Charlotte takes a Kleenex out of the little packet in her lap, hands one to Jack, who holds it carefully in his hand, as if it’s too precious to be used for wiping and blowing.
Jack is fiddling with something small and delicate in his hands. There’s a flash as it catches the light and I know what he’s holding: Cassie’s engagement and wedding rings. One of the trauma nurses would have given them to him for safekeeping. He wipes his eyes, then puts the rings in the breast pocket of his shirt. A second later, he pats the outside of his shirt, either to reassure himself the rings are still there or to check that his heart is still beating.
He breathes out. ‘Sorry, Nurse, that was the first time we’ve seen her since yesterday. It was harder than I imagined.’ His mum puts her hand on his knee and he stares, unseeing, at the floor.
‘Please don’t apologise. It’s a huge shock to see someone you care about after an accident like this.’
A phone buzzes. It’s on silent but Jack still apologises as he lifts it out of his trouser pocket, declining the call without looking at the screen. It gives me a second to look at them properly. The Jensens are an attractive duo. Jack is tall and broad without being gangly or boxy. I noticed earlier that his eyes are amber, like his mum’s, the whites laced red with worry. Charlotte’s face is a little puffy, from crying or lack of sleep or both; there are traces of old mascara and eyeliner around her eyes.
‘Can you give us an update on how she’s doing?’ Charlotte asks. ‘It’s been over twenty-four hours now and the surgeon didn’t say much.’
I sit forward in the chair. The same chair I sat in when I told Ellen’s blank children that their mother would never leave a care facility, and the same chair I cried in when I couldn’t find anyone else to cry for Frank.
‘Cassie is obviously in a serious condition. She’s in a coma but that is the body’s natural response to an extreme shock.’ I talk slowly; shock can mess with people and this is my chance to reassure them that Cassie’s in the best place for her.
‘Think of it like a building going into emergency-shutdown mode to protect itself. Cassie’s body has hopefully only temporarily shut down to assess and eventually fix any damage caused by the accident. The good news is that she is healthy, young and most importantly breathing on her own. The ventilator is just to protect her airways. Her MRI scan showed a lot of swelling around her brain from the skull fracture, which is why she has a tube in her head, measuring the pressure caused by the swelling. We are hoping the swelling is a short-term response from the accident and will decrease over the next few days, so we need to wait to see if it does go down. Before then, any more scans we do may give us inaccurate results.’
Charlotte nods gently; I think through her exhaustion, she’s trying to remember what I’m saying so she can reassure Jack in case he can’t remember later.
Jack twists the wedding band on his finger and stares at his feet. Charlotte pats his knee as I talk.
‘Hopefully, Cassie won’t be here for long before she’s moved to a rehabilitation ward but, for now, she’ll be receiving the best care possible for patients in her condition. I’ll make sure she stays comfortable and that all her needs are met until we know more about what’s going on. Until then, I’m afraid it’s a waiting game. Her body needs to rest and that’s exactly what it’s doing.’
Charlotte nods, unblinking, before she asks, ‘Is there anything we can do for her?’
‘It’s good to come and just sit with her. Talk to her if you can. It’s best to visit when you’re feeling strong and rested though. I’ve worked with coma patients for a few years and I’m quite certain they pick up on our mood and how we’re feeling.’ I don’t want to overdo it; Jack seems vacant with shock. I smile gently as I hand Charlotte the ward information leaflets and my contact details.
‘Mr Sharma, the consultant, and I were hoping to meet with you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock?’
They both nod. ‘Ten o’clock, yes,’ Charlotte says.
‘Good. Well, if you have any more questions you’ll see me around the ward.’
Jack and Charlotte are too tired to realise the conversation has come to a close so I stand up. ‘Try and get some rest,’ I tell them, before they shuffle to their feet.
They thank me and Charlotte holds my hand briefly in both her own; they feel soft from rich hand cream. Even with grey shadows underneath her eyes, and in a lumpy jumper, she is striking. Her blonde hair is sleek, streaked with lightening white and grey. Her wrinkles seem to compliment her round face, like the fine lines in soft, expensive leather. She looks like the sort of woman who at any other time would be well groomed.
‘Maisie, the dog … she’s run off before,’ she says, releasing my hand. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
I try to smile reassuringly. ‘You must try and rest.’ As they turn to leave I add, ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot to ask, does Cassie have any other family members you want me to contact? Parents, brothers or sisters?’
Charlotte talks softly, as if she’s worried Cassie will overhear even from the other end of the ward. ‘No, no, her mum died from cancer two and a half years ago and she never knew her dad. So I’m afraid it’s just us. We’ve been a close little family though, haven’t we, Jack?’ She raises a hand to her mouth.
Jack pulls her towards him, tucks her under his arm and says, ‘Come on, Mum, you’re exhausted. We need to get home.’ He guides her gently away.
Carol, Mary and I eat our home-made sandwiches together in the nurses’ room. We’re an unlikely trio in some ways, but we’ve grown close and keep an eye on each other when a patient dies or the job is getting to us. As Mary says, in reference to the first time we clicked, ‘Nothing brings people together quite like clearing up a pool of puke at four in the morning.’
Today, like most days, Mary is holding court, telling Carol and me about the Advance Decision she’s drawing up with her husband Pat. Turning sixty has made Mary more aware of her mortality. In November, soon after Frank arrived, we resuscitated a woman the same age as Mary, pumping her with chemicals. None of us wanted to, but the family was desperate. We squeezed three more days of bed-ridden unconscious life out of that poor woman. Afterwards, Mary was maudlin; she told us she’d haunt us for the rest of our lives if we ever put her through something like that.
‘I asked for a tattoo for Christmas,’ she says, running a finger between her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I want “Do Not Resuscitate” tattooed on my forehead.’
Carol and I laugh.
‘You should get “Do Not Intubate” on your upper lip while you’re at it,’ Carol says.
Mary opens a packet of crisps. ‘Not a bad idea, Caz, not a bad idea.’
Carol turns towards me. ‘You haven’t told us about your Christmas yet, Ali?’