A Place of Hope (4 page)

He seemed to have taken over his aunt’s house without anyone’s permission! It wasn’t Jane’s business to interfere, but she felt sorry for Emily Mattison, she really did.

The next time Emily woke, she felt more herself. There was no beeping apparatus beside the bed and she was hungry. She eyed the tube and stand, wondering what was being dripped into her arm, because she felt very dopey.

The nurse she’d seen before came in.

‘Good morning. How are you feeling today, Emily?’

‘Better. Hungry.’

‘That’s good. I’ll get you a light breakfast.’

‘How long . . . here?’ To her dismay, Emily could only speak in short bursts.

‘You’ve been here for two weeks.’

‘Two!’ Emily swallowed hard. ‘What’s wrong . . . with me?’

‘You fell down some stairs and hit your head. You were in a coma for a few days, but you’re recovering well.’

‘Can’t . . . speak prop’ly.’

‘That’s normal. Your brain’s still getting used to being awake. Your speech will gradually improve.’

‘How long . . . stay here?’

‘The doctor will discuss that after he’s examined you. Let me make you more comfortable then we’ll get some food into you.’

Emily let them help her, obediently swallowing some sloppy porridge. When she was on her own, she tried to practise speaking and moving parts of her body, even if it was only a little bit. She was terrified of remaining like this. Her voice was a toneless monotone, not sounding at all like her, and she couldn’t think clearly.

But she could remember George’s visit. Oh, yes. And was furious every time she thought of him living in her house. Only she was helpless at the moment to get him out. He might have taken over his mother’s life – and finances – but he wasn’t going to take over hers.

A doctor came in, looking tired. He asked some simple questions and assured her she was making a good recovery, so she repeated the important question.

‘How long . . . stay here?’

‘Not long. We’ll transfer you to a rehabilitation unit soon.’

‘How long . . . there?’

‘With head injuries, there are no hard and fast rules, so I can’t be specific. A few weeks, probably.’

The thought of that horrified her. ‘No. Go home. Go
home
.’

‘You couldn’t cope, Miss Mattison.’

‘Ms.’ She hated being called Miss. It reminded her of school and spinster teachers. She always made a point of being addressed as Ms.

His voice was impatient. ‘Does that matter now?’ He glanced down at her notes. ‘Your nephew is looking after things for you, so you have nothing to worry about. Just concentrate on getting better.’

‘Don’t want George . . . in my house.’ But the words came out garbled and the doctor was already turning away.

She wished her sister would come to see her. She knew Liz cared about her. George didn’t seem to care about anyone except himself, and to a lesser extent, his wife. He’d always been money-hungry and would have pounced on the opportunity to get free accommodation at Emily’s house, she was sure. He’d probably poke through her things, but at least he wouldn’t damage her possessions.

She sighed and closed her eyes. It was so hard to think clearly and she got tired very quickly. She loathed feeling helpless, wanted her mind to be sharp and active again.

One thing she was determined about. She wasn’t going to stay in hospital for one day longer than necessary. She’d always been independent and that wasn’t going to change now.

The doctor went on to see the sister. ‘I think we ought to send Miss Mattison to the geriatric rehabilitation unit.’

‘She’s not all that old,’ Jane protested.

‘No, but the nephew said she was showing signs of early dementia before this happened.’

‘Ms Mattison seems to me to be thinking as clearly as can be expected at this stage of her recovery.’

‘She’s got you calling her Ms as well, has she?’ he said sourly.

‘She certainly has. It’s what she prefers.’ She scowled at him. ‘And it’s what I prefer too, actually.’

He sighed and ignored that, his eyes challenging her to protest again as he continued, ‘But we don’t know Miss Mattison, do we, and the nephew does? Besides, the rehab unit is overflowing. She’s the second patient I’ve had to send to geriatric care this month. There was a fellow beaten up so badly he’s lost his memory.’

You didn’t argue with a busy doctor, not unless you were stupid. And this one wasn’t the most communicative of men at the best of times, especially with women.

Jane sighed, but began to make arrangements as instructed. Once patients left your care, you were not responsible for them. And it was unprofessional to care for some more than others.

But she wasn’t happy about the situation, or the way they were treating Emily Mattison. And she knew the sister of the geriatric unit, didn’t envy Emily being in care there. Pauline had a ‘keep them quiet at all costs’ attitude.

You read about it in books, but you never expected to lose your memory. He was way out of it with painkillers when he first regained consciousness. He seemed to have been in an accident. All he could mutter when they asked his name was that he couldn’t remember.

He woke up a couple of mornings later and they asked him if he’d remembered anything more. He
knew
somehow that he was called Chad, and told them that, but could give them no reason for this, let alone his surname. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Post-traumatic amnesia,’ the nurse said briskly. ‘They’re trying to find out who you are, but no one of your age has been reported missing.’

‘Will my memories come back?’

‘No one can tell, I’m afraid.’

The next day he was more alert and they doled out some more information about his case. Apparently he’d been featured in the local paper but no one had come forward to identify him. They couldn’t use a photo, because his face had been too battered and bruised.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it, desperate to find himself. Did he have no family at all? And where were his possessions?

‘Your pockets were empty,’ the nurse named Jackson told him.

‘Had I been robbed?’

Jackson could only shrug. ‘Who knows? Concentrate on getting better and worry about the rest later.’

All right for someone else to say that. It was terrifying to lose your memory, your very identity. And you felt so helpless.

Three days later they told Emily they were transferring her to the rehab unit, taking her by ambulance because it was in a separate building on the far side of the campus. She was still not speaking normally but she was thinking more clearly each day, and thank goodness she was starting to walk, or rather, shuffle along.

They wouldn’t let her walk without someone in attendance, though, and it still took a conscious effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

It was hugely frustrating and she felt as if she was going mad from boredom.

In the new unit, she found herself sharing a room with an old woman who’d suffered a major stroke, and wondered why they’d sent the poor thing here for rehab, when it seemed clear even to Emily that her companion was not likely to recover.

The room was depressing, looking out on to a blank wall. And sharing with someone who wasn’t really conscious made Emily want to run for her life – only she couldn’t even walk properly.

The nurse in charge of the unit introduced herself as Sister Pauline. She was brisk and efficient but not given to chatting with patients, as Jane had done, or even listening to them properly. She talked loudly and slowly, treating all her patients like halfwits.

When Emily was alone – well, as alone as you could be in a hospital – she felt tears trickling down her face.

‘Emily? Is something wrong?’

She turned to see another nurse, a man this time, dark-skinned, with a lovely smile. Then something she’d seen from the ambulance came back to her, something which had puzzled her. ‘What is this place called, please?’

‘The Geriatric Care Unit.’

‘I’m not a geriatric! I’m not even sixty.’

‘But you do need rehabilitation and as they were short of beds in the main rehab unit, they sent you here. You’re not the only one.’ He gestured towards a man sitting slumped in a wheelchair in the day room, which was just opposite Emily’s room.

‘Still not right,’ she grumbled.

‘Then we’ll have to work hard and get you home quickly. My name’s Jackson, by the way. That’s my first name. I’m a specialist rehab nurse. Do you feel up to trying a few things now, so that I can start to assess your needs?’

‘Yes. Please, yes. Work hard.’

‘That’s the right attitude.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re already doing well, Emily, and I promise you, I’m not making that up. Someone wrote on your notes that you’re speaking better and in less of a monotone, and starting to move more naturally.’

‘Am I . . . sedated?’

He hesitated. ‘Just a little.’

‘Don’t want it. Hate feeling dopey.’

‘Only for a day or two longer, hmm?’

Not if she could help it. If they didn’t pull that drip out soon, she was going to rip it out herself.

But she was tired again, dammit, so when Jackson had finished with her, she gave in and closed her eyes for a little rest.

George came to visit Emily at the new unit the next day. She’d just finished her exercises and been looking forward to a rest when he marched up to the bed. He began talking to her loudly and slowly, in the same patronizing tone as Sister Pauline.

Oh, how she hated that tone of voice! Being older didn’t automatically equate to losing your wits.

‘Don’t worry about your house, Auntie dear. Marcia and I are keeping things going. She loves gardening and she’ll soon get the place in order.’

Auntie dear!
He’d hardly been near her for years, had just sent printed Christmas cards with a scrawl for a signature and no message.

‘Don’t want you . . . in my house . . . George.’

He laughed as if she were a silly child. ‘You’re not thinking straight, Auntie. Only to be expected. You needed someone to look after the place. It was very run down, and too much for you to manage at your age, anyway.’

‘Not necessary. My neighbour can . . . keep an eye on things . . . till I get back.’

‘Mrs Fenwick? She’s had to go away. An illness in the family. I forget who, but someone close to her. No, you definitely need our help and we’re happy to give it.’

She stared at him. He’d just told her an outright lie. Rachel next door didn’t have any close family in England because her only son had emigrated to Australia a couple of years ago. She was very upset about that.

But Emily couldn’t think how to get George out of her house at the moment, because the sister in charge of this unit refused even to discuss it. She kept insisting that Emily wasn’t thinking clearly yet and should be glad there was someone willing to look after her house.

Sister Pauline’s motto seemed to be to keep the patients under firm control and above all quiet. And physically Emily was reasonably well looked after, she had to admit. But she was going mad from boredom.

She didn’t have much to watch, except for the man in the day room.

He was watching her, too. He waved at her every morning and smiled sometimes. But when the nurses came round, he slumped in his wheelchair and said very little. This puzzled Emily.

Once they took the drip out, she asked what the tablet they gave her morning and evening was.

‘It’s necessary for your recovery. If you don’t take it, we’ll have to put the drip back.’

Emily looked at the sister’s determined face and put the tablet in her mouth, swallowing some water but keeping the tablet in the side of her mouth.

As soon as she was alone, she spat it out. As she did this, she looked up and saw the man raise one thumb to her, a signal that said he approved of what she was doing. Strange.

She started feeling less dopey as the day passed, but was getting angry now. How dare they continue to sedate her like this?

The following day she asked if anyone had seen her handbag.

‘I’ll release it to you tomorrow, if you maintain progress,’ Sister said.

The following day Emily got it back, minus her purse and mobile phone, so asked about them.

‘Oh, your nephew took those, to keep them safe. Very wise, too.’

So Emily asked George to return them and he refused point blank. She wanted to throw a tantrum – oh, she’d have loved to do that – but kept her emotions tightly bottled up. She wasn’t going to give them any excuse for assuming she was hysterical and sedating her more strongly.

If it hadn’t been for Jackson, she didn’t know what she’d have done. He came and chatted to her, switched on the TV, and went through some gentle exercises with her several times a day.

The man in the day room was now starting to get up and walk around, but only when the nurses weren’t in the vicinity. When he saw Emily watching him, he put one finger to his lips and she nodded to show she understood.

One day Jackson brought a magazine for her to read, but that made her weep, because the words might have been gibberish, for all the black squiggles meant.

He took Emily’s hand. ‘It’s normal to have trouble reading for a while after a coma. I did warn you just to let your eyes get used to looking at pictures. Why don’t you watch TV instead? Your nephew has paid for it for you.’

Reluctantly. Only when she’d threatened to create a fuss. It was her money, not his.

After George left her, she’d seen his reflection in the glass windows of the day room. He’d stopped to talk to Pauline in the corridor, then had gone into her office and they’d shut the door. Why? What had they been saying about her?

She realized her mind had wandered off and turned back to Jackson. ‘Sorry. I was just remembering something.’

‘I was saying that your body is still recovering, which includes your eyesight and neural connections. Give it time. You’re doing really well, I promise you, unlike your poor roommate.’

They wheeled the barely conscious woman away that very evening, murmuring about ‘intensive care’. But Emily had seen the look of death before. She wasn’t frightened of it, but she damned well wasn’t going down that track herself. She had a lot of things she wanted to do with her life now that she’d taken early retirement. She’d more than earned it.