The trees were slowly shedding their autumn leaves as we turned our backs on the hospital gates. The lost canopies formed a ruffled, auburn carpet across the floor, our feet hidden in the rustling beneath. I held the image of a solitary patient rushed in on a hospital bed, metal legs clattering with cylinders on a stony path. This one cast a glance up at me as if to question why I was even there. I watched the leaves fall to the ground, given up and left to be trodden on.
We’d popped out while the doctors ran checks.
Fluids, tubes and heartbeats.
The faint flicker of red lines and subdued bleep of monitors could only indicate so much. She was, they said, stable, but nothing more. What was going on inside was sure enough, but any long-term predictions had to be avoided.
Rose’s Mum seemed most upset, her tears fruitlessly concealed. Whether it was that famous British stoicism or an awed sense of disbelief that silenced the rest of us, who was to say. Our words didn’t seem adequate, fading in the morning like street lights on the blink.
She’d come out worst from the crash.
Two others – both female – were receiving treatment in the next ward. Neither was comatose. Neither had been in a position to offer an explanation of the incident. They had friends and family gathered too. Other worlds, other traumas.
I’d seldom spoke to Rose’s parents in the last year. She’d had some issues at college, returning home to the country every other weekend. I hadn’t been considered a help in all this – diligently following the course of my studies when I should have been with her. I remember the last time she left me at Marylebone, her eyes drifting away, awash in a pool of disappointment.
I didn’t hold her gaze.
Her arm unmoored steadily from mine.
I still see her face on that day, but now it’s that bit more dim and floating. It accuses me more openly than the one lying on the hospital bed. But I hope to hell this isn’t the last of it.
We dropped in over the road at the café for drinks, the tinkle of tea spoons a gentle reminder of routinely waking up each morning.
My mind flickered at the holiday I’d left behind. That would be the last time I thought of it that year.
“What’ll it be Mark?”
Rose’s Dad looked intently at the menu on the wall above.
“It’s alright. I’ll get these.”
My offer seemed cruelly mistimed. I hesitated to look around registering only empty looks.
“You can do the milk”, he replied, gathering orders from the group.
I studied the waitress behind the bar for lack of anything better to do. She demonstrated a crude carelessness, I thought, casually flicking the dark hair that covered her eyes. I wondered how long she’d been working and how she’d deal with us. We weren’t your usual customers after all. She looked up, I stared at the floor.
“I’ll grab some seats,” I ventured, turning to see a table by the window already claimed. I thought instead I’d get in quick with the conversation. But I remembered my calling with the milk and returned to the bar.
“Mark,” Mr. Milligan said, his voice as commanding as ever. “Mum has the milk here, with reduced fat, one sugar. The other guys want one with milk and one black, two sugars, and yours. I have mine and Maria’s. That okay?”
I nodded, my murmur of ascent lost in the steam rising from the coffee machine.
Mr. Milligan was a portly man. His chestnut brown hair slid languidly over bold features and a stern look. He was a teacher at a private school in the country, his musical ability concealing a wayward nature I’d heard about over the phone. Still, I’d had several decent conversations with him during my time. We talked about music often and he was keen to hear my take on the crossover between modern and classical styles. He was affable and talkative, despite this difficulty in pinning him down.
I gathered the cups in my hands but the waitress presented a tray.
“You’ll need that.”
“Thanks,” I said, still a little embarrassed from my misplaced offer moments before.
I held the tray firmly, taking care to watch my step. The sun was rising through the part-frosted glass of the partitioned window. As it peaked over the divide, a glorious blaze of light soaked the café, inviting an appreciative glance for just one moment at the break of day.
My eyes fuzzied against the glare as I placed the tray down.
“The milk?”
“How have you been Mark?”
I sat opposite Andy in the bright white corridor, the hospital lights leaving a blotchy smattering across my eyes. His voice rose above the sound of a generator, qualified by a rub of the hands and a jerky yet controlled glance at the ceiling. I heaved myself up, a keen eye set on the cup of tea balancing precariously on his chair.
“Alright”, I said, scraping my sole against the polished floor, my thoughts fumbled. “This is tough.”
It wasn’t a conversation starter, but I hardly expected it to be. The others sat beside us, Rose’s father pacing less hurriedly as he withdrew to a neighbouring room. A lady cleaner moved along the corridor emptying bins. Another, slightly younger and with darker skin, swished a mop across the floor.
Andy ruffled his black hair, wavy and loose, his skin grooved all over. Chris stood propped by a single mousey dreadlock nurtured for years through college. Maria and Joe sat a chair apart - his legs spread, an impish frown across his face, her knitted tightly in a ball, hair falling across his chest. Joe hung a lonely arm around her, a threadbare blanket against the growing storm.
We all felt apart in that corridor, searching for meaning, our minds escaping us. I felt the force of our connection so much stronger now from all those occasions before. I think all the fronts had dropped, that we were really seeing each other as we were, naked and bare.
Uncertain smiles broke the hushed silence with fleeting ripples, unnoticeable and unremarked. A solitary leaf flew in lazily on a sharp breeze, lightly kissing the white floor.
“Mr. Andrews?”
I stood up.
“Can you come with me?”
A doctor in a long white coat carrying a clipboard ushered me forward. I took the call and followed him into a side room, dark before the light switched on.
“Mr. Andrews. We have some news. You are Rose’s boyfriend, is that correct?”
I nodded circumspectly.
“Mr. Andrews, Rose is pregnant.”
A brief pause.
“Her parents have been told.”
I stepped outside, breathing deep, tilting my head. Clouds like cotton dotted the sky in a hospital without walls.
