouldn’t be?
I grin at Amber then, she’s whispering something in Andrea’s ear. The nurses and doctors are still hovering around as she smiles back. Although, I can’t be certain if the smile is directed at the nurse.
I glance outside, slivers of sunlight spill through the blinds into the room. It’s so different from last night’s storm.
The doctor and nurse are moving around me, and I’m almost pleased when the group moves further back. If they’re not even going to talk to me, I want them to go, I think miserably.
That’s when I spy Jo-Jo. She must have been standing behind my parents earlier, and she’s crying, this was different. Josh is with her, his arms holding her tightly as she presses her head into his arms. I watch as he strokes her blonde hair and feel the familiar feelings of hurt, at being pushed to the outside. I look away, I don’t like the way he is staring at me, it feels wrong somehow. Anyway, I have Hawk now. I fume then, she doesn’t have to be so damn dramatic. It’s not as if I’m dead. Even though I think it, the thought feels like a heavy echo and bounces round the room.
Dead
11
Flutters
I look anxiously at the doctor now. He’s listening to my breathing. I can’t feel the coldness of the stethoscope and wonder if he’s warmed it up like they used to when I was little.
‘Am I ok?’ I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
Idiot, he has the stethoscope in his ears, I tell myself.
He has the face of a stranger, and as his eyebrows knit together in concentration, I find myself hoping that he knows enough. I wish my old doctor was here. Why haven’t they called Doctor King? He’s been the family doctor since I was born.
‘Mum?’
I turn to her quizzically. She’s a little further down the bed now, hidden, and I peer at her from under his arm. Dark tangles have fallen loose from her tied hair, and I know she did it in a hurry. Although it’s not her hair that makes me stare at her but the look of worry that lines her face. She looks much older today.
I can just make out Dad’s hand on her shoulder and feel a flush of guilt that I’ve even put them through this. Dad lost his job recently, and I know they have money problems because I’ve heard them. They haven’t figured out that my bedroom is over the dining room and even though Mum’s been doing extra shifts at the hospital it’s not helping. I worry about them even though I know that if I said anything, it would make things worse. I think about our coffee and window shopping and wish more than anything to be doing that now.
Mum is always tearful lately, Dad called it ‘baby blues,’ but I’m awake now - so why is everyone so worried?
‘Hey, I’m ok guys, really…’
I call to them before looking back up at the doctor. What’s he doing now? I want to scream. I hate injections, always have, and he’s using one on me now. I breathe a sigh of relief. This guy is good, I didn’t feel a thing. In fact, I feel great, really great, like I can do anything. As the pale light hits my face, I’m reminded of Hussein, and the white Ford and hope he knows that I’m okay too. For some reason, it feels important. I don’t know whether it’s the drugs but when I look around the room and wonder where he is - I see him inside the police station. He’s wearing his worn out denim jacket and the grey trousers he irons so carefully every morning.
They’re ripped, but he’s not thinking of them now, his greying head is in his hands, and he’s weeping.
