I want Dad to recover. I want him to forgive me for distancing myself, for not understanding he had my best interests at heart. Whether I agree or not, it was because he loves me. In his own way, yes, but he loves me. And I love him.
I quicken my pace. I’m anxious to get to Dad’s ward. I don’t want to waste any more time. Time is precious, there’s never enough time.
Walking into the small ward, I glance across at the other beds. All three are empty. Only Dad is in the ICU. A nurse sits at the desk writing up notes. She looks up and gives a smile of acknowledgement.
Mum and Fiona are sitting either side of Dad’s bed. They look tired. I guess by the inactivity that nothing has changed over the course of the afternoon.
‘I closed a bit early. The café was quiet. How is he?’ I ask approaching the bed. As I do, his leg jerks. I look at Mum and Fiona. ‘Did you see that?’
‘He’s done that a few times now,’ says Mum. ‘It’s a good sign. Involuntary movement. It means he’s not in such a deep coma.’
I latch onto her words. Coma. He’s still in a coma.
Fiona pats the chair next to her. ‘Come and sit down,’ she says. ‘The next twenty-four hours are crucial. The sooner he comes round, the better.’
‘What about any long-term…’ I search for the right word. ‘What’s the long-term prognosis?’
‘They won’t be able to tell properly until Dad’s conscious,’ says Fiona.
The speed at which my feelings towards Dad align themselves with him surprises me and I settle into the chair at his bedside as I get used to this new emotion.
I must have nodded off, which is quite a feat given the hardness of the plastic chair, when I’m woken by Fiona tugging on my arm.
There’s a flurry of activity as Mum calls the nurse over.
Dad’s arms are flailing around. His eyes flutter open and then close again. I can see lots of REM behind his eyelids and he lets out an indistinguishable sound from the back of his throat.
His eyes come open again, this time for a bit longer, but he struggles to focus.
‘Jim. Hello, Jim,’ says the nurse, leaning towards him. ‘Can you hear me?’
Dad’s eyes hold her gaze for a moment before they roll back and his lids droop. They are in a half-open, half-closed state.
The nurse assures us this is normal and he could have several episodes like this. He is, after all, coming round from a very deep sleep. Each time he’ll be able to stay awake for longer.
‘I’ll be right here,’ she says, going back to her desk. ‘Just talk gently to him each time he comes round. I’ll let the doctor know.’
Her smile reassures me. It’s routine to her. Nothing she’s not expecting.
While we sit watching Dad breathe in and breathe out, now and again accompanied by little jerks or movements of his body, I think of Roisin.
‘Did Fiona tell you about Roisin?’ I ask Mum.
‘Yes, she did,’ says Mum. ‘Sure, she’ll turn up safe and sound.’
‘Diana’s been sedated,’ I say. The similarity of Diana and my father’s situation is not wasted on me.
‘Lucky her,’ says Mum. It’s an out-of-character comment. I shoot a look at Fiona, who shrugs, a look of surprise on her face.
‘I thought Roisin would have turned up by now,’ I say. ‘I mean, it must be getting on for twenty-four hours now. Have you heard from Sean if they’ve found her yet?’
‘No, nothing at all. He phoned me earlier to say that he would probably have to work late,’ says Fiona. ‘They’re extending the search. I think she’s officially missing now.’
‘God, I hope she’s okay,’ I say. ‘Despite everything, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ says Mum. ‘Will you listen to yourselves?’ Both Fiona and I jump at the outburst from Mum. I look over at the nurse, who raises her head but returns to her paperwork.
‘Mum…’ says Fiona.
‘No, don’t Mum me. That girl is trouble and don’t you two pretend she’s not. Sitting there all concerned for her.’ Mum leans forwards over the bed. ‘I don’t care if I never see that girl again. That Marshall family have brought nothing but trouble to us. What goes around, comes around, I say.’ She sits back in her chair, folding her arms and maintaining a defiant look.
‘You can’t be saying things like that,’ says Fiona. ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’
‘No. No, I don’t want a cup of tea. Don’t patronise me,’ says Mum. The anger is still in her voice. ‘You think I’m a silly old woman who doesn’t know anything. Well, I tell you now. I know everything.’