In Too Deep (36 page)

‘It’s not really for us to judge, is it?’ Susan says harshly. ‘I mean, we don’t know their stories, what brought them to hospital, what made them start smoking in the first place.’

‘They must know it’s bad for them.’ I can’t help the tremor in my voice. I was only trying to fill an awkward moment, and now it feels ten times worse. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.’ I sip my tea to stop myself saying more, but I burn my mouth.

‘Sometimes people don’t know what’s bad for them, Gina.’

Tension crackles between us as Susan leans closer.

‘Sometimes people go through life blindly, hoping and praying that they’re doing the right thing, clinging on to what they believe is best . . .’ she looks out of the window again, before glaring back at me, ‘given the information they had.’

Each word is clipped and precise.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘The thing is,’ she goes on, ‘if you don’t know
something’s bad for you, if you don’t know that it’s doing you harm, then how can you help yourself?’ Her voice is getting louder.

‘But those smokers do know it’s bad for them—’

‘But what if they
didn’t
?’ She bangs her hand flat on the table. ‘What if they thought it was fine to smoke twenty a day? What if they even believed it was doing them
good
?’

Susan is shaking, frowning, the veins in her neck standing out. She half stands with the heels of her hands leaning on the edge of the table. I sink backwards in my chair.

‘Then they’d keep at it, wouldn’t they, Gina? Day in, day out, they’d keep chuffing on those fucking fags, wondering why they weren’t feeling on top of the world. Wondering why they were getting sicker and sicker.’

Spit collects at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes have turned black. The people at a nearby table are staring at us. I recoil even more.

‘And how long do you think they’d keep smoking before they realised it was a pack of lies?’ She glares at me, not letting up. ‘How long?’ she shouts.

‘I . . . I don’t know. Look, Susan, I really didn’t mean to upset you . . .’ I trail off. Her eyes have glazed over. For a moment I wonder if she’s been trying to quit smoking herself and is suffering from withdrawal. But no, it’s way more than that.

‘Why don’t you sit down and finish your tea?’ I suggest, and it seems I hit a moment of lucidity because she does just that.

Susan brings her cup to her mouth, her hands shaking, her jittery eyes latched on to mine.

‘But the cruellest lies of all,’ she says, quietly now, ‘are the ones we tell ourselves.’ She puts her cup down, sloshing tea into the saucer.

‘You’re not talking about smoking any more, are you?’ I say, but then I hear my phone ringing in my bag so I pull it out, answering with shaking hands. The surgeon was true to her word, updating me now that Hannah is in recovery.

As I listen, as I take in the enormity of what she’s saying, explaining everything to me precisely and calmly, I try to understand what Susan meant. For a few moments, I get a glimpse of it, almost as if we’re the same person, heading in the same direction, driven by the same things.

Then I see her eyes flick over my shoulder. Tom is back again.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ I say. ‘Thank you for everything. I’ll be up to the ward shortly.’

I’m shaking as I tuck my phone back into my bag, my heart thumping from relief and adrenalin, though also great sadness. Tom sits down beside his mother.

‘That was the surgeon.’ Everything seems unreal, as though it’s not happening to me.

‘How is Hannah?’ Susan asks.

‘She’s going to be fine,’ I say with so much relief that both tears and laughter well up. ‘She’s in recovery now.’

‘That’s such good news,’ Susan says with all her usual
warmth. It makes me wonder if I imagined how she just acted.

‘It is,’ I say, closing my eyes briefly. ‘But there was nothing they could do for the baby.’

Hannah looks pale. Almost dead. The nurse reads through the notes that came up from recovery with her, then checks her blood pressure, jotting the results down in her file. I sit beside her, stroking her limp hand. She’s semi-awake, in and out of a sleep that is so deep, I don’t think she knows where she is or what’s happened.

‘I need to go . . .’ she says, slurring her nonsense words. Her head rocks from one side to the other, then she faces me with a frown on her face. ‘The essay isn’t finished . . .’

‘Just rest, love,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t worry about any essay. You had a fall, but you’re going to be fine.’

How do I tell her that she’s lost her baby? Part of me wonders if she even knew she was pregnant, but the bigger part hates myself for not knowing until I peeled apart her pyjamas down by the lake. I’m her mother. I should have been there for her.

‘Try not to talk,’ I say as she mumbles something incomprehensible. Then her other hand goes down to her
tummy – the place where her baby was safe until an hour ago. She rubs it gently. Round and round with the flat of her hand over the top of the thin white sheet.

I drop my head down, resting it on the side of her bed.

Five months was the best estimation, the doctor said. Twenty weeks. A boy. Not quite at the point he’d have survived, even if they’d been able to operate earlier. She’d been in the first stages of labour for quite a while, the doctor confirmed. A Caesarean delivery had become necessary after the placenta began to detach.

‘The placental abruption was caused by her fall,’ the surgeon said. It was hard to take in. Severe blood loss, infection, a life-threatening risk to Hannah were all mentioned. I was holding out for the words
She’s going to be
OK
.

I look at my daughter’s beautiful face and wonder what Rick would think if he knew. Part of me is relieved he’s not here to witness this, to see the landslide of my bad parenting. Yet I’ve never needed him more. We’d somehow get through this together.

‘Oh Rick,’ I whisper into my tissue. ‘I can’t survive alone.’

I feel the gentle squeeze of Hannah’s fingers around mine.

‘Not alone . . .’ she whispers.

I bring her hand to my mouth, kissing her fingers softly. ‘Oh love,’ I say. ‘I know that. We have each other.’

Over the next hour or so, she becomes more lucid. She takes deep, shuddering breaths, as if she’s just realised
that she’s still alive. Her feet and legs twist under the sheet, but then her face crumples from pain. A nurse comes over, making some adjustments to Hannah’s pillows as well as taking her blood pressure and temperature. Her idle chit-chat dissolves the pressure cooker that’s ballooned around me.

‘How’s your pain, dear?’ she asks, holding a clipboard. ‘Can you hear me?’

The nurse smiles and looks at me, giving a little shrug.

‘All right for some. Dead to the world.’ Hannah has drifted off again, so she gives her shoulder a pat, not knowing how deep her flippant remark cuts. ‘Let me know if she seems in great discomfort.’ She walks off.

I sit quietly, losing myself in wild thoughts about what could have happened. Was it an accident or did someone deliberately hurt her – and if so, was Tom’s dad, Phil, responsible as she suggested? It could so easily have been the drugs talking, her troubled mind mixing up her thoughts. My mind races, wondering if it was someone who didn’t want her pregnant any more – the father of the baby being the obvious suspect, though asking his identity isn’t a question I can put to Hannah yet.

I consider calling Kath Lane, to let her know what’s happened, that there’s been another incident in the Forrester family. But then I worry that more fuss and drama will dilute Rick’s investigation. Perhaps even turn the spotlight on me.

Hannah groans, trying to turn over. I gently stop her, knowing she’ll hurt her wound if she does. She paws at
the cannula in the back of her hand, and again I stop her from dislodging it. Eventually she settles.

And still I wonder about the baby’s father.

Rick and I speculated that her coming home last November was due to a break-up with a boy, though a baby was never in our thoughts. She hid her little bump well, but then Hannah has never been one for tight-fitting clothes, always preferring oversized sweaters and loose tops. I think back over the last few weeks. I should have been more aware, more alert to her needs . . . Her nausea, her lack of energy, her mood, not wanting to go swimming or in the sauna . . .

With hindsight it is obvious. I should have spotted the signs, or at least considered the possibility. With hindsight, I feel like the worst mother in the world.

I must have fallen asleep. My head is on the edge of Hannah’s bed, my neck bent and stiff. A nurse taps me gently on the shoulder, telling me there’s someone waiting in the corridor, that she’s been sitting there for over an hour.

I ease my fingers from Hannah’s fist and turn to look at the clock on the wall. It’s well after lunchtime but the thought of food nauseates me. She’s still sleeping, her chest rising and falling peacefully beneath the sheets, the machines she’s connected to emitting reassuring bleeps every so often.

‘Go and say hello,’ the nurse encourages. There must have been a shift change as I don’t recognise her. ‘I’ll keep an eye on your daughter.’

Grateful to stand and stretch, I do as she suggests.

‘Susan,’ I say, stepping outside the ward. ‘You didn’t have to wait all this time.’

We parted company in the canteen. I assumed she went home.

She stands up. Her eyes look red, and she stuffs a balled-up tissue into her pocket. ‘Tom’s gone to get me some tea. But you can have it if you like. You look like you need it.’

‘I’m fine.’

Neither of us knows what to say. The very fact she is still here makes me suspicious of her motives. If we were just regular guests at her hotel, albeit it nuisance ones by now, then surely she could have just phoned to see how Hannah was? We seem way more than that to her.

‘Has Tom said anything to you?’ I ask, though no mother is going to betray her son in a corridor without knowing the truth.

‘Like what?’ As predicted, she sounds defensive.

‘I don’t mean to pry,’ I say. ‘But it’s just that Hannah said . . .’

I glance down the corridor, watching as Tom approaches with two plastic cups. His stride falters when he sees me.

‘Hello, Mrs Forrester,’ he says politely. ‘How is Hannah doing?’

‘She’s OK, Tom. She’s sleeping mostly.’ I turn to Susan again. ‘Honestly, there’s no need for you to stay.’

‘I thought you could use a lift back to get some things for Hannah. You don’t have your car here.’ She gives me
her cup of tea. I take it gratefully. ‘Or if you prefer, I could fetch whatever you need.’

The thought of Susan rooting through our stuff isn’t appealing, even though she has access to our room anyway.

‘That’s really kind,’ I say, considering the practicalities. They said Hannah will be in hospital for several days, plus I absolutely have to get back for Cooper. A taxi would be expensive. ‘Thank you. Maybe we could go shortly, while she’s still quite sleepy. There’s nothing much I can do for her at the moment.’

Half an hour later I’m sitting beside Susan in the front of her Audi, conscious that Tom is right behind me, that he’s staring at me in the wing mirror. I catch his eye once or twice, looking away immediately. But when I glance back, he’s still staring, his pupils wide and glassy.

Before we left, I finished my tea at Hannah’s bedside, and it was almost as if the drink somehow revived her too. By the time I finished, she was sipping on water and sitting up in bed a little, even making noises about being hungry.

‘That’s music to your mum’s ears, young lady,’ the nurse remarked when Hannah said she might be able to manage a sandwich.

She was right. These days, I have to take the simple pleasures when they come, pluck the tiny positives from life just to keep going. Without them, there isn’t much else.

‘I’ll make sure someone comes round with the food trolley, love.’ The nurse adjusted Hannah’s pillows and poured her some more water. Satisfied with her observations, she went off to another patient.

Hannah looked at me. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said weakly.

‘For what?’ I’d nearly finished my tea. Susan was waiting in the corridor.

‘For finding me. For not judging me.’

So she knew about the baby.

‘I just want you to be OK,’ I said.

The reality of what had happened wasn’t even close to sinking in. A baby inside my baby.

I left then, each of us too raw to talk about what had happened. I told her I’d be back in an hour or two with her stuff – her phone and charger, her toiletries, some comfortable clothing.

‘Will you bring Oscar?’ she said through teary eyes.

I gave a silent nod. Oscar is Jacob’s battered old rabbit. She’s slept with it every night since he died. I can’t help wondering what secrets Oscar keeps.

‘Please, stay on at the hotel for as long as you need,’ Susan says as we pull up outside. ‘There’s no charge.’ Tom gets out of the car immediately, walking briskly up to the entrance and disappearing inside. He was silent the entire journey home.

‘Thank you,’ I say, almost flinching as Susan’s hand reaches for mine. ‘Hannah said someone was with her when she fell.’

Susan is about to open the door but stops.

‘She said it was Phil.’

Her hand drops from the door. She looks at me, giving a little frown. ‘That’s not possible,’ she says calmly. ‘Phil’s in Seattle. He’s not due back until next Thursday.’ She swallows loudly.

‘Could he have come back early?’

‘No,’ she replies, opening the door. ‘No, he couldn’t have.’

I watch as she gets out, heading up to the hotel. As an afterthought I call out to her, saying that I’m going to see if my car is fixed. But when I walk up to where I left it with the mechanic, I find it’s gone. I check my messages, learning that he had to take it away. A spare part needed ordering, plus specialist equipment in the workshop was required to fit it. All being well, they’ll be able to return it late tomorrow.

On a whim, I decide to head up to the stable block garage to take another look at the Range Rover’s dents, but when I get there, I see one of the up-and-over doors has been left slightly open. And when I peer inside the garage, there’s an empty space. The dark green vehicle has gone.