Back at the centre, in front of Adam’s door, I am introduced to Luis.
‘He’ll be Adam’s main nurse,’ Oliver tells me. ‘There’ll be somebody with Adam at all times but if you have any concerns and Luis isn’t on shift, he will likely be in his room just across the corridor. You can call him any time, day or night.’
‘I’ll be checking on Adam regularly, Mrs Curtis, whether I’m working or not.’ He shakes my hand.
‘Call me Anna, please, Luis. So… what happens if something goes wrong? At the hospital there was an alarm. So many doctors and nurses.’
‘We’ve a large medical team, please don’t worry,’ Oliver says. ‘Adam will receive state-of-the-art care here.’
‘I know but…’ But I’m having second thoughts. It’s too quiet here without the clatter and chatter I’ve become used to.
‘Here.’ Oliver pushes a button into my hand. ‘Press it.’
My thumb presses down and immediately a siren blasts, orange lights strobe. Within seconds the corridor is filling with people. Oliver taps on his phone and the siren falls silent, the lights stop flashing.
‘Feel better?’ he asks kindly.
‘Yes. Thanks. I think I’ll go to bed now.’
‘Do you want me to come in with you? Your luggage is already inside. I could help you unpack?’
I shake my head.
Everyone slips away until it is just me, my fingertips on Adam’s door handle, steeling myself to go inside and when I do, disappointment bites. There’s still the flash of the monitor. A nurse stationed in the corner. My eyes fill with hot tears. It’s ridiculous I had harboured an expectation that it would be different here. I’d felt a bubbling hope under the surface of my skin that perhaps moving him would trigger something. That now I’d have found him sitting up in bed, reading. The lamp blazes – and I hate myself for all the times I’d complained that he was keeping me awake. Our last row was only a few days before Adam had booked our holiday.
‘The light’s too bright. I’m trying to bloody sleep.’ I had sat upright, shielding my eyes.
‘I can’t read without it. Sorry, I won’t be—’
‘Why can’t you just buy a kindle like normal people?’ I had made a show of thumping my pillows, throwing myself back down with a sigh.
‘I like the feel of a paperback in my hand.’ He had turned the page.
‘You wouldn’t get that bloody rustling with a kindle either.’
‘Christ, Anna. Next you’ll be saying I breathe too loud.’
I had muttered under my breath.
‘Is there anything I do lately that doesn’t irritate you?’ Adam had snapped.
I had remained silent and when Adam slammed his book onto his cabinet and clicked off the light, I had lain rigid with anger long after he’d fallen asleep. I had thought I hated him. I had thought I didn’t love him anymore.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I crawl over the safety rail on the bed and lay beside him. ‘I’ll make everything better, if you just wake up.’
We need to learn to communicate again; my session with Eva has taught me that. I try to remember the us that used to talk for hours. Lately we’d passed Grandad’s coin back and forth instead of using words. I loved the sentiment behind it but it made us lazy. It made us think that was enough.
It wasn’t.
I have been unhappy these past few years. That hasn’t always been the case throughout our marriage, but in this moment when I try to think of Adam, remember why I fell in love with him, this is the Adam that now comes to mind. The one with tubes and wires, skin as pale as the sheet he lies upon. But still, I want him back. Surely things will be different now I’ve had a glimpse of life without him?
Will they? Will our problems have magically disappeared?
I’m exhausted with it all. I curve my body against his and rest my head on his shoulder. I can’t believe that I’m questioning us. Still unsure of who we are and who we’ll be when Adam wakes up. Who Adam will be. If I was questioning if I loved Adam before, how would I be if he were a stranger? If he couldn’t talk. If I had to wash him, feed him, dress him every single day. Would he even know who I am?
My thoughts should be full of love and hope and positivity, but they’re not. I feel lost and scared and confused.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’ll find out what’s inside Adam’s head.
My last waking thought is that I hope it’s better than the doubts filling mine.
Chapter Forty-Two
Anna
My breakfast has been brought to me. The breeze is soothing as I sit at the table by the open window, pushing an egg with a sunshine-yellow yolk around my plate. It feels wrong to eat solid food while Adam is metres away being fed through a tube. I’m not hungry. Nerves are squirming in my stomach. Later this morning Oliver and Sofia will be here and the clinical trial will start. For the millionth time I question whether I’m doing the right thing, not just for Adam but for me. Yesterday I hadn’t thought beyond what might be in Adam’s mind but today I’m worried about me. Am I being selfish? How will Mum cope if something happens to me? The letter I left with Nell doesn’t seem enough. All of a sudden, I feel the urge to talk to Mum. I’d intended to ring her before Adam’s cardiac arrest but, distracted, I still haven’t called and told her about the accident.
‘I’ll be back soon.’ I kiss Adam and slip out of the door.
The beach is almost empty. It’s still early but the sun is already throwing out warmth. The sky is brilliant blue and cloudless; it’s going to be scorching later. I sit. The sand is damp beneath my cotton sundress. I kick off my flip-flops and cross my legs under me. It takes several deep breaths of the salty air before I can dial Mum’s number. I know she’ll be up, pottering around her kitchen, checking her wall planner to see what she’s filling her day with.
‘Hello, love. I didn’t expect to hear from you while you’re away.’
Her voice renders me mute. Overcome with the emotion of needing her.
‘Anna, what’s wrong?’
‘I don’t want you to worry but—’
‘Oh God, it’s terrorists, isn’t it? Are you somewhere safe?’
‘It isn’t terrorists—’
‘A tsunami. You need to be somewhere high—’
‘Mum! It’s Adam.’ I pause to let that settle in. ‘There’s been an accident.’ Slowly, reluctantly, I tell her, not everything – not about the baby or the clinical trial – but enough.
‘But he will wake up?’
I close my eyes. She sounds so close it’s as though I can reach out my hand and touch her. I wish that I could.
‘His original doctor, Dr Acevedo, said that typically comas last between two and four weeks.’ I keep the details as vague as I can.
Two years. Twelve years. Twenty years.
‘A month! Oh, Anna. I’ll come. I’ll book a flight and—’
‘You can’t. Nan needs you.’
‘You need me.’ I’ve never heard her sound so strong. So determined. After Dad died, every single decision she had to make took forever as she endlessly deliberated. Constantly asking my opinion. Leaning on me the way she’d always leaned on him, sometimes too much. I was grieving too.