Six Months to Get a Life (21 page)

The long road to recovery has started. Imogen phoned me first thing this morning and gave me the good news. I rushed straight over to the hospital. I got to the intensive care ward and received the shock of my life when I saw an empty space where Amy’s bed had been. A nurse soon put me straight, telling me she had been moved out of the intensive care ward and into a high dependency neurology ward upstairs. I guess Amy not being in intensive care now must be a good sign.

When I found the right ward, I joined Imogen in another sterile waiting area.

There are no miracles in life. Amy didn’t smile at me, sit up and give me a hug as soon as I walked in to her room. But she did blink a few times with her right eye. Her left eye is still swollen and covered. Holding her hand felt different. It sounds stupid but it felt like she was more ‘there’ than she was yesterday. Her fingers moved, not to the extent that they gripped mine or anything, but I could feel movement.

As the day wore on, blinks graduated to attempts at smiles. Finger movement moved on to positive gripping and Amy began to move her head, albeit painfully and slowly. She definitely recognised us all. The initial signs are that she hasn’t suffered any catastrophic brain damage.

I was about to leave the hospital for the day, feeling tired but slightly more chipper now that Amy is noticeably on the mend, when a nurse told me there were two police officers in the hospital’s main reception area waiting to talk to Imogen and me. On the way down to find them, we speculated that they had come to give us news of who had knocked Amy down. It turned out, though, that they wanted to discover information rather than impart it.

The two officers, a Sergeant Atkinson and his sidekick PC Reynolds, wanted to talk to me first. I sat with them answering their questions for about ten minutes. They were pleasant and genial with me but it all felt a bit odd. Until that point I had assumed that some idiot had run Amy down through a simple lack of attention to their driving. From the nature of their questions though, it sounded as though the police had other ideas. At one point, they asked me where I was at the time of the accident.

‘Look, what the bloody hell is going on here?’ I asked. ‘I thought Amy was knocked down by some drunk who failed to stop.’

‘She probably was,’ Sgt. Atkinson agreed, ‘but we wouldn’t be doing our jobs properly if we didn’t look in to all the options, would we?’

So I told them about that Friday night, how Amy and I had met up in Wimbledon but subsequently gone our separate ways, my way being to the 164 bus stop and back to my flat.

‘Did you have an argument that night?’ the PC asked.

‘No.’ Strictly speaking, I wouldn’t classify our discussion as an argument.

‘Do you know whether Amy had any enemies?’ I felt like I was in the middle of a Mark Billingham novel and that any minute, Tom Thorne would grab me by the lapels (not that I had a jacket on) and try and shake a confession out of me.

‘I don’t know her friends, let alone her enemies,’ I replied. I can’t imagine that Amy would have any enemies. Who would want to run her down? That sort of thing just doesn’t happen to ordinary people, does it?

Sitting back at my flat having the regulation Scotch before bed, I am totally relieved that Amy isn’t going to die on us. I won’t relax though until I have heard her speak, until I have heard her laugh.

As well as worrying about Amy’s health, I have now started thinking about the hit and run. No matter how much I think about it, I can’t believe that this can be anything other than a tragic accident. I guess the police are right to pursue all options but on this occasion they must be barking up the wrong tree. Imogen agreed. Her verdict was that the police were just covering their arses.

Amy is now able to talk. She was slurring her words a bit yesterday but even that has cleared up today. She is up and about but she is still unsteady, wobbly on her feet. She is still a bit confused too. She doesn’t remember anything from around the time she passed out. I have exhibited a few of these symptoms after a good night out.

The first thing she said to me when I got to the hospital yesterday afternoon was, ‘You need a shave.’ I was impressed that she could see that much, what with one eye bandaged up and the other like an island in the centre of bruised flesh. Maybe she felt my stubble when I kissed her.

She hasn’t got her head around her eyesight issue yet. The doctors haven’t totally written off her left eye but their brows furrow whenever they look under the bandage. An eye specialist is coming to see her tomorrow.

Rather than her eye issue, Amy seems totally preoccupied with the amount of scarring she will be left with once the bruising subsides and the remaining bandages are removed. The first question she asks any medical professional who comes in to see her is, ‘How are my cuts healing up?’

I am not proud of myself but her cuts and scarring concern me too. I know the arguments. Beauty is only skin deep, it’s the person inside that matters. That’s easy to say but it’s
much harder to feel. The left side of her face is still one giant black, brown and green bruise with big welts of scratched skin running from under her ear, across her cheek to her nose. I can’t help worrying that Amy won’t ever fully recover her former unblemished skin, gorgeous eyes and smile.

Imogen saw me looking at Amy. A bit later when I went to grab a sandwich from the hospital canteen, she asked if she could join me. I have spent countless hours with Amy’s mother over the past few days. We have got on well enough but our focus hasn’t been on each other. I haven’t discovered much about Imogen and she doesn’t know much about me. Imogen had obviously decided that it was high time we put an end to that state of affairs.

‘What are your intentions, Graham?’ she asked, just as I was taking my first bite out of my cheese and cucumber sandwich in the noisy canteen. It struck me as quite an old fashioned question, quite formal. But also quite pertinent.

What are my intentions? I do want a long term future with Amy. In my mind at least, our relationship has already exceeded the ‘casual’ tag because of the extent of my feelings for Amy. I am not saying I necessarily want to marry her. I am not sure I will ever be the marrying type again. But I catch myself thinking of a future in which Amy and I are growing old together, dine at posh restaurants, take trips to the theatre and receive regular house-calls from our adult children, possibly with their own children in tow. I haven’t got anywhere near discussing any of this with Amy. I am really not sure if she feels the same, but I am certainly hoping she does.

I shared these thoughts with Imogen. She smiled but needed more convincing. ‘I saw the way you were looking at her earlier. I know what you must be thinking. Amy isn’t looking her best at the moment and she is probably not going to regain the sight in her eye. Are you really going to
stand by her? Are you going to be there for her when she’s looking in the mirror and sobbing? Are you going to help her with Lucy? Are you going to help her through the nightmares about the accident? What I am asking you, Graham, is do you love my daughter as much as I do?’

I hesitated before answering. It isn’t that I am worried about commitment. I’m not. It isn’t that I don’t love Amy. I do. Do I? I do. Yes, I do. I love Amy. I am in love with her. I am, though, still trying to get my head around the looks thing and any other long-term damage that Amy might have suffered. My ex would tell you that I am a rubbish nursemaid. And to be fair, on this point she would be right. She always took on that role in our marital home.

Imogen seized upon my hesitation. ‘If you aren’t sure, Graham, then just leave us in peace. Go now. Let me support my daughter. She has been hurt before by Stuart, she is physically hurting now and I don’t want her to have to go through anything else that upsets her.’

Amy’s mum sat there, staring intently at me, almost challenging me to get up and walk out of her daughter’s life. I didn’t go. I remained firmly planted to my seat and ate the rest of my sandwich in silence.

Imogen and I continued to interact as the afternoon wore on. She isn’t giving me the cold shoulder or anything like that but she is quite a formidable woman. She knows I am wrestling with my emotions. She has made it clear that she doesn’t want any half-arsed commitment. She wants me to either get with the programme or get lost.

I need to sort my head out.

Exactly a week after the accident, the doctors have confirmed that Amy will never be able to see out of her left eye again. They spelt out all the technical details but we couldn’t take them in. They have told us that all they can do is perform cosmetic surgery that will reduce the visual impact of Amy’s injuries to her eye and eye socket. In other words they can improve what her eye looks like but not what it looks at.

Over the last day or two, Amy has begun to grasp the significance of this news. This afternoon, after the doctors had left us to ourselves, she reeled off a list of things she wouldn’t be able to do again. Uppermost on Amy’s mind was driving, followed closely by skiing. She seems such a capable person. The thought of not being able to do things, of being clumsy and needing help, terrifies her. Imogen told me she had never seen Amy so down before.

I took Jack and Sean out for a pizza this evening. I haven’t seen much of Sean lately. He is having his plaster removed on Monday. I gave them both an update on Amy’s condition. When I told them about Amy’s eye, Sean put his hand over his left eye and looked around.

‘You can still see everything with one eye, dad. You just have to look a bit harder.’ I hadn’t really thought of it like
that. It isn’t as though Amy will only be able to see half as much now as she could before the accident. Still, it will take some getting used to.

It has been a long week.

Now I know that Amy will be around on this earth for some time to come, normal life is gradually beginning to force its way back in to my consciousness again. I have stopped resenting the traffic lights changing colour. I no longer mind everyone else carrying on their business as usual. As a case in point, I went clothes shopping today. My new job starts tomorrow. It wouldn’t make a good first impression if I turned up for my first day in my slightly shiny-kneed, dog-hair-impregnated trousers and my faded-under-the-arms shirts.

Going back to work will be a challenge. It will be hard for me to concentrate on anything other than Amy. After a couple of months spent not working, the early mornings will also be a shock to the system. So will the need to actually do some work when I am there. On the positive side, assuming the job can hold my interest for longer than five minutes, it will be another goal ticked off my list.

Talking of my list, it is my birthday in just under two weeks’ time. When I went to visit Amy this afternoon, she came up with an off the wall idea for a party. Apparently Lucy’s birthday is three days before mine. Although I didn’t know any of this until today, the intention had been for Lucy to have a few friends to stay on Friday night for a disco at their
house. Amy obviously doesn’t want that to happen while she is in hospital, so she has suggested that Lucy postpones her party for a week. When I pointed out that this would mean Lucy’s party would clash with mine, Amy suggested that we have a joint party, or maybe adults in one room with 1980s music and kids in another with modern noise.

Now call me boring and unimaginative but this idea doesn’t fill me with joy. When Amy went off to do some physio I jotted down a list of things wrong with her suggestion:

1. Mixing Dave, Ray, Bryan and even Hills and Donna with teenage girls probably isn’t the best idea.
   
2. There will be alcohol at the party.
   
3. Amy’s immaculate house will get trashed – by my mates as much as the children.
   
4. There is a distinct possibility that Amy will still be in hospital on my birthday. What will happen to the party then?
   
5. What will happen if Amy and I split up over the next week or so? I still haven’t managed to have a conversation with her about the future.
   
6. What fifteen-year-old would want a bunch of uncool, mostly lecherous adults at their party?
   
7. There will be bad language flying around. The children might get embarrassed.
   
8. It’s just a bloody stupid idea, OK?
   

When Amy got back from shuffling up and down the corridor with her physio, she asked me what I thought of the idea.

‘Let’s do it,’ I replied, not having the backbone to say no. At least a joint party ties me to Amy for at least another fortnight.

I am now a contributing member of society again. My first day in my new job has passed with not too much drama. I didn’t realise how nervous being the new boy in town would make me feel. I was pretty lonely as I walked into a building I didn’t know, filled with people I didn’t know, talking a language I didn’t know.

Apparently it is my job to make sure that my council does better than other councils. I have to monitor and improve things like GCSE results, the percentage of fat children and teenage pregnancy levels. When I say I have to improve teenage pregnancy levels, that means I have to reduce them, not increase them. Note to self: make the kids study harder, feed them more salad and hand out condoms at this joint birthday party. Everyone has to do their bit.

I have already started writing a ‘to do list’ in my new job:

1. Learn how to use the coffee machine
   
2. Memorise at least five people’s names each day
   
3. Learn at least five new three-letter acronyms each day. FFS.
   
4. Google the difference between a ‘councillor’ and an ‘officer’
   
5. Ask the man sitting opposite me why he bashes the
   keyboard so hard when he types. He must be really angry.
   
6. And while I am at it, ask him why he insists on wearing those ridiculous-looking braces.
   

After work I made the daily trek to the hospital. Although Amy is getting headaches and is still dizzy when moving around, the doctors continue to be pleased with her recovery.

I had intended to talk to her tonight about our future. The conversation we had at the pizza place in Wimbledon before her accident seems like a lifetime ago now. I am aching to know where I stand.

As I walked on to the ward, she was sitting on her bed with her head in her hands.

‘Hello gorgeous,’ I said by way of greeting. Amy looked up. She had been crying.

‘I have just looked in the mirror. Don’t give me that crap about being gorgeous. I’m a bloody one-eyed mess covered in scratches and bruises,’ she responded angrily.

‘At least you can see out of one eye then,’ I said, trying to be funny. And failing. Spectacularly. Sometimes my mouth works ahead of my brain. I say things that no sane, considered, reasonable, decent, respectful, civil person would say. As soon as the words had spilled out of my mouth I felt crestfallen. I wanted to grab them and pull them back from mid-air and shove them back down my throat. I wanted to press rewind, back out of Amy’s room, walk back in again and start over. But it was too late.

‘You’re fucking hilarious aren’t you Graham. It is alright for you. You aren’t the one that got thrown over the bonnet of a car going at thirty miles an hour and landed on your head. You aren’t the one that has to live with one eye. You aren’t the one who just walked straight in to a hospital trolley on the way to the toilet because it was on my left hand
side and I didn’t even see it. You aren’t the one that looks like something out of a fucking horror movie.’ By the end of her outburst the tears were flowing again.

I sat on the edge of her bed and tried to give her a hug. She pushed me away.

‘I think you had better go,’ Imogen said from behind me.

After my performance tonight, I have a better idea where I stand with Amy. Out in the cold.

I need a beer. Dave’s mum is not good so he couldn’t join me. Ray didn’t let me down though. I am meeting him in the Morden Brook at 8 o’clock. It could be a long night.