Chapter 32
Beep, beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep. All she could hear was the steady rhythm of the monitor, measuring her heartbeats.
Beep, beep, beep. Proof positive that she was still alive, although she ought not to be.
By rights she should be dead. For a few seconds anger surged and the monitor quickstepped to its rhythm.
Why hadn’t they left her to die? Why had they bothered to resuscitate all this heartbreak?
‘Are you conscious…’ Dr Maria Costello was asking her now, ‘…of the danger you placed yourself in? Yesterday afternoon you drank almost a full litre bottle of gin. I’d like you to tell me why.’
SJ shook her head. She couldn’t stop sobbing. She was holding the blue tablecloth-like sheet to her face like a comforter, but it wasn’t helping.
The doctor held out a pack of tissues and SJ tugged out a handful and wiped her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the pain. It poured out of her, on and on and on.
‘Take your time, Sarah-Jane. We’ve got plenty of time. You were at home, do you remember?’ the doctor prompted gently and SJ nodded.
‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Monday. Monday, 7 September.’
Oh, God, so it was after the party then.
Her parents’ party – that must have been on Saturday.
Of course it had been on Saturday. She remembered standing in the kitchen with her family all looking at her in disapproval and there was something about a pea.
Had she been lying by the fridge? Had she imagined that bit? Please let her have imagined that bit.
Another more disturbing memory crawled in and she tried to sit up, but it hurt so much she gave up and lay down again. ‘Are my parents here?’
‘They’ve been here for the last twenty-four hours. They’ve just gone to get something to eat. Your husband’s gone with them. They’ll be back very soon, I’m sure.’
Twenty-four hours. Where had twenty-four hours gone? ‘Oh my God,’ she said, finally. ‘Oh my God.’
* * *
SJ didn’t know how much longer the doctor sat there.
Or what else either of them said. Time seemed to blur in and out.
At some point she was aware of her parents coming back in, of her mother sitting by the bed and stroking her head like she’d done when she was ill as a child: a rhythmic, soothing touch that sent her drifting back off into blackness.
She was aware of Tom being there some of the time, too – pale and rigid and silent.
She closed her eyes when she saw Tom. She didn’t want to face any of them.
It was all too painful and raw and every time she cried – which seemed to happen all the time – it hurt a little bit more.
She was still only getting snippets of memories.
Fragments of the party and fragments about the conversation she’d had with Tom when she’d begged him not to go round to Michael’s to ask him about the cross-dressing.
She would have given a lot to be able to have lost that conversation but she guessed blackouts didn’t work like that.
You couldn’t pick and choose which parts of your life you wiped out.
Sometime around the Monday evening – or it could have been the Tuesday evening, she’d lost track – SJ opened her eyes and saw Kit and Dorothy standing beside her bed.
‘How are you doing, hen?’ Dorothy gave her a huge smile, the warmth of which made her want to cry again, but which also made everything suddenly seem more bearable.
‘Food’s improved by the look of it,’ Dorothy remarked, sniffing the air, and SJ realised that it was teatime and that hospital staff were bustling around with trays and cutlery. At some point she’d been moved out of ICU and on to a main ward. She didn’t remember that happening.
Kit smiled at her too, pulled up two chairs, their legs scraping the floor, and gestured for Dorothy to sit down.
He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and a smart brown leather jacket she’d never seen before.
He looked tanned, although not all that relaxed.
She had the feeling he was uncomfortable in a hospital.
‘You missed your appointment,’ he said, raising his eyebrows, ‘so I thought I’d drop by.’
‘That’s well beyond the call of duty,’ she managed, embarrassed, but also hugely pleased to see him.
‘Duty doesn’t come into it.’ He rummaged in his pocket. ‘I was going to get grapes, but I figured these might be more appropriate.’ He gave her a paper bag of what turned out to be boiled sweets. ‘Good for throats,’ he went on conversationally.
‘Thanks.’ She blinked. ‘I think my throat might just about manage one of these.’
‘Not much fun having your stomach pumped – even when you are out for the count.’ Dorothy’s voice was matter of fact.
‘I was awake for two of mine. I swear they were rougher the second time when they forced the tube down my throat. Mind you, the nurses had all been going off to a party when I turned up on the ward, half dead. I was holding up the proceedings. They weren’t very happy. ’
SJ blinked. Trust Dorothy to upstage her. ‘I am never having my stomach pumped again,’ she said. ‘I am never drinking again either. God, even the thought of it…’
Dorothy leaned forward and touched her arm. Her face was serene. ‘One day at a time, hen, that’s all you need to worry about. Is it okay to have one of those?’ SJ held out the bag and Dorothy helped herself. ‘Thanks, pet.’
SJ looked at Kit. ‘When I first came to SAADD I saw a man coming out of the pub across the road. It wasn’t even lunchtime, but he was totally pissed. He could barely walk. I didn’t think I was the same as him. I didn’t think I was a proper alcoholic.’
‘And what do you think now?’ Kit asked, his dark eyes holding hers.
‘I think I just haven’t got quite as far down the path as that man. Well, I hadn’t,’ she amended.
‘Well, as you know, alcoholism’s a progressive disease,’ Kit said quietly. ‘There are stages. Some of them can last for years.’
‘You don’t have to do this on your own,’ Dorothy put in. ‘I’ve made some of the best friends of my life in AA. In the past I only had drinking buddies. Now I have friendships forged in hell.’
‘Don’t you mean in heaven?’ SJ asked her with a weak smile.
‘No, my darling, I don’t.’ Dorothy paused to crunch her sweet. ‘Friendships forged in the fires of hell last a lot longer than the friendships you might find in some namby-pamby heaven.’
‘Some people liken alcoholism to being on a train,’ Kit said, helping himself to a boiled sweet, the leather of his jacket creaking as he moved. ‘Once you’re on it the ultimate destination is death. But you don’t have to stay on the train. You can get off any time you like.’
‘It’s a pretty straight choice,’ Dorothy said. ‘Admit you’re an alcoholic and stop drinking – or carry on drinking and die.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘It’s a tough one, I know. It took me ages to make up my mind. But I think you might be a bit more sensible than me.’
SJ shuddered. ‘I’m not very sensible. But I am sure…’ Her voice cracked a little as she looked into their concerned faces. ‘I am sure now that I want to get off the train.’