Chapter 39
SARAH
I travel with Hal in the back of the ambulance, holding his limp hand and willing him to wake up. His eyes flutter once or twice and he moves his lips, but I’m not sure if this is a good sign or not.
When we arrive at the emergency room, I’m asked to come and give his details to a receptionist while they take him off for tests, and I suddenly find myself sitting on a plastic chair trying to painstakingly spell out Hal’s full name, trying to remember his date of birth and shaking my head when I’m asked whether I know the details of his travel insurance.
The woman’s eyebrows raise when I say this.
‘We’re not—We’re just friends!’ I try to explain.
‘All his paperwork is in Betty.’ This does not help with the communication issues we’re having.
‘Look,’ I say at last. ‘If there’s any shortfall, I’ll pay.
’ This seems to satisfy her, and I’m asked to complete a form.
I know the bill is likely to be thousands, but I also know that I’d pay anything right now for Hal to be OK. To know that he is well enough to go trundling somewhere in Betty, ready to set up camp and have an adventure. What on earth had possessed him to try to chase me down?
I haven’t called Mum; I know I’ve promised to communicate with her from now on, but I can’t see what good could come of me letting her know just how worried I am, just how battered and bruised Hal is.
I’ll call her when there’s news. And Louis.
I just hope it’s the kind of news that’s easy to deliver.
An hour later I’m sitting in the waiting room, trying to sip some water, when a doctor or nurse wearing blue scrubs comes in. ‘Madame Noakes?’ she asks and I just nod. I don’t really care what she thinks my name is, or whether she thinks I’m Hal’s wife. I just want the information.
She tells me that Hal is stable, that he has some broken bones, a small bleed in his stomach. They’re taking him for surgery. ‘It should only be an hour, perhaps two,’ she tells me, as if these words will reassure me.
‘But he’ll be OK?’ I prompt.
She smiles. But it’s the smile of a professional who knows better than to make promises to worried loved ones. ‘He’s in very good hands. And he’s stable,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll be back when there’s news.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, touching her arm. ‘What I mean is, is he going to die? Are his injuries life-threatening?’ I feel sick just saying the words.
‘I don’t believe so,’ she says kindly. ‘I think he will be OK. We will know more after surgery.’
This kind of half-reassurance doesn’t feel much better than what she’d originally said. But I know it’s probably the best she can do. There are no absolutes in life, other than death. So uncertainty, I suppose, is a great outcome.
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling strange in the air-conditioned, sterile-feeling waiting room. There are others around, holding children or reading, or scrolling through their phones. I make eye contact with an elderly woman who gives me a small smile before looking away.
When the nurse appears two hours later, I’m trying to force myself to read a magazine. It’s a French celebrity mag filled with images of people I’ve never heard of, alternated, it seems, with articles about Brigitte Macron and Celine Dion.
Every second of the last two hours seems to have taken a lifetime. My stomach growls, but I feel too sick to do anything about it.
‘Madame?’
I jump, give a little cry.
‘I am sorry to startle you.’
‘It’s fine. Is he OK?’
‘Yes, he is out of surgery. He’s in recovery. You can see him soon.’
‘Oh my God, thank you.’
She promises to come and get me as soon as Hal is settled in his room. And finally I’m able to draw my mobile from my pocket – it’s filled with missed calls from Mum’s French landline number – and make the calls I need to make.