I nod and leave, making my way through now familiar corridors and back to the part of the hospital I now strangely think of as home. I feel empty, numb – as though my mind is self-medicating, giving me the emotional anaesthetic I need to get through the day.
I pass the room where the family are – the Frazers, as I now know. The mum is recovering, but their lives – like so many – will never be the same again.
I approach the vending machine at the end of the corridor, root in my pocket for some spare pesos. I order a hot chocolate, knowing from past experience that it will be more hot than chocolate. I sense someone behind me, glance back and see the girl. The one with the red hair. She looks sullen and aggressive and sad, as usual.
‘Would you like one?’ I ask, without thinking.
The girl glares at me, but nods.
We stand side by side and watch the machine clank and spurt, both too broken to speak. Moments later, we grimace at burned lips, a shared pain that is more than skin deep.
Chapter 12
It is not pretty, Harry coming out of his coma – and it is not quick.
It is a gradual process over a day or so, with the drugs in his system that have kept him under being reduced. The room always seems bustling, Dr Martinez and several nurses always around. His vital signs are constantly monitored, and we have been warned that he might be confused, or agitated, or weak. As with everything else so far, nobody seems able to predict what will happen next.
There are signs of him coming round after a few hours – his fingers twitch, his eyes move rapidly beneath his lids, his head turns. At one stage he seems to want to pull the tubes from his body, his hands clawing at his nose and face.
Linda and I sit either side of him, gently moving his hands away, talking to him, trying to reassure his wakening mind that he is safe.
After a while, his eyes open. He stares first at the ceiling, blinking at the bright lights, then at us. Linda immediately starts chatting to him, stroking his forehead, telling him that everything is going to be all right.
He looks from me to her and back again, eyes wide in shock and confusion. I see the panic and the fear, and realise he has no idea what has happened to him, or where he is, or why his mother is there.
‘It’s okay, Harry,’ I say quietly, holding his hand. ‘You’re in hospital, in Mexico. You’ve been injured, but you’re in good hands. You’ve been in a coma for a few days, and that’s why you have the tube down your throat. They needed to leave it there to make sure you can breathe on your own. You might feel weak, and your throat will probably be sore, but try not to get too upset. Keep calm and carry on, eh, as the saying goes?’
He nods, blinks some more, and seems less frantic. Dr Martinez has arrived, and makes his way through the small crowd, calmly talking to Harry and explaining that he’s going to remove the breathing tube. That he mustn’t worry; they are all there to make sure he is safe.
Linda and I back away, joining John at the side of the room. Harry’s eyes follow us as we go, his skin pale beneath the yellowing remnants of his holiday tan.
Linda clutches my hand as the doctor goes to work. It feels like we all hold our breath as well, waiting to see what will happen. Harry coughs, splutters, seems to choke slightly – then his breathing settles. We all sigh with him, and Dr Martinez starts doing some basic checks.
‘Well done,’ he says. ‘I think you’re going to be just fine. How do you feel?’
‘Weird,’ says Harry, his voice croaky and quiet. ‘Like I’m not me. Why am I here? What happened? Can I have a cup of tea?’
One of the nurses laughs, and it seems to break some of the tension in the room. I know he’s not out of the woods yet, not by a long way, but he is here. He is breathing. He is talking. He is a reduced Harry, but he is still Harry.
I rush back to his side and lean in close to look at him better. Dark marks beneath his eyes. Bruises and cuts. Dry lips and crusted eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, trying to raise his hand to touch the stitches on my forehead, finding himself too weak. I hold his hand, and feel his fingers grip mine as hard as they can. The grip is tentative, but I can feel the desperation in it.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply, fighting the sting of tears. ‘Don’t worry about me. You just need to concentrate on getting stronger.’
I see John, his face grim, and know what he is thinking. That soon, Harry will discover the rest of it. Will be told that he is paralysed. Will be told that his life has changed forever.
For now, though, all we can do is offer him comfort. Make him feel safe. Give him hope.
I kiss him on the cheek, and say, ‘Welcome back, Harry. We missed you. We’re all here, all with you, and we’re going nowhere.’
Linda joins us, looking exhausted but exhilarated, and adds, ‘Darling, it’s all going to be fine. Now, let’s see about getting you this tea, shall we?’
Chapter 13
The next few days are harder. Harry is in pain, of every shade, and he is lashing out.
With Dr Martinez’s help, Harry has been told about what has happened. About his prognosis. He has asked questions, been given answers that don’t satisfy him, has asked them all over again. Been told once more. A cycle of bitter disbelief and denial.
