he stalked off. He led me down the corridor past several curtained bays, each one of them occupied. At the furthest one he stopped and waited. I was several paces behind him, breathless with the exertion even though we’d only walked a hundred yards or so.
‘She had a fall at home, I understand?’
‘Her neighbour rang me. I don’t know what happened.’
‘Just in here.’ He pulled at the curtain and stood aside to let me in. Mum was on a trolley, equipment and tubes all over her.
‘Oh, Mum!’ I said. I couldn’t help it.
Behind me, Jonathan Lamb’s pager made a bleeping noise. ‘I’ll – er – I’ll be back in one second, and we can talk further. Have a seat.’
I lifted Mum’s hand, heavy, hot, from the sheet that covered her. She was wearing a hospital gown. I should have brought her a nightie, I thought; she’d hate that. It was clearly too small for her. ‘Mum?’
There was no response to the squeeze I gave her fingers. Nothing.
I stood there holding her hand for what felt like a long time. My back was hurting standing like this, leaning over, and it was only when that dull ache became too much that I let go of her hand and sat on the chair next to the trolley. I tried to pull it closer but it was heavy. I found a tissue in my bag and wiped my eyes, blew my nose. I couldn’t quite believe this was happening. It felt so unreal.
There was a clock on the wall above my head, and I twisted to look at it, watching the minutes tick past. It was nearly one. If it got to half-past one I’d go and find someone.
At twenty past, I stood up and stretched. Then the curtain twitched aside and Jonathan Lamb was back, this time with a nurse. She gave me a warm, sympathetic smile. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Really sorry about the delay,’ Jonathan Lamb said. ‘Please have a seat.’
I did as I was told, and the doctor disappeared again and came back a moment later with two stacked plastic chairs. He unstacked them, scraping them noisily on the linoleum. He sat down. The nurse sat down. It felt bizarrely like an interview.
He looked at the cardboard folder, at the notes, and started talking. I heard the first words he said – ‘It’s very bad news, I’m afraid…’ – and didn’t hear very much after that at all. A stroke – although he had a different word for it – CVA? Cerebrovascular accident, that was it. It made it sound like a mistake, as if one or other of us could have done something to stop it. The reason they had kept me waiting was that they were waiting for scan results.
‘She’d had a chest infection recently?’
‘What? Oh – well, it was a while ago now. She was on antibiotics.’
‘It’s quite common for this to happen, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.’
I thought I’d missed the bit where he said what was going to happen to her. ‘She’ll get better? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, I’m afraid she won’t get better. All we can do now is make her as comfortable as possible.’
I stared at him. Then I looked at the nurse.
‘Annabel, is there anyone I can phone for you? Someone to be with you?’
‘No,’ I said.
The doctor was looking uncomfortable. I wondered briefly how many times he’d given bad news to a relative.
‘But – but – she’s breathing, isn’t she? I don’t understand.’ I looked at the trolley, at my mother on it, not moving, but with the oxygen mask over her face, unquestionably still breathing. Still very definitely alive.
‘She’s breathing, but I’m afraid the scan shows conclusively that there is no chance of recovery. It’s just a matter of time. I’m so very sorry.’
It was the nurse that spoke next, her voice quiet. ‘We’re arranging to get her transferred to the Stroke Unit upstairs; hopefully you won’t need to wait much longer. It’s much more comfortable up there.’
The doctor went. I didn’t know what to say to the nurse, so I just looked at her forlornly. I wondered if she was used to people coming in here, spaced out from having been woken by some trauma in the middle of the night.
‘She can probably hear you if you want to talk to her,’ she said gently.
I stood up again, and pulled the plastic chair that Jonathan Lamb had vacated over to the trolley. I took hold of Mum’s hand. It