on for customers – and it would be the last time she could remember her husband having any agency of his own.
At just after 5 p.m., she received the call.
‘Mrs Dixit?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, uncertainly. Why didn’t people ever announce who they were anymore?
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news about your husband,’ the unknown person said. A woman.
Already Mrs Dixit’s brain started to mangle the message. She reflected afterwards it was probably an act of self-preservation. A way for the mind to buy more time to process.
‘My husband’s at work,’ she garbled, ‘but you can leave him a message.’
She already knew that she was responding nonsensically – on some level, she understood.
‘No, it’s about your husband. He’s been in a car accident.’
She didn’t say anything for some time.
‘Mrs Dixit?’
‘Who is this, please?’ she asked, finding her voice at last. There was a slight tone to it now, not fear, but annoyance. Because surely this was a mistake, or a ruse, or both?
‘It’s Nurse Bletchley, at Chomley hospital. Your husband is in a critical condition. Is there someone who you can ask to help you get here?’
Mrs Dixit considered this question. Was there someone? Not the neighbour, Mrs Rampersad, that was for sure. Mr Dixit would hate her getting involved in his business. Mrs Dixit could ring her sister perhaps, but wasn’t she away?
‘I’ll take a taxi,’ Mrs Dixit replied, and on saying the t-word, she thought of Mr Dixit’s polished black cab, pulling out of the garage, sliding away from her, disappearing down the street. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away.
‘Good,’ said the voice on the phone. Nurse something. ‘Come straight away.’
The phone went silent. Mrs Dixit held it by her side for a few moments, and then placed it on the cradle. When she picked it up again, she dialled a number from memory.
Cliff answered immediately, his gruff smoker’s voice reassuring.
‘Chomley Taxis. Pick-up address?’
‘Cliff, it’s Wendy.’
‘Alright, Wendy? You want me to pass you through?’
‘No, Cliff, there’s been an accident.’
‘I’m sorry. You want me to let Naveem know? Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘It’s his accident.’ She wondered why he didn’t already know. Surely, they had radios, someone would have called it in? ‘I need a taxi, Cliff. Naveem’s in hospital.’
‘Oh, Wendy. That’s why he’s not been in my ear! I thought he was having a kip! I’m putting the word out to the other drivers. Someone will be right over. Is there anything I can do? Do you want me to come to the hospital?’
‘No – thank you – the taxi is perfect,’ Mrs Dixit replied, and laughed, because she felt she was being unnecessarily rude to Cliff, but couldn’t help it.
‘Of course. There’s someone five minutes away.’
After thanking him, she put the phone down, and thought, five minutes? Five minutes to do what? Pack some clothes perhaps. What had the nurse said? What condition was he in? She cradled her face with her hands and let out an annoyed ‘huh’ sound, but it was much more animalistic than she was prepared for, more of a Wilhelm scream, and that amount of noise from her small person was unnerving. She stood, staring at the wall, and tried to sense what she should do next. Go back to sleep, she realised. Curl back into bed. To wake refreshed, with everything resolved or undone.
A taxi beeped, and for a second Mrs Dixit imagined she’d been given God’s pardon, or she’d daydreamed the nurse calling after all, but when she hurried to the window, she could see it was not Mr Dixit waiting in her driveway of course, but some unknown driver, and the harsh reality set in anew.
Mr Dixit was asleep. That’s what it looked like at least. He always slept on his back, and although he rarely snored, he grumbled. Now, he was silent. There was only the beep of the machine nearby, keeping him alive.
‘How long does a coma last?’ Mrs Dixit asked, once the doctor had gone.
‘Days, weeks, months?’ the nurse said with a shrug, although her eyes were very kind.
‘But on average?’
‘They can still hear everything, you know,’ the nurse replied, sidestepping the question. They both watched Mr Dixit, as if they would catch him eavesdropping. ‘It’s important you talk to him on your visits.’
‘About what?’
‘Whatever you like. What you’ve been up to? Keep him included. Helps with recovery.’
Mrs Dixit mulled this over. She had a habit of grinding her teeth when she concentrated; ‘bruxism’, it was called.
‘Some people bring a stereo,’ said the nurse.