Weak at the Knees (20 page)

I stop myself from continuing this train of thought and contemplate a different theory instead. Maybe I’m being punished for breaking my promise. Maybe Amber has been watching me all this time, waiting to see if I’d redeem myself, and when I failed to come good, April 1
^st
was the perfect day to strike. I speak out loud, imagining her in the car, hovering above my right shoulder.  

“Is this your handiwork Ambs? Is this your warped idea of an April Fool’s joke?”

No answer.

“Speak to me Amber.”

No answer.

The tears choose this moment to arrive. Tears of fear, remorse and guilt for being responsible for Gina’s accident and then stooping so low as to blame Amber for it all. It’s time I learned to take responsibility for my own actions. Amber was the gentlest person I knew. She would never engineer anything like this.

“I’m sorry Amber. If you’re here and can hear me, I’m sorry,” I apologise, wiping my cheeks free from tears with my jacket sleeve.

I feel a touch and warmth on my right shoulder. I reach up to meet it with my left hand.

“You are there, aren’t you Amber?” I whisper.

No answer comes, but the touch and warmth remains.

“Amber, everything will turn out okay, won’t it?” I plead.

No answer.

I find Gina in a plain beige and white room. The smell is an overwhelmingly septic blend of bleach and formaldehyde. The décor’s plain and grey, typically institutional. No better or worse than the hospital in Hampstead, London, nine months ago, but equally as depressing. Gina’s lying in bed. They’ve put a loose-fitting blue gown on her and her long blonde Taylor Swift hair is framing her pretty face. She looks angelic and peaceful, like she’s settled for a good, long sleep. She’s attached to drips and monitors, and whilst I might not be a doctor I can spot a heartbeat trace. Gina’s pattern looks steady and very much alive, very much breathing. I relax a little.

“How is she?” I whisper to the nurse who led me here. My mouth is dry and I’m finding it hard to swallow.

“She’s taken quite a big knock to her head. Let me go and get the doctor for you. Wait here.”

I stand still, frozen to the spot, waiting. I’m desperate to hold my friend’s hand, but I’m scared of disturbing something and don’t want to make anything worse. When the doctor finds me ten minutes later, I haven’t moved a muscle. He’s bald, with a trusting round face and I’d guess he was about fifty. He asks if I’m a relative, where Gina comes from and what she does. Then he tells me the good news. She’s suffering from concussion, but the brain scan they did showed no sign of bleeding and the x-ray showed her skull was fracture-free. I’m relieved, but not totally.

“Is there any bad news?”

“Only that we can’t be absolutely sure she hasn’t suffered any brain damage. We can tell from the huge bump on her head that she took quite a hefty knock. All we can do now is to wait and see and hope she comes round.”

I vow that not only will I, from this point onwards, always wear a helmet to ski, but I’m going to make Olivier and Gina do the same. I’ll tell her so when she wakes up. If only she’d worn a helmet, she might not be lying here right now.

“She will come round though, won’t she?” I ask the doctor.

If I will it enough, perhaps I can actually make it happen.

The doctor looks at me paternally, with a comforting smile.

“We’re doing everything that we can do, but I can’t give you any guarantees. Occasionally there are cases where we can’t see anything, but the patient never recovers consciousness. For now, all we can do is to wait and see.”

I press him further. I need more reassurance.

“But you would expect someone like her to wake up, wouldn’t you?”

He places a calm, firm hand on my shoulder.

“Mademoiselle, we must just wait and see. It might help if you talk to her. We recommend it.”

“Can she hear me?”

“We like to think so.”

He motions for me to sit on a chair by the bed, nods and leaves me alone with Gina. I take her floppy hand in mine and stroke it. I want to stroke her hair, but there’s a tube coming out of her nose and I don’t dare risk dislodging it. I decide to speak to her totally normally, keeping my voice neutral and happy, as if nothing’s wrong. I will not cry, even though underneath this calm exterior is a waterfall of emotion ready to explode like a geyser.

“Great April Fools, Gina! I was bored anyway and fancied a change of scenery. You know how much I like this hospital, so thank you for bringing me here. Of course it’s nicer out there than in here, so the sooner you hurry up and open those eyes the sooner we can escape this stench of formaldehyde. It’s a little bit rank.”

I stop to check her heartbeat and to monitor her nostrils. She’s still Sleeping Beauty.

“It’s not snowing quite so hard down here as it is up the mountain, by the way. I think you’re right. The weather is starting to clear. You were just a couple of hours out. Oh, by the way, I found your goggles underneath your bed. I cleaned the flat after you went skiing. It’s spotless now and smells a damn sight nicer than it does in here.”

I’m running out of repartee and pause to regroup and check her vitals again. No change.

“Now, I promise you,” I continue, “I’m never going to say I told you so, but I’ll bet you’ll tell me that I’m right, that it is hard to see when it’s snowing without wearing goggles, especially if you’re skiing with snow falling into your face.”

I suddenly feel racked with yet more guilt and my eyes start welling up. If only I’d forced my goggles onto her and had forbid her to go skiing without them. I should have locked the front door until she put them on and made her promise faithfully not to take them off. Hindsight, however, is a wonderful thing.

“Alexandre told me he’s going to come by later, when he’s finished work. It would be great if we could arrange a surprise for him, like you sitting up with your eyes wide open, gabbling away. That would be good, wouldn’t it?”

Still she sleeps.

I stroke her hand and then dare to gently push her hair from her face.

“It’s ok Gina. We’ll try again later.”

*****

For hours I don’t move. I try to keep talking, to keep her mind active. It’s hard to speak about nothing in particular for hours on end, but I don’t do badly. I should try to find out Gina’s parents’ number, to let them know what’s happening, but I keep putting it off. It’s naughty, I know, but I just keep hoping that she’ll wake up soon so that I’ll be able to spare them the agony of seeing their daughter like this.

I feel so alone. This time there’s no Mrs Slater even for company. I’m desperate to call Olivier, but have, out of superstition, convinced myself that if I do, Gina will die. I am the reason Gina is here and I am being punished for breaking my promise and being in an adulterous relationship. If I ring him and Gina never wakes, the responsibility will lie at my feet. I am praying that by not picking up the phone, the opposite will happen. If I can at long last resist and say no, perhaps something good can come out of it.

In my scary isolation, I find myself once more thinking about turning to God. I close my eyes, put my head in my hands and rest my elbows on the bed, waiting for the prayers, the words I want to say, to come. But they don’t. No matter how hard I strain, I just can’t do it. God didn’t help me last time. Why on earth do I think that he’ll be on my side again now?

*****

An hour later, I’m still keeping my vigil when I feel a hand, warmth on my right shoulder.

“Amber?” I whisper, raising my fingers to meet her invisible touch. I touch real flesh and bone and reel in shock as I turn round. It’s Michel, with Alexandre standing next to him, staring at Gina morosely. I want him to not look so sad. He’s a mountain rescuer. He must have seen a hundred unconscious people in his time. He must know the difference between somebody who looks like they will or won’t wake up. He must be able to tell that Gina is definitely going to come round. So why is he looking so crestfallen? I look away. His expression is scaring me. I get up and tell him to take the chair. Then Michel and I leave the room and hover in the corridor outside.

“How is she? Michel asks.

I shrug.

“Apparently, all we can do is to wait and see. The doctor said the scans had shown no fracture or bleeding, which is good. But Michel, how long does it normally take somebody to come round after a fall?”

“Normally not long, one or two hours. Sometimes it takes longer and sometimes they never wake up.”

I want to ask what his sixth sense tells him. I know he’ll have one. Mountain people always do. They’re more in touch with nature, more aware. Their bodies are barometers. Sore shoulders might mean a storm’s a-brewing. A bad back might mean a good dump of snow is on its way. Michel’s sure to have a feeling in his bones, but I dare not ask, in case his forecast is bad.

“Michel, do you mind, I’m just going to step outside for some fresh air. I’ve been here for over five hours.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No, it’s fine. You wait here.”

I walk down the corridor, head through the automatic doors and lean against the outside wall. It’s still snowing, though not as heavily. It’s freezing. I wiggle my fingers to get their circulation moving and then switch on my mobile. The first call I make is to Gina’s teachers, to explain what’s happened. Then I call mine. Everyone tells me not to worry, that they’re all fine and can look after themselves. I hang up, fill my lungs full of air and exhale slowly. Then I make a second call. To Lorraine, to tell her what’s happened and to ask her to call Gina’s family and to give them my mobile number in case they might want to contact me. I hang up, relieved to have finally done the right thing, and then my phone beeps. It’s a text message. Without thinking, I flip my phone open and press the arrow to read it. It’s from Olivier. ‘Ça va – ou t’es?’

It makes me feel better to know that he’s out there, caring. I tap out my response. ‘At hospital. Gina v. bad. Need u.’ I hesitate, finger hovering above the send button and then take a deep breath. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I’m not going to reply. I’m going to be strong and do this alone. I will not let Gina or myself down. I flip my phone shut and head back inside.

*****

At 10pm Michel and Alexandre leave, telling me to do the same and that the hospital will phone should anything change. I tell them to go ahead, that I’d like to stay just a little while longer. Actually, I’ve got no intention of leaving at all. I’m staying right here until Gina wakes up. I take her hand in mine and stroke it gently. She’s still sleeping and still looks peaceful. She hasn’t moved since I got here. Not one eyelid flicker; not one twitch.

“It’s just you and me Gina,” I begin again. Not that I don’t like your boyfriend, but we’re a good team you and I. I like it when it’s just the two of us. Don’t you?” I look at my watch. “Christ, you must have been here for more than ten hours. Aren’t you getting bored of this place yet?” I sniff. “It still smells, but not as bad as the food trolley they bought around. And I’d imagined French hospital food would be infinitely superior to the NHS.”

I yawn and check the wavering line of Gina’s heartbeat trace up on the monitor and the numbers up in the right hand corner. 68 bpm… 66 bpm…  

“While we’re on the subject of food, I might as well tell you that your aniseed carrot dish was absolutely one of the foulest things I’ve ever tasted. You’re an even worse cook than I am!”

I’m hoping my insult will illicit some response and then, of course, I’ll take it back, but Gina doesn’t respond. I’m beginning to feel like an overnight talk radio presenter, desperate to fill airtime with words. It’s not easy to keep up the monologue. 

“It’s been a long day Gina. I’m getting tired. Though not as tired as you by the looks of things. You must have been knackered to be able to carry on sleeping this long. I tell you what I could really do with right now. I’d like to lie back in a bath full of bubbles, with a nice big glass of Kir. Wouldn’t that be nice? It was cruel not giving us a bath in our flat. I think that’s what I’ve missed more than anything - having a bath, lighting a few candles and lying under a fluffy cloud of bubbles. They’ve got a bath here. I saw it. It’s just down the corridor. I bet they’d let you have one, but here’s the thing. You’ve got to wake up first to get the full benefit.

A yawn comes and I don’t even bother to stifle it. And after that one comes a second, hot on its heels, my mouth gaping open wide enough to accommodate a grapefruit. I’m exhausted, emotionally and physically. I put my head in my hands, lean over the bed and rub my closed eyes. I hear a noise, like somebody’s trying to speak, to whisper. Excited, I look up, but Gina’s nostrils, her expression, her chest rise and her electronic heartbeat line are all unaltered. Disappointed, I cradle my head in my arms, close my eyes and toy with the idea of having a nap.