Losing You (47 page)

THE FOLLOWING MONTH
passed more quickly, yet more slowly, than Emma could make any sense of. Lauren remained in the high-dependency unit for no more than a week before being moved to a side room on the acute ward, when her turban of bandages was removed, as was some of the intubation. The hair that had been shaved from the right side of her head was growing back: along with her breathing, and the healing of her other wounds, it was another sign of life, and occasionally she moved a hand, or slightly turned her head. Apparently this wasn’t unusual for coma patients – some actually opened their eyes, or even sat up, others had been known to speak or try to get out of bed – but Lauren’s unconscious movements remained minimal. Even so, they still inspired a hope that burned fiercely for a while, until finally it flickered and died again.

Emma had read hundreds of stories online by now, and even seen videos, of patients who’d come out of traumatic brain injury (known as TBI) comas after months, sometimes years, and a few had even made partial – or indeed miracle – recoveries. She was never going to allow herself to stop believing that this was possible for Lauren too, and since there had been no more emergencies or surgeries, the terrifying dilemma of whether or not to prolong her life hadn’t been raised again.

Apart from her medical team, Lauren’s visitors consisted mainly of Emma and her mother, Polly and Melissa, and Harry and Jane at weekends. Will didn’t come, still refusing to engage with what he claimed Emma was forcing on their daughter, and Emma couldn’t help being relieved, because seeing him always made everything seem so much worse.
Donna didn’t come either; she’d been grounded until her exams were over. The diary was long gone, torn to shreds and set alight in the garden by Emma and her mother. Not that Phyllis had read it – simply knowing that an improper relationship had taken place had been enough to make her join in the burning, which, like Emma, she’d seen as a ritual cleansing of that part of Lauren’s past. If Lauren was ever able to ask about it, they’d work out then what to tell her. For now, they wanted no reminders of what had happened; they didn’t even mention it between themselves.

Will, however, rarely failed to bring it up whenever he and Emma spoke on the phone, which had been far too often for her liking since she’d emailed him about Lauren’s diary. Typically he’d exploded with rage, had threatened to sue the school, the man himself, even her for parental neglect. Of course she was partly to blame, she’d been far too wrapped up in her struggle to start afresh to notice any telltale signs of what Lauren might be doing, though in her own defence Lauren and Donna had spun a web of secrecy around the affair that had been virtually impenetrable.

Emma knew, from Clive Andrews and the headmaster, that the police had spoken to Leesom following his instant dismissal and satisfied themselves that no molestation of underage pupils had taken place, which meant he had escaped arrest. His career was in ruins, of course, he’d never work as a teacher again, and though Emma would have liked nothing more than to think of him banged up in jail, at the same time she was relieved to know that Lauren’s name, reputation, was not going to end up as damaged by an ugly scandal as her brain had been by the accident that should never have happened.

It was five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon now, and Emma was standing in the doorway of Lauren’s side room, thrown to see a stranger sitting next to the bed. She hadn’t expected to find anyone here at this hour; even she rarely made it until gone six, since she’d taken a part-time job at the local vet’s, covering for a receptionist on maternity leave. She usually stayed with Lauren then until seven thirty or eight. It wasn’t that she wanted to leave earlier than the nine o’clock end to visiting, if she could she’d
probably stay the entire night; it was simply that her mother and Polly had started a routine of making dinner every evening, one night at Emma’s, the next at Polly’s, and Emma didn’t want to let them down.

The stranger’s head was bowed, his dark hair tumbling over the side of his face, so Emma was unable to make out his features, though she felt sure she’d never seen him before. He seemed too young to be a doctor, and, in a black leather jacket and faded, ripped jeans, he certainly wasn’t dressed like one. If he was a physio he’d surely be exercising Lauren’s limbs, but he was barely moving. His eyes seemed to be fixed so hard on Lauren that Emma could almost feel him trying to reach her. She looked at Lauren, her lovely face tranquil and almost ethereal, her beautiful hair spilling over one side of the pillow, her lengthy lashes curved in two crescent-moon fringes from the pale edges of her closed eyelids.

She felt she should make her presence known, but there was an intensity about this young man, a sense of purpose that seemed to be surrounding him and Lauren in a subtle, yet powerful nimbus that Emma didn’t want to break. It was almost as though they were communicating on a level that couldn’t be seen or heard, except by them. She noticed then that he was holding something to Lauren’s ear: an earpiece from an iPod. The other part of the headset was pressed to his own ear, so they
were
sharing a form of communication. Maybe he was a new therapist trying a different form of stimulus – though Melissa played music to Lauren every time she came, so did Emma, and neither of them had managed to provoke a response, not even with the recording of the school’s performance night, when each student taking part had dedicated their chosen pieces to Lauren.

‘Hello, Emma. How are you today? Lauren seems on form.’

Emma turned round as one of the staff nurses passed behind her on her way out of the ward. It was what most of them said, that Lauren was on form, or looking good, or doing well. It was nice of them to be upbeat, even though there had been no change in her condition.

When Emma turned back the young lad was on his feet, his handsome face suffused with shock.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking as though he’d run if he weren’t trapped. ‘I didn’t ... I was just ...’

‘Who are you?’ Emma asked. She was sure she hadn’t seen him before, and yet there was something about him ...

‘They said it was OK to come in,’ he told her. ‘I don’t do anything, only talk to her.’ He was coming closer, trying to edge round her.

‘Are you a friend of Lauren’s?’ Emma asked.

‘Yes, no ... I mean ... Sorry, I should go.’

He was almost past her when it suddenly clicked who he was, and as her heart jolted with shock she spun round. ‘Wait. Please, wait,’ she cried, not sure what she was going to say or do. Her mind was struggling to work out what was happening, what it could mean.

His anxious eyes came back to hers. He was remarkably good-looking, she thought irrelevantly, and tall, at least six foot. And clearly very worried about being caught here. ‘You’re Oliver Lomax, aren’t you?’ she said.
This was Oliver Lomax, the boy who’d been driving the car ...

‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ he assured her. ‘I just wanted to see her and ...’ His eyes went down as he ran out of words.

She should have been angry, offended, calling for security to throw him out, but for some reason all she did was ask, ‘Why did you want to see her?’

He glanced over at Lauren. Emma could see he was shaking, and thought she probably was too. ‘I just did,’ he replied. ‘I thought ...’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘It’s going to sound stupid, I know, but I thought ... I was the one who did this to her, so maybe I was the one who could, you know, help bring her out of it.’

Emma could only stare at him.

He looked painfully self-conscious. ‘I told you it would sound stupid,’ he said.

‘Actually, I’m not sure it does,’ she murmured. Or no more than any of the things she thought to herself, anyway. ‘Is this the first time you’ve come?’

His head went down as he shook it. ‘No, I ... I come
most days, or whenever I can, just between four and five, because one of the nurses said she was usually on her own then.’

‘Does the nurse know who you are?’

‘No. I just said I was a friend.’

Emma took a breath, and realising she didn’t know what to say, she turned to look at Lauren. She seemed so peaceful, and yet present, as if she was doing no more than sleeping. ‘Have you ever ...? Does she ever respond to you?’ she asked, not certain how she’d feel if the answer was yes.

He shrugged. ‘Not really. I mean her fingers move sometimes, and I thought she opened her eyes once, but it turned out to be the way the sun was coming in through the window.’ His gaze came up to hers. ‘I’m really sorry if you think I’ve overstepped the mark. I
swear
I didn’t mean any harm.’

She could tell that he didn’t, and as she looked more deeply into his eyes she thought she could detect something of his suffering. He had a genuine conscience that was clearly tearing him apart. ‘It’s OK, I believe you,’ she said.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, neither of them seeming to know what to do or say next. In the end he said, ‘I guess I should go.’

‘No, don’t.’ She spoke before realising what she was going to say. Why did she want him to stay? She had no clear idea; she only knew that she didn’t want him to leave yet. ‘Will you have a cup of tea with me?’ she offered, thankful no one else was here, like Will, or her mother, because they’d probably think she’d lost her mind.

He seemed uncertain.

‘I won’t eat you,’ she promised.

The unease in his eyes retreated a little. ‘OK,’ he answered. ‘Why not?’

Emma walked over to Lauren and touched a hand to her face. ‘Hello darling,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know you had a new ... friend.’ Was that how she should be describing him, or even thinking of him? It wasn’t feeling right, and yet it wasn’t jarring either.

Lauren’s lips didn’t move, nor did her eyes open, but in her mind Emma could hear her saying,
Do you know who he is?

‘Yes, I’ve just found out.’

You know it wasn’t his fault, I was in the middle of the road
.

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Emma agreed, thinking of the boy’s mother and the panic he must have been in as he drove along that unlit road. Something that had never occurred to her before came quietly into her mind: at least he hadn’t driven on and left Lauren to die like an animal. He could have, and some would have, especially if they’d been drinking. ‘Do you mind if I go and talk to him?’ she whispered, smoothing the shorter side of Lauren’s hair. It was growing back as silky and honeyed as it had been before.

No, it’s cool. I’ll stay here and get some sleep
.

‘It’s time you woke up,’ Emma chided, loud enough for Oliver to hear.

When she turned round he was watching Lauren, not her, then their eyes met, and the way he blushed touched her with its seeming innocence and simplicity.

Moments later, as they were walking out of the ward, he said, ‘I think she will.’

Emma glanced at him. He looked, she realised, a lot like his father.

‘I mean wake up,’ he explained. ‘I think she will.’

Emma found herself warming inside. She had no idea why him saying it seemed to mean so much, it just did. ‘It’s good to know that I’m not alone in believing it.’

He seemed surprised. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

She sighed. ‘In fairness my mother does, and my friend Polly, but her father’s not convinced.’

‘That’s because he’s afraid.’

Emma nodded, impressed by his insight. ‘You’re right,’ she said, and stepping ahead of him out of the door, into the crisp spring evening air, she found herself swamped by birdsong and felt the joy of it trying to lift her.

The cafe was only a short walk through a maze of stone alleyways and there was no one else in when they arrived, apart from two volunteers serving and a couple on their way out. Emma was recalling the last time she’d been in here, with Berry, when Will had come in, carrying his son, while his wife had waited outside. She still resented him
for putting his other family first, even though she didn’t want his negativity anywhere near Lauren.

Never would she have dreamt, she was thinking, as she paid for a tea and a 7 Up, that the next time she’d come into this cafe would be with Oliver Lomax. She’d never envisaged meeting him at all, unless it was to inflict some grotesque revenge on him, or to see him across a courtroom being sentenced to a good long spell in prison for what he’d done to her daughter. His parents would have been buckling under the horror, receiving a taste of what it was like to lose a child.

Looking at him now, as he sat down at a corner table with her, she realised that all she was feeling towards him was relief, maybe gratitude to know that he cared about what had happened to Lauren, and admiration too for the way he’d found the courage to come and see her. She also felt a stirring of pity for what Philip Leesom’s plans for that Saturday night had brought upon him, as innocent a victim as Lauren herself.

‘I thought you’d hate me,’ he said, staring down at his can of drink. ‘I guess you do. I don’t blame you.’

Being truthful, Emma said, ‘I thought I would too, but I’m finding that I don’t.’

His eyes flicked up to hers, then went down again. ‘Why not, I hate myself.’

She wanted to put a hand on his, but was afraid it would be inappropriate, or unwelcome, so she held back. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked.

He stiffened and she sensed a barrier going up around him.

‘I know she called you that night,’ she explained, ‘and it’s why you were in the car. The police told me.’

His eyes stayed down. She could see pools of colour burning his cheeks. ‘She’s ... She’s an alcoholic,’ he said, his voice catching on a breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, meaning it for him. For his mother who, in her eyes, was as culpable as Philip Leesom, she had little pity to spare. ‘Is she getting help?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Yes, kind of. She’s in Cape Town with her sister, my aunt. Well, not with her exactly, because Olivia’s managed to get her into rehab.’

What a pity it hadn’t happened sooner
, Emma couldn’t help thinking.

‘My dad’s over there at the moment,’ he went on. ‘She checked herself out and wouldn’t go back unless he came to see her.’ His breath shuddered again as he tried to continue. ‘It’s all been pretty tough on him, her drinking, and I don’t think I’ve, you know ... He keeps trying to help me and like be there for me, but then something happens with Mum ... Anyway, what’s the point bothering about me? I’ve got to pay for what I’ve done, and all that really matters is ...’ He shrugged and kept his eyes on his hands.