‘What’s happening?’ he asked. ‘Where is she?’
‘They’re trying to stabilise her, she’s still in Casualty.’
‘Can we see her?’
Debbie shook her head. Chris stepped back a pace; he needed to sit down. She sat beside him; her fingers sought out the end of the zip on her top and she plucked at it.
‘Debs?’ He needed to know: how is she, will she be all right? But was too scared to ask. Christ, he hated hospitals. With the baby, Debbie’s first pregnancy, they’d been in and out. Bed rest and observations, scans and tests and, at the end of the day, none of it had worked. Nearly three years to conceive and the baby miscarried at five months. Then Ann-Marie, their little miracle.
‘Debs?’ He begged her again.
She began to tell him about the accident, speaking quietly in fits and starts, trying to steady her voice. She was a nurse; she would know the score. He feared she was building up to bad news, thinking that if she started with the where and the when, the facts of the matter, told it all in sequence, that he’d somehow be able to take the truth when she got there.
‘We were waiting to cross. I was talking to one of the other mums. Ann-Marie,’ her voice lilted dangerously, ‘was waiting. There was nothing coming… I know that… I remember that, and she stepped out. I remember thinking, it’s OK, there’s no traffic… Then this car, it just came from nowhere, so fast. All at once, they were there… Ann Marie,’ her voice broke and she made a flapping motion with one hand, the other darting up to press against her mouth. ‘They drove off,’ she blurted out.
He put his arm around her and pulled her close, his chin on her head. He felt hot inside, his heart swollen with rage. They hadn’t stopped! The image of Ann-Marie tossed, falling, scalded him and his eyes and throat ached. He ground his teeth together.
‘They were very quick,’ Debbie spoke eventually. ‘The ambulance. Really quick. She was unconscious.’
He couldn’t speak but he nodded. She didn’t add anything else. More pictures danced in his head: his daughter crushed and bloodied, limbs bent this way, that way, the wrong way. Eyes closed, peaceful. Eyes open flaring in pain. Her body twitching.
Some minutes later, Debbie sat up, pulled away from him and wiped at her face.
He stared at the wall opposite. Another row of polypropylene bucket chairs, a notice board with signs on reminding people of the hospital’s no smoking policy, of the cost of missed appointments, exhorting people to ring up if they couldn’t attend. He gazed at the fluorescent lights, at the vinyl flooring and the skirting board and the chairs opposite.
