Chapter Forty-Seven
I’ve been dreading this moment.
It’s his voice, travelling from the nurses’ station, that tells me the reunion I’ve been dreading is almost upon me and I find myself desperately searching the room for somewhere to hide.
But there is nowhere within the barren four walls of this tiny hospital room for me to curl up and pretend this isn’t about to happen.
‘And you didn’t think to call me?’ He’s pissed off, the words clipped and full of that same sense of superiority that makes my skin crawl.
‘We’re sorry, Mr Ingram.’ The nurse sounds like she’s grovelling and I know that deep down he must be enjoying making her feel so small.
‘I’ll be telling the hospital director about this.’ He could never just let something go. He always had to make the formal complaint, send back the plate of food, get the manager. Is there a name for a male Karen?
‘Would you like to see her now?’ the nurse asks and my insides involuntarily coil in horrendous anticipation.
‘I’m not even going to dignify that question with a response.’ That was always one of his favourite lines and the irony was never lost on me that, by virtue of saying it, he was actually dignifying the question with a response. But I never pointed that out to him.
‘Of course, Mr Ingram.’ The nurse somehow retains a calm tone.
I pretend to be asleep when he comes into the room. It’s petty and childish but I want to stretch every moment that this might not actually be happening. Until I open my eyes and register him there I can still convince myself this is nothing more than a bad dream.
‘Bethany?’ My name sounds wrong on his lips, even though there’s a surprising amount of affection in the word.
I still haven’t opened my eyes.
‘Bethany?’ This time the affection is reduced to merely a trace, his irritation in me not performing to his absolute expectations already trumping his relief that I’m finally awake. ‘Bethany?’ He’s far louder on this third time he says my name.
I gird myself and slowly slowly slowly flutter my eyes open.
And there he is.
The biggest mistake I never made.
Nick Ingram.
My husband in this nightmare world.
A doctor comes to talk to the both of us.
It’s not the same as the one yesterday. I haven’t seen her since I woke up, no opportunity to ask the million questions bubbling in my head about my own health.
This doctor is male and grey-haired and so much of a stereotype it’s almost funny.
Or at least it might be funny if it was happening to someone else.
‘Thank you for waiting for me before you spoke with my wife,’ Nick tells him, shaking his hand with the kind of vigour that makes him look like an overly pretentious twat. I try not to outwardly bristle at the misogynistic undertones of his words.
‘We like to make sure both parties are present,’ the doctor replies. I want to scream at them that I am the one in the hospital bed. That it is me who is sick. Me who they should be talking to. But what do I matter?
‘Will she be okay?’ Nick asks, sounding every inch the concerned husband. He almost convinces me for a moment. When did he become such a good actor?
‘As long as we control the heart element, she’ll make a full recovery.
’ The doctor throws me a paternal look. Clever girl his eyes say, and I want to slap his stupid face.
‘She’ll need plenty of physical therapy, but you did the right thing by starting that while she was in the coma to avoid catastrophic muscular entropy. ’
‘You said she might have some lingering …’ Nick pauses as if gearing himself up to say something less than savoury. ‘Issues,’ he adds eventually, a tiny curl to his lip. ‘From the coma.’
‘She’ll be disorientated for a while. She may even be a touch skittish, it’s a lot for a girl to go through.’
I want to tell him I’m not a girl, that I’m almost thirty and I have a fucking PhD.
‘She’ll need a strong pair of hands to guide her through this.’
That’s it. Fuck this shit. ‘You know that I can talk? That I’m not some fragile doll who needs to be taken care of? I have a PhD. And an actual Horizons Award.’ I’m defiant, my righteousness blazing like a fire. I feel alive for the first time in days.
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Nick strokes my forehead. ‘It really has messed you up a bit, hasn’t it?’ He sounds like he’s talking to a five-year-old. And one he thinks is somewhat dumb, even for a child that age. The doctor and Nick share a look. Pity.
‘The delusion is normal,’ the doctor says.
‘Delusion?’ I can feel my fire dampening.
‘Oh, sweetheart. Do you really think you have a PhD?’
‘Yes. In theoretical physics. From Imperial.’
He smirks. As if I’m amusing him. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I promise you don’t. And what is this skyline award?’
‘Horizons Award.’ I correct. ‘It’s very prestigious.’
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ More pity drips from the words and I vow to punch him in the face if he calls me sweetheart one more time. ‘I don’t think that’s a real thing.’
But … I can feel the cool of the glass award against my palm, the weight of it giving a satisfying heft.
I remember joking with Cesca that it would make a rather good murder weapon.
She had laughed so hard champagne had sprayed from her nose and then we’d had to go to the bathroom to touch up her running mascara.
But … I can also feel the cool of the platinum band on my fourth finger, feel the way it digs into the flesh, branding me.
Telling the whole world that not only did I marry this jerk, but I also gave up the very thing that made me …
well … me. Getting my PhD was the first step and then winning that award was my ticket into my company.
Without it, I have no job, no series of articles in New Scientist, no potential book deal with Tyler Adams, no flat paid for with my own salary and full of all the little things that give meaning to my life.
Which Bethany am I?
Am I Bethany Raven, PhD, Horizons Award winner and kick-ass futurologist?
Or am I Bethany Ingram?
What if Bethany Ingram is all I’ve ever been?