Chapter 12
MAYA
After a week of excruciatingly long days at my father’s office, when I stumble in and perform my mundane tasks in a numb daze, followed by long, restless nights which leave me shattered and drained, I spend all of Saturday in bed with my phone resolutely turned off, blankly watching action thriller movies back to back, finding some sick solace in the gory bloodshed they supply.
More than once I imagine it’s actually my father on the receiving end of the violence, instead of the poor innocent bad guys who haven’t done anything nearly as bad as he has.
Despite a stupid niggling hope that Ben won’t be able to live without me, he hasn’t called or turned up on my doorstep again, or shown any sign of missing me at all.
So it seems he believed my self-centred bitch performance was real and it truly is over between us.
When I wake up late on Sunday, after another night of fitful sleep, during which I had to force myself to leave my phone turned off so I wouldn’t constantly check it, on the off-chance Ben had texted or called and I’d missed it, I’m momentarily confused to see about twenty voicemail messages showing up when I finally turn it on again.
Someone’s been trying very hard to get hold of me.
When I open up the app with a trembling finger, I see the calls started a couple of hours ago.
And they’re all from April.
I almost delete them without listening to them, assuming she’s calling to give me her usual kind of talking-to about some bad behaviour I’ve supposedly perpetrated, but some sixth sense kicks in and I stop myself. She wouldn’t call me that many times unless it was really important.
With my heart thumping in my ears, I click on the first message and listen to it. My sister’s voice comes through loud and clear, though it’s not quite the together April I’m used to hearing. In fact, she sounds breathy and worried.
‘Maya, it’s me. Listen, don’t panic, but Dad’s been in a bad accident on the motorway. According to the police, another driver had a heart attack at the wheel and crashed into him. His car flipped over a few times.’
She pauses here for a second and I hear a cacophony of sound in the background, like lots of people chattering.
Her words swim through my mind and it’s as if I’m hearing them from afar – as if I’m only dreaming this and it’s not really happening.
And I’m calm. Calmer than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
‘He’s been helicoptered to St John’s Wood Hospital,’ she goes on. ‘I’m in bloody Morocco and I can’t get a flight back—’
Her voice becomes even more stressed-sounding at this point, and through the thick fog in my head I picture her standing at an airport desk, glowering at some poor woman who’s just told my formidable sister she can’t help her.
‘There’s a baggage handlers’ strike, or some such shit,’ she goes on.
Yep, she’s definitely stressed if she’s swearing, I think abstractedly.
‘Hopefully they’ll get themselves organised soon, but in the meantime, I’m going to wait here at the airport. I’ve tried to get our private jet to come for me, but apparently Andrew’s got it in Australia at the moment.’
There’s the sound of a child crying in the background, then a frustrated sigh from my sister as she apparently moves away from the human nuisance.
‘Anyway… Can you go to the hospital to be with him till I get there? The doctors can’t – or won’t – give me much information about his condition over the phone, but apparently he’s in theatre—’
It’s at this point that she really starts to lose it, and I hear what sounds like a hiccough on the end of the line. When she speaks again to sign off the call it’s clear she’s trying not to cry.
The sound of my sister’s distress hits me hard, finally breaking through my strange dissociation and stealing the breath from my lungs.
Oh, my God, my father’s in the hospital.
All on his own, judging by the other calls April has made to my phone and I’ve not answered.
I click through them frantically, listening to the beginning of each message.
Yep, she’s still stuck in Morocco, and apparently Juno’s still in Italy and having the same sort of problem getting a flight back.
It’s up to me to handle this.
My head swims and I have to sit down and take some deep breaths till the feeling passes.
But I’m frighteningly conscious that I’m wasting time.
My father needs me.
I have to get over there right fucking now.
Somehow I manage to pull myself together and drag on some clothes with shaking hands, shove my feet into some shoes and grab my coat and bag.
* * *
I’m not entirely sure how I get to the hospital. It’s all a blur of taxis and panic.
When I finally locate my father’s ward I’m enraged not to be able to find someone to help me right away. Don’t they know this is a fucking emergency? What if my father’s dying alone? I can’t let that happen.
Pushing that awful thought out of my head – I think I’ll go insane if I even entertain it – I finally find a nurse to help me, and she pages my father’s doctor.
When he arrives, he patiently explains that my father’s pretty messed up, with broken ribs, a collapsed lung and head injuries.
He’s in surgery and will be for the next hour or so.
I feel as though I’m not actually present in my body as I watch him walk away to see to another patient, as if my father’s accident is only one of the many routine things he has to deal with today – which is probably sadly accurate.
For me, though, it’s like standing at the edge of the world. One false step now and I’ll plunge into blackness.
Memories of the horror and panic I felt the morning after I childishly ignored my mother’s pleas to let her into my locked hotel bedroom at the ski resort so we could talk come slamming into my head.
Not seeing her on my way down, I’d convinced myself she hadn’t cared enough to follow me down that treacherous ski slope.
Then I’d woken up from a deep, booze-induced sleep to find the apartment empty and the door wide open, as if she’d left in a hurry.
It fell to the poor hotel receptionist to tell me she’d been found unconscious on the living room floor and rushed off to hospital in a helicopter.
They hadn’t even realised I was there, because I’d somehow slept through the whole ruckus and the information hadn’t been passed on properly in the panic to get my mother medical care quickly.
After being unable to reach my father, I went back to the suite and waited there. And waited. I paced up and down, feeling as though I was going mad, wanting my dad so badly I felt sick with it.
Thirteen horrifying hours later, my mother’s friend Sylvie came to get me and take me home. She was the one who told me my mother was dead.
Her expression was full of abject grief, and also what I came to realise was reproach for the central part I’d played in the tragedy. It stayed with me for a long time after that, haunting my dreams.
And now here I am again – only this time it’s my father whose life is in the balance.
And once again I’m alone.
There’s an empty sort of ache in my chest, and I have a weird sense that I desperately need something to fill it or I’ll go crazy.
I know what it is I need, of course. Or rather, who.
Ben.
It’s Ben.
I want his warm, reassuring presence here with me, to keep me calm and sane. I want him to hold me and tell me it’s all going to be okay.
But I know he won’t come, even if I call him. Why would he? I made sure he’d never want to see me ever again.
I’m pacing the hallway, trying to keep panic at bay, not sure what to do with myself, when a familiar figure appears at the end of the corridor.
I stare at him, wondering whether I’m seeing things in my fucked-up state.
But I know by the way my stomach plunges and my heart starts to race that I’m not.
He’s really here.
Ben’s here.
But why?
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ he says in a worried voice as he reaches me. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Me?’ I ask stupidly. ‘It’s my father who was in the accident.’
He frowns, as if I’m talking nonsense. ‘I know that. April called me. She told me what happened.’
The elation I felt at seeing him instantly dissolves, leaving behind a heavy, hot ache of jealousy. So he’s here for April, then.
‘April’s not here yet. She’s stuck in Morocco.’ I somehow manage to force the words past my constricted throat.
‘I’m not here for April,’ he says, shaking his head in exasperation. ‘I’m here for you.’
‘Me?’ I say again, sure my ears must be playing tricks on me. He can’t be here for me. Why would he be?
Unless…
I’m suddenly hyper aware of a tremble, starting deep inside my body and radiating outwards, making my flesh prickle as it hits my skin.
‘She said she’s not been able to get hold of you, so I went over to your flat,’ I hear Ben say through the strange, distancing fog in my head. ‘When you weren’t there, I assumed you must be here already. At least I hoped so.’ He takes a breath and frowns. ‘I wanted to make sure you’re okay.’
‘Why would you do that?’ I mutter.
He sighs, as if I’m being obtuse. ‘Because I care about you, no matter what you might believe, and I didn’t want you to be alone.’
A wave of sensation passes all the way through my body from my toes to my head, like a rushing surge of electricity, quickly followed by panic as I realise I’m about to cry in front of him. My whole body begins to shake uncontrollably with the stress of holding it back.
And then suddenly everything gets even more weird and distant, and I’m vaguely aware of Ben putting his arms around me and pulling me tightly against him. I rest my head on his shoulder, experiencing blessed relief in the way this makes me feel so safe.
‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ve got you.’
I can feel his breath on the skin of my neck and the warmth and strength of his arms around me. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world and I finally allow myself to sink into it and let go.