The door opens and a middle-aged man walks in. I glance up at him.
‘Leo?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ He’s not dressed in green scrubs like all the other medical staff I’ve seen.
‘I’m Barry, Laura’s father,’ he says gently, his face tired and pale.
I leap to my feet and offer my hand for him to shake. Laura’s father! ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
He shakes my hand, but can’t meet my gaze for long. He looks like her, more like her than I thought he would. Something about his nose and the shape of his face. She told me most people say she takes after her mother.
‘Sit down.’
He indicates the chair I was sitting in, taking a seat opposite.
‘Is there any news?’ I ask quickly.
He shakes his head abruptly. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Can I see her?’
He looks uncomfortable. I wait for him to speak.
‘I’m not sure, at this point,’ he eventually replies. ‘You can’t see her now because they’re doing the afternoon ward round. You might be able to see her tomorrow.’
‘Okay.’ I exhale loudly. ‘Not later? I’m happy to wait.’
‘I’m afraid . . .’ he starts. ‘I’m afraid Matthew hasn’t given permission yet for you to visit.’
‘What?’
‘He’s Laura’s next of kin,’ he says, holding up his hands as though to deflect blame. ‘It’s up to him who sees her.’
‘Well, can I speak to him?’ I’m trying to control my anger. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone back to London.’
‘Why isn’t he here?’ I ask accusingly. ‘If he’s her next of kin . . .’ There’s venom in my tone, and I can’t help it, even if it gets me nowhere.
‘Matthew works during the week. He’s a journalist.’ And? ‘He’ll be back on Friday.’
‘But that’s three days away!’ I get up and start pacing, which isn’t easy in this small space.
‘Can’t . . .’
I look at Bridget, who’s trying to say something.
‘Can’t you call Matthew?’ she asks.
Laura’s father looks pained.
‘He’s come all this way,’ she implores. ‘Will the nurses really object if Laura’s father gives permission as to who sees her?’
I stand and stare at my beautiful Laura’s father, weakened by him, by Matthew, by the whole situation. He glances up at me and his face softens.
‘I suppose not,’ he agrees, looking down at his hands.
‘Thank you.’ Swallowing is difficult. He meets my eyes and nods before checking his watch.
‘They’ll be finishing their round in an hour and a half. I’ll go and speak to the nurses.’
An hour and a half is a long time to wait. I tell Bridget to go home, but she insists on staying. I’m grateful, but I don’t speak to her. I cross my arms, close my eyes and think about Key West, willing my girl to come back to me.
Laura’s father returns at some point and hands us both cups of tea. It tastes crap – I’d kill for a coffee right now, even one of Carmen’s – but I appreciate the gesture. Finally, they let me go in.
I pause at the door, glancing over my shoulder to check no one is behind me. I don’t want to be with anyone other than her right now. I’m alone, so I push open the door and enter.
I’ve thought about this moment countless times over the last seventy-two hours, but nothing prepares me for the sight of her now. Her body is partially covered with a white sheet. Her left arm and left leg are in casts, the leg elevated. Her hair is limp around her face, and her eyes are closed. There’s a ventilator hooked up to her, with a large tube going into her mouth. Her chest rises and falls, but she looks so frail, so vulnerable. Just like Alejandro did before he died, and he was my brother, my big, powerful brother, reduced to nothing.
My feet are glued to the floor, so I stand and stare, aware that the persistent bleeping noises from her attached monitors are the only sounds in the room. I force myself to put one foot in front of the other until I reach her bed. There’s a chair waiting, so I sit down and reach for her hand. It’s the fact that it’s still warm, like she’s asleep, that brings me crumbling down. I kiss her hand as my tears run off her fingers.
My father, my mother, Alejandro, and now Laura. Papi . . . That’s what I used to call my father. When did he become ‘Father’? A long time after he was dead, I think, when he started to feel like a stranger. Even Mom has become ‘Mother’ in death, so unfamiliar, so alien, so far from the Mommy of my childhood. How the hell will I go on if Laura is also destined to become a stranger?
I reach up and touch her cheek.
‘Wake up,’ I whisper.
But she doesn’t. And when her father enters the room after I don’t know how long, he has to help me walk out of there.
Bridget drives me back to the hotel. I hope she knows I appreciate what she’s done, because I can’t convey it with words. I go inside, up to my room, and fall into the deepest sleep of my life.
Every waking hour of the next two days I spend at the hospital – by her side when they let me. I’ve seen Laura’s mother, Lottie, a couple of times. I met her in the keys, that time Laura was so upset about her mom visiting the baby. She didn’t like me much then, and she doesn’t like me much now, so I try to keep out of her way. Mostly I’m in the Visitors’ Room staring at the wall. It’s claustrophobic in here – small and stuffy. A fan whirrs left and right to move the air, but the window is always closed, the vertical blinds turned so there’s hardly any natural light. A Bible sits on top of some magazines – but that’s not going to help me now. It didn’t help when Alejandro died. Even the clock batteries have run out, the time permanently set to 10:07 and sixteen seconds. I don’t know if it’s a.m. or p.m. but I do know that if I have to stay here much longer, I’ll go insane. The hardest thing is when there are strangers in the room with me, friends and family of other patients in intensive care. Hearing them talk about their pain, about the chances of their loved one pulling through . . . I soak up their despair like a sponge. Perhaps Laura’s father can see the effect being in this room is having on me, because on Thursday he appears during the morning ward round and insists I go downstairs for a break. It doesn’t take much to persuade me.
I take the elevator one floor down to the food court, where my mood instantly lifts. It’s not as depressing; some people are actually laughing, as though they’re not here because of a tragedy. I wander through a couple of shops and notice that even the candy looks different here. I also discover I can get decent coffee instead of the crap out of the vending machine upstairs. I’ll have to make each cup last as long as I can – I don’t want to run out of money. Not that anything tastes good at the moment, anyway, but psychologically I feel a bit better.
On Friday afternoon Laura’s father pulls me to one side. ‘Matthew is on his way,’ he says in a stern, firm voice. I know what he’s telling me: it’s time for me to make way for the revered husband. The man’s been decent to me so I reluctantly agree to wait for his call letting me know when I can next come in.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I catch a bus into Cambridge and walk around for a while, peering through archways into grand courtyards and wandering down narrow alleyways crammed with crooked old buildings. The craziest thing of all is King’s College Chapel. I’ve barely travelled outside America and there’s sure as hell nothing like this in the USA. I sit in a pew, staring up at the high fan-vaulted ceiling. I wish Laura could have shown me around. It doesn’t feel right being here without her.
My ringing cell phone makes me jump. I’m expecting Mr Smythson – Barry, as he’s said I can call him – but it’s Marty on the other end of the line.
‘Hey, Leo,’ she says gently.
‘Hi.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In King’s College Chapel,’ I say in a low voice, aware of the looks I’m getting for talking on my cell.
‘Do you wa
nt to have dinner with me?’
‘Oh. Um . . .’
‘I thought you could use the company.’
‘Er, yeah, okay,’ I say awkwardly. God knows what we’ll talk about.
‘Are you happy to stay in town?’
‘Sure.’
‘In that case, I’ll meet you in an hour.’
We go to a Mexican restaurant on the river. Marty says she thought I’d need cheering up, so she opted for somewhere lively.
‘I need cheering up,’ she says as we wait to be seated. ‘Have you seen her much this week?’ she wants to know.
‘As much as I’ve been allowed,’ I reply.
‘Matthew is there now, right?’
‘Yeah. Laura’s dad thought I’d better keep away.’
She doesn’t say anything as we’re taken to a table, but once we’re seated, menus in hand, she turns to me.
‘I’m sure Matthew will come round,’ she says. ‘He’s a reasonable guy. Barry just needs a bit of time to talk to him.’
‘I’m sorry for him,’ I surprise myself by saying. I also surprise Marty, from the look on her face. ‘I don’t want to hurt him by being here, but I need to be here, too, you know?’
‘I know,’ she says, giving me a sad smile and then turning to her menu.
Later we find ourselves talking about Key West, and about Laura. I tell Marty about the night dive, about how spooked Laura was when we saw that shark hovering above a shoal of barracuda, and we both start to laugh. The couple of beers I’ve had have loosened me up.
‘She was so funny; you should have seen her face. She wanted to abort the dive, but I wouldn’t let her.’
‘I can’t believe she actually went on a night dive in the first place!’ Marty exclaims. ‘She used to be scared of the dark as a child.’
‘Did she?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. She had four night lights in her room when she was growing up. I remember them: a fairy, Winnie the Pooh, a butterfly and . . . I can’t remember the other one. They used to glow in the room and keep me awake if I ever had a sleepover, but she wouldn’t switch them off for anyone.’
I smile as I try to imagine a young Laura.
‘I’m sorry, Leo,’ Marty says suddenly. ‘I’m sorry for doubting you. I should have known there was something wrong, some reason why you didn’t call. She had faith in you.’
‘I hope so,’ I say quietly, my mood taking a nosedive. ‘I hate the thought of her thinking she meant less to me than she did. Than she does,’ I correct myself.
‘I think it’s clear to everyone now,’ she says, looking down at her hands. ‘I should have tried to help you more when I knew you were coming here.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I brush her off.
‘At the very least I should have booked your flights. I feel bad.’
I forgot she was a travel agent. ‘Forget it,’ I say, before remembering a question I’ve been meaning to ask. ‘Hey, what happened to her cell phone? Didn’t anyone ever get my messages?’
‘Not that I know of. Her phone was run over by the car that hit her, I think. I doubt anyone has had the time or inclination to sort out a new one. It’s a bit weird,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘because nothing in her bag was damaged.’
I ponder this for a moment. ‘Was she talking to someone at the time?’ I ask with a frown.
Marty shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘What time was she hit?’ I ask. I want to know what her last minutes were like.
‘She’d just been out for brunch with Matthew,’ Marty says, oblivious to the fact that these words cause me pain. The idea of Laura going out with him . . . anywhere . . . I can’t blame her for doing that, of course I can’t, but did she still have feelings for him? ‘We’d all been to her dad’s birthday party the night before,’ she explains and I try to concentrate. ‘She was hit at around eleven thirty, apparently. She ran straight out into the path of an oncoming car as she tried to hail a cab on the other side of the road.’
‘Why didn’t Matthew give her a lift home?’ I ask, confused.
She also looks perplexed. ‘I don’t know, actually.’
‘It was Sunday, right?’ I check, feeling bad for not trying to piece this together before.
‘That’s right.’
‘Sunday morning,’ I muse aloud, then I get it. My face must fall because Marty asks me what’s wrong. ‘Eleven thirty,’ I say with increasing panic. ‘That’s . . .’ I count out the hours on my fingers as Marty watches me. Miami time is five hours behind, which means eleven thirty in the UK is . . . ‘six thirty in Miami.’
I pull out my phone and frantically scroll through my recent calls. The blood drains from my face.
‘What?’ Marty asks again.
‘I called her.’ My voice comes out in a whisper.
‘You called her?’ she asks with confusion.
‘I called her at that time. It was me.’ I feel like I’m going to be sick. ‘She took out her phone to answer my call. It must have been me ringing.’
‘Oh my God.’ Marty puts her hand over her mouth in shock.
‘It rang,’ I whisper. ‘And when I called back it went straight through to voicemail. In that minute, she must’ve been hit.’
‘Oh God,’ Marty repeats, and I feel like the room is spinning.
‘It’s my fault.’
‘No one is to blame,’ Marty says firmly, jolting out of her shock to reach over and clasp my hand.
I shake my head and take my hand away, feeling strange about any woman – other than Laura – touching me. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Leo!’ she says sharply, grabbing my hand again and squeezing it. ‘Stop it. No one is to blame,’ she reiterates. ‘You think we haven’t all wondered if there was something we could have done? You think Matthew isn’t kicking himself for taking her out for brunch?’
‘For making her catch a taxi home?’ I say bitterly.
‘Stop it. You have to let it all go. It was an accident. She was distracted crossing the road, but that could have happened at any time, to anyone. It’s not your fault,’ she says again.
I don’t think I could live with myself if it was.
Mr Smythson calls me the next morning and says it will be difficult for me to visit that day. I’m angry, and I let him know. I can’t help it. He says it’s out of his hands, but that I’d be wise not to rock the boat. Matthew can have my visitation rights revoked if he chooses to. After that comment I shut up.
I catch the bus into town, pass hours wandering the streets and sitting by the river watching people stand on the back of long, narrow boats and use poles to push it along. Marty is staying at Laura’s parents’ house along with Matthew, so I won’t be seeing her tonight. I’m so on edge I could tear my hair out. Late that afternoon I go to the hospital. I have to be near her, even if I can’t be with her. I’m guessing that the others will have gone home during the afternoon ward round, but I’m nervous opening the door to the Visitors’ Room. Thankfully it’s empty. I’ll wait here until the round is finished and then ask if I can see her. Then the door opens and Matthew walks in.
He stops in his tracks. Laura’s mother is behind him, looking worried and anxious.
‘Matthew,’ she says calmly, putting a hand on his arm to pull him away. He doesn’t move, and I’m damned if I’m going to break eye contact first.
‘Who said you could come here?’ he asks coldly.
‘No one,’ I reply. ‘I thought you’d have left.’
‘We’re leaving now,’ he tells me.
‘Come on, Matthew,’ Laura’s mother – Lottie – says gently.
‘No,’ he says, stepping into the room. ‘How dare you?’ he asks me, his face white with shock and underlying fury.
I don’t want to cause a scene – certainly not here – and I know that he holds the key to Laura’s room, if not her heart anymore, so I speak calmly.
‘It’s not my intention to hurt you. But I had to be here.’
‘You
don’t even love her,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t even tell her that.’
I look away from him. What am I supposed to say?
‘I knew it, I knew you didn’t.’ I can tell he’s close to tears and I don’t want to watch a grown man cry, especially not him.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I murmur.
‘Come on, love,’ Lottie tries again. ‘Let’s go downstairs to the food court. I still think we should go home.’
She gently pulls him away from the room, from me, and then I’m left alone feeling jealous and irritable. I know it’s stupid, but I want Lottie to care about me the way she cares about him. I’m not the one who got another girl pregnant when I was with her daughter.
There’s a new nurse on night duty and she won’t let me into the room. I’m not on the list so there’s nothing she can do. I spend the night in the Visitors’ Room. I’ve realised that the kitchenette in the corner has cupboards the colour of the shutters back home, the colour of Laura’s eyes. There’s a small TV and a radio, too, but I can’t bring myself to switch them on. I sit upright on the couch because it’s too short to lie down on. I’m still there the next morning when Matthew returns.
‘Have you been here all night?’ he asks, looking a bit shell-shocked to see me. This time Barry is with him.
I nod and put my head back into my hands, where it was before he came in.
They don’t stay in the Visitors’ Room long, moving to her room as soon as they’re allowed. I know I have to be patient but I do believe he’ll let me see her.
He joins me in the Visitors’ Room while they do the usual morning ward round.
‘Can I get you boys a tea or a coffee from the coffee shop downstairs?’ Barry asks jovially.
Matthew speaks first. ‘Thanks, Barry. A latte would be good.’
I shake my head and politely decline. He gives me a concerned look and leaves us to it. Matthew doesn’t say anything for a good few minutes.
‘I don’t get it.’ He shakes his head at me. ‘Why would you come if you didn’t love her? You must care about her a lot.’
‘I do.’ I meet his gaze.