Louise borrowed Deanne’s laptop while the kids were visiting their dad (Ruby had taken her machine to drama college) and began to do more research into the condition. Some of the information she came upon was unpalatable, and she avoided the medical sites where the talk was of studies and statistics and averages. Their savage facts made her stomach churn, threatened to snare her in a place of cold despair. Instead she sought out the personal stories of people who had ‘woken up’ against all the odds. The young mother hurt in a car crash who had regained consciousness after four months, the man in the US who’d woken after five years with a single dose of a drug, the child who had come round minutes before her feeding tube was withdrawn. Louise held fast to hope because it was all she had and it was all that sustained her. She didn’t believe in God or prayer or even miracles, though she knew what she was hoping for would be classed as a miracle. She would not give up, she would never give up.
‘What about Luke?’ Dr Liu had asked at the last meeting. ‘What would he want? Would he choose to live like this for the rest of his life?’
Louise thought of him: restless, always moving, climbing, running. Ducking and diving through his short life. Turning cartwheels, handstands in the park. Squealing with delight as Eddie chased him or tickled his tummy. ‘I can’t answer that,’ she said.
‘When you can, you will know what to do,’ the doctor replied. Implying that Louise was selfish. But she was doing this for Luke; he needed more time, more of a chance.
She could not contemplate it. Would not talk about it, even with her closest friends. Deanne asked her one day how long Luke could go on at the nursing home.
‘Indefinitely,’ Louise said.
Deanne’s eyes had clouded and she’d asked, ‘Till he’s old?’ And Louise had heard the revulsion and pity in her voice and said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
She dreamt about it often, dreams where he was hurt and crying and she had him in her arms, carrying him, running for help, her legs burning with cramp, heart slamming in her chest and the terror tearing inside, and then in the dream he would be fine. Just like that. He would be better and at home, just doing something mundane, sprawled on the sofa or sticking a bowl of beans in the microwave, and she’d feel relief like cool water flowing through her, waves of joy. Then she would wake up and the elation would shrivel to fresh disappointment.
She read some of the miracle stories with a pang of unease as the tales of a brother or mother opening their eyes or moving a finger unrolled to describe years of infinitesimally small progress. Even where recovery had been substantial and astonishing, relatives spoke of adjusting to altered personalities, and having to accept that their loved ones would never be the same again. They had gone. There was grief to be borne along with gratitude. So many prospects she shied away from; even as she stubbornly willed his recovery, she would admit no realistic picture of what that might mean: Luke paraplegic and incontinent, drooling; or dumb with depression; or dull and thick with lethargy. I just want him back, was the drumbeat of her hope, my Luke, the same.
The staff at the home told her about support groups she could join, and she smiled and thanked them and said she’d think about it: a tactic she had learnt over the years from some of her clients. Resist and people become persistent, evangelical; promise to consider a change, a new venture, and they’ll let you be.
People still asked after him: Angie and Sian, Omar, her friends, people she barely knew as well, when she ran into them at the supermarket. And sometimes they asked about the court case, in a hopeful sort of way, as though that would somehow make things better.
You’d see that on the television, the victims’ families talking about justice and how it would allow them to move on. Of course she wanted the people who had hurt Luke to be punished – she remembered arguing with Andrew Barnes, and the depth of her rage that he might mess up the police inquiry – but still she didn’t see how that would change anything for her. It was an ordeal to be got through and on the other side things would continue as they were. For her. For Luke. In limbo.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Andrew
He ran into her at the bank one Saturday. A fine June morning with the sky stretched high and blue and the trees in blossom and the local high street thronging with shoppers, some savouring coffees and pastries in the pavement cafés.
Andrew came through the automatic door, his paying-in book in hand, and almost collided with her. ‘Louise.’
She blinked, nodded. A faint colour crept into her cheeks. He sensed her about to move aside and spoke quickly. ‘How are you? How’s Luke?’
‘He’s the same,’ she said. ‘He’s in a residential place now.’
‘Right.’ He couldn’t think what else to say. But he didn’t want to leave it at that. ‘We could get a coffee,’ he suggested.
She drew her head back, preparing to refuse. ‘Half an hour,’ he said. Almost added ‘please’, but that would sound too desperate.
She hesitated, then gave a little shrug.
‘I’ll just pay this in.’ He held his bank book up.
Two mothers with babies in strollers were just leaving a table outside the deli, so they sat there. It was in full sun, and Louise put her sunglasses on. It made it harder for him to see her expression. ‘About before-’ Andrew wanted to apologize for the night he’d gone to Garrington’s house, but she cut him off.
‘It’s all right. No harm done.’
‘Thanks to you.’
‘How have you been?’ she asked.
He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled heavily. ‘Hard to say. Not great.’ His stomach muscles cramped.
‘It’s not something you get over, is it?’ she said. ‘It will always be with you.’
He swallowed, nodded. He was relieved to be interrupted by the waiter taking their order.
‘And Luke,’ he said, when they had chosen their drinks, ‘the place he’s in, it’s okay?’
‘Fine, yeah. The staff are great.’
‘And the chances of him coming round?’
He saw her lips tighten, the muscle in her jaw tense. She raised a hand to her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ he said; he’d put his foot in it.
‘The other day,’ she made a little huffing sound, ‘someone at work I don’t know well, she said how awful it must be for him, trapped like that.’
Andrew groaned in sympathy.
‘How can I know? How can anyone know?’ Louise said. ‘He might be dancing or he might be screaming.’ She pulled a tissue from her bag, dabbed beneath her glasses.
‘Louise…’
‘The longer it goes on, the more uncertain I feel.’
‘About what?’
‘Whether I’m right.’ Her voice shook. He waited, attentive, while she lit a cigarette, took a drag. He felt the sun warm on his back and his head, but a chill inside. She smoked some more. ‘I can’t talk about it,’ she said brusquely, lowering her head.
‘Yes you can.’
She looked at him.
Their drinks arrived. He stirred his, waiting until they were alone again. ‘It’s only words,’ he told her.
She turned her head away, looked across the street. He watched a bus rumble past and a sports car with the top down, more cars. At the next table a toddler began to shriek.
‘They say there’s nothing going on, no brain activity. No response to pain. The feeding tube, it keeps him alive. If I… stop hoping…’ She could barely string a sentence together.
‘But it’s your decision.’
‘How can I choose that?’ she asked him. She shuddered, her shoulders moving.
Tentatively he reached out, touched the back of her hand. He tried to put himself in her situation, imagine it was Jason. Failed. No knowing what he’d do. And Val. Would they even agree? He squeezed her hand, then withdrew his. He saw her arm was tanned, her face too. She was lovely, dark hair, an attractive face: heart-shaped, almond eyes, a dusting of freckles. He wondered what it might be like to hold her, to kiss her.