‘Bossa nova,’ Mrs Dixit replied, flatly, and then remembered her husband was possibly listening. ‘Brazilian music from the fifties and sixties. He’s a collector,’ she announced, more brightly. ‘All his albums are on vinyl though.’
‘Maybe you could play him a selection on your phone? Make a playlist?’
‘I don’t think he’d like that. Too tinny. He’s very particular about sound quality.’
The nurse smiled professionally. She’d spent enough time on this patient today.
‘Can I ask one more thing?’ Mrs Dixit touched her forehead.
‘Of course.’
‘What am I supposed… to do?’ The nurse gave her a quizzical look. ‘I mean, is there anything I can actually do? Other than wait? There must be something?’
The nurse patted Mrs Dixit on her shoulder.
‘Stay strong, for his sake.’
‘How?’
The nurse smiled again, one that signalled the imminent termination of their interaction.
‘Imagine what your husband would do if it was you lying there,’ she said, squeezing Mrs Dixit’s shoulder as she left.
He’d wait too, she supposed. And probably check on his eBay bids.
Mrs Dixit ran a bath when she returned home. It was too hot initially, so she left it to cool.
I should call his mother, she thought, and normally the idea would make her recoil. Now though, she felt nothing.
Her own parents had been gone almost a decade, dying three months apart, her father from prostate cancer, and her mother, it seemed, from a lack of will to carry on alone. Not that Mrs Dixit had ever been close to them. She quietly blamed them for her inherent shyness and standoffishness – they seemed critical of everything she did, never accepting her marriage, and blatantly favoured her younger sister, keeping a cool distance from their eldest daughter right up to their deaths. It was one of the things which had bonded Mrs Dixit to her future husband, both having unfavourable parents.
Mrs Dixit dialled the number, noticing the absence of emotion. No anxiety at the dial tone. When a woman’s voice picked up, her heart didn’t even beat faster.
‘Naveem’s in hospital.’
There was a pause.
‘I’m sorry, we are very busy,’ the other Mrs Dixit said, and hung up.
Mrs Dixit put the phone down again and felt a surge of anger flowing up from her stomach, rushing through the arm still holding the phone, until she picked it up again and punched the redial button.
‘A lorry hit him,’ she said, more loudly this time. ‘He has a head injury. He’s in a coma.’
There was another pause.
‘Which hospital?’
‘Chomley.’
The phone went dead.
The bath was stone cold when Mrs Dixit remembered it, so she let out the water. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.
1 day since the accident
In the morning, she showered and ate some toast. The bread caught in the rungs of the toaster, smoking and blackening, and the smoke alarm went off. Soon, there was the inevitable knock on the front door.
‘I heard a wailin’’ Mrs Rampersad said, one hand on the door frame for support. ‘Where’s what’s-his-chops then?’
‘He’s away,’ Mrs Dixit replied, not untruthfully, unready yet to reveal the true situation.
‘Away, huh?’ Mrs Rampersad raised her eyebrow. ‘Where’d he go then?’ She uttered, in a faux whisper, ‘Did he leave you?’
Mrs Dixit frowned away this absurd suggestion.
‘He’s in the hospital,’ she replied, reactively.
Mrs Rampersad nodded, and Mrs Dixit wondered if she’d heard her properly.
‘In a coma,’ she added.
More nodding.
‘He had bleeding on his brain, it’s very serious.’
Nod, nod.
‘They’re not sure when he will be conscious again.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Mrs Rampersad said. ‘Terrible, these comas. Agnes Delores from church, her husband was in a coma too. Woke up lying on his secretary with his trousers down, a medical miracle!’ She laughed, a dry, throaty laugh. ‘If your husband’s left you, there’s no need to make up stories. Rejoice, I say.’
Mrs Dixit felt frustration prickle on her skin.
‘My husband is in a critical condition. I have to visit him. Now. In fact, would you be so kind as to drive me to the hospital?’
It seemed the only way to make her understand the truth.
On the journey, Mrs Dixit realised her mistake.
‘He can only have one visitor at a time,’ she lied. It was brighter today, still overcast, but the clouds didn’t seem to hang as ominously low.
Mrs Rampersad shrugged.
‘I have a sudoku.’
Mrs Dixit sat next to his bed. His face looked serene, albeit slightly gormless. His eyelid twitched and for a moment she imagined he’d open his eyes. Mrs Dixit wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t feel ready. She would have worn nicer clothes for one. The shoes