Her Perfect Lies. Lana Newton
London sky outside wasn’t grey but a vivid purple. She watched the last traces of sunlight disappear, and then, out of nowhere, the rain came. It battered the lone oak tree outside, and the leaves thrashed in the wind. Over the music she could hear their rustle. This sky, this oak tree, the room she was in, the cafeteria down the hall – these were the boundaries of her world. Beyond them, she knew nothing.
The music stopped and she turned sharply away from the window. She could sense his gaze. The man standing in the doorway was tall, and she felt dwarfed by him. They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds too long – Claire, her cheeks flush with rouge, eyes filled with fear, and her husband, impeccably dressed, unsmiling, unfamiliar.
‘Hi, Claire.’ The man took a few steps in her direction.
‘Hi, Paul.’ In two weeks she had seen him twice. Now he had finally come to take her home.
‘Feeling better today?’
She didn’t know how to answer his question. Better than two weeks ago? Yes. But better in general? She couldn’t remember what that felt like. ‘I still get headaches. But my back is almost healed.’ She peered into his face. There were wrinkles around his eyes and dark stubble on his chin. She didn’t have it in her heart to tell him he was a stranger to her. But he was looking at her as if she was a stranger, too. His eyes remained cold.
‘Do you have everything?’ he asked.
‘I just need to say goodbye. Wait here for me? I won’t be long.’
She made her way down a busy corridor, navigating gurneys, trolleys and people. She had made this trip many times before, could probably do it with her eyes closed – a left turn, twenty uncertain paces, another left, down two flights of stairs and a right. The door she wanted was hidden behind a pillar, tucked away from prying eyes. You could easily walk past and not even know it was there. Today it was wide open, as if inviting her in.
It was quiet in the room, no music playing, no television murmuring in the background, no eager visitors with their chatter and flowers. Only the heartbeat of the machines, like clocks counting down the seconds, and the ventilator puffing, struggling, breathing in and out. If nurses or doctors spoke in here, they did so in hushed voices, as if they were afraid of disturbing the man on the bed. Which was ironic because all they wanted was for him to wake up.
Outside the window was the hospital car park, a noisy anthill of activity, with ambulances screeching and cars vying for spaces. The rumble of engines was a muffled soundtrack to the man’s artificial existence. She felt grateful for the oak tree outside her room, for the peace and quiet. She would have hated having nothing but cars to look at. But the man didn’t care. He was asleep.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Claire took his hand. After two weeks, this gesture had become a habit. Day after miserable day she would do it on autopilot, looking into the man’s face, studying his lifeless features. Today she could swear his eyelids were moving. She wanted to ask the doctor if it meant anything. Fluttering eyelids – was it a sign? Was he about to wake up? Or was it her imagination showing her what she wanted to see?
‘Your father, is it?’ A nurse crept up behind her silently, like a cat. She looked a little like a cat too, scruffy and ginger, her eyes cagey. She paused next to the man’s bed, removed the chart from its folder and checked the monitors. ‘You look just like him.’
The man’s skin was grey today, more so than usual. His face was gaunt, his body a skeleton on the white sheet.
‘Yes,’ said Claire. ‘I’m waiting for him to wake up, so he can tell me about my life.’
If the nurse was surprised, she didn’t show it. ‘Are you a patient here?’
Claire didn’t answer but turned away from the nurse and towards her father. The woman’s mouth opened as if to repeat her question, but at the last moment she seemed to change her mind. Her eyes darted over Claire’s face as she made a few notes on the chart and placed it back. ‘I hope he pulls through,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll pray for him. And for you.’
She was already out the door when Claire called out, ‘Can he hear me? If I talk to him, can he hear?’
The ginger head reappeared in the doorway. ‘They do believe so. I mean, after all the research they’ve done. Speak to him, tell him you love him. It will help.’ The nurse nodded as she spoke, as if for emphasis. Her eyes filled with compassion.
Claire squeezed the man’s fingers. Ever so slightly she shook him, pushed his shoulder with her tiny fist, willing him to open his eyes. His hand felt cold in hers, a dead weight pulling down. She brought it to her face and saw her tears fall on the calluses of his palm. These hands held me when I was a child, she thought. These lips, now motionless, read bedtime stories and kissed me goodnight. How could she have forgotten all that? It didn’t seem possible. Memories like that were part of one’s DNA, only gone when life itself was gone. She leant over, pressing her lips to his forehead. ‘Wake up, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘I need you.’
She had spent the last two weeks feeling guilty. Guilty that she was awake, while her dad was unconscious. That she could walk, look out the window, enjoy the pale sunlight and the meagre hospital food. And now she felt guilty she was leaving this place, returning to what once had been her normal existence, while he was stuck in this bed, not yet dead, but not quite alive either.
On the way back she walked slowly, delaying the inevitable, not ready to leave the familiar for the unknown.
Paul was waiting in her room. ‘Time to go,’ he said and his lips stretched into a smile. Even to her confused, drug-addled mind, it looked forced. Glancing away, she nodded quickly and reached for her bag. Her whole life, all two weeks of it, packed into a small travel case. Paul walked out without touching her. As she waited for him to talk to the doctors and sign the paperwork, she felt sweat drops on her forehead. Her throat was dry.
The nurses came to say goodbye. As she hugged them, she cried like she was parting with the only family she had.
In the car Paul was silent. The only sound was the swish-swish-swish of windscreen wipers as they sped through the rain. There was so much she wanted to know. How did we meet? How long have we been married? Do we make each other laugh? Are we happy? She didn’t ask any of those questions. Instead, she said, ‘Where were we going?’
‘What?’ Paul startled as if she woke him from a dream.
‘Dad and I – where were we going on the day of the accident?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’
Shadows loomed outside the car window – trees, houses, lampposts. Claire watched them whiz past at forty miles an hour. She could make out manicured lawns, flowers and driveways. Some windows were dark, others brightly lit. She imagined a different life inside each one. Perhaps a married couple sitting down to dinner before retiring to bed to read and fall asleep in each other’s arms. Or a grandfather listening to his grandson play the piano.
‘Do I have any other family?’ she asked as they turned onto a motorway. There were no more houses, no more lights, only dark skies and even darker trees.
‘There’s your mother.’
‘She never visited me at the hospital. Why is that?’
For a moment he looked confused. ‘I was surprised when I didn’t see her there. I expected her to be by your side at a time like this.’
I have a mother, she thought. Squeezing her eyes shut, she searched for a recollection. If she reached deep enough, if she focused hard enough, would she be able to see her mother’s face? That wasn’t something one could easily forget. Not even someone like her. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she dug her nails into the soft skin at the back of her wrist. She wondered what her mother was like. Had she taken her to ballet classes when she was little? Had she stayed up late baking cupcakes for her birthdays? Did she look just like her, only slightly older?
‘Any brothers