It’s been heartbreaking, the way he listens, hears the bad news again in different terms, looks to me or his mum and dad, as though urging us to contradict it. Needing us to say it’s not true. Each time we nod, each time we tell him, in our own way, that this is all real, he sinks a little lower. His mood has ranged from tearful to furious, and everything in between.
He has screamed, and shouted, and cried. He has thrown his food tray against the walls, bright green jelly sliding down pale green paint.
We have tried to remain calm, to help him, but we are all feeling the strain of seeing him in so much anguish.
I am here every day, for as long as I can. Today, he is furious. It is late afternoon and he has not eaten, and he is so angry. With the nurses, with us, with the whole universe.
Linda fusses over him, and I try to talk to him, and John just looks helpless.
‘You’re all lying!’ he yells, pushing his mother away as she attempts to brush his hair. ‘I don’t know why, but you’re all lying to me!’
Before any of us can stop him, he is trying to get out of bed, picking up his blanket-covered legs and swinging them to one side.
He crashes to the ground, dragging his drip-stand down, his legs entangled in the sheets, his head cracking against the floor. He lies there, sobbing, screaming at us to stay away from him.
I squat by his side, hold up a hand to stop the nurses that have rushed in to see what they can do to help.
‘Leave me alone,’ he mutters, his eyes screwed up against the tears, snot and blood running from his nose from the fall. ‘Just leave me alone …’
‘I won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m not going anywhere. None of us blame you for feeling like this, but none of us are giving up on you either. We’re here, and we’re staying, and there’s not a lot you can do about it.’
He shouts in frustration, wrapping his arms across his own face, lying in the chaos of twisted bedding, the mocking sound of the heart monitor beeping in the background. His drip has been tugged out in the fall, and a small drop of blood oozes across the dry skin of his hand. I sit beside him, silently, waiting until his breathing returns to normal.
He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, but holds out a hand in my direction. I take it, hold it tight.
‘Thank you,’ he says softly.
‘You’re welcome,’ I reply quietly, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead.
The nurses get him sorted and settled back in bed, and once he is calmer, in fact on the verge of sleep, I slip out of the room.
I lean back against the wall, and rub my sore eyes with the heels of my palms. I am wrung out, tense and tired. Nobody can blame Harry for reacting like this. This is not a film, and he is not a superhero. He is a man, who one minute was enjoying his holiday, and the next woke up in hospital with strangers telling him his legs don’t work.
But it is draining us all. We’ve been with him around the clock, everyone taking shifts apart from his mother, who refuses to leave the room. We are all exhausted, Harry most of all.
I have no idea what the future holds, for me or for Harry, or for us as a couple. I have had no time to think about that, or maybe I have simply been avoiding it. He is at the lowest point of his life, and it seems unforgivable to even consider not being there for him.
I would never abandon him – but if I am honest, as I suck in some deep breaths and try to calm myself, I need a break. I need to be away from that stifling room for a while. Away from Harry’s pain and need.
I need to break free, just for a little while. I need to see Alex.
Even the thought of it makes me feel guilty, and I go through my usual mental checklist: Alex and I are just friends. Alex and I are helping each other stay strong. The stronger I am, the more I can help Harry when he needs it.
I’m not sure I’m even convincing myself, and I jump slightly when John emerges from the room fifteen minutes later, as though I have been caught out.
‘Elena,’ he says, nodding at me. ‘You’re still here. Good.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Does he need me?’
‘No, he’s asleep. You can take a break – goodness knows you deserve it. But I wanted to talk to you about something else. About doing a press interview.’
I stare at him, confused. I haven’t spoken to the press, not for lack of trying on their part, and I have no desire to do so.
‘We’ve had some offers,’ he says, gazing past me, as though fascinated by the corridor beyond. ‘From a few papers, from a TV show. Wanting to talk to you, to Harry.’
‘But … why would we do that, John? Isn’t there enough to think about right now? Enough pressure?’
He smiles, but looks sad as he replies, ‘There is enough pressure, Elena – and some of it is going to be financial. The insurance money will only go so far. And who knows when or if Harry will be able to work again? Or you, if you’re looking after him.’
