What's Yours Is Mine (34 page)

I glance back at Dad in surprise. “How does she know?”

“She must have overheard one of the nurses talking. Susannah was in here every day. They all knew about it.”

“You'll be a wonderful mother,” Mum tells me. “Don't be afraid of it. It'll come to you.”

I squeeze her hand, not trusting myself to speak. My mother has never said she believed in me before. It means more to me than all the A grades I've ever had.

“You have to go now, Grace,” Mum says urgently.

“I'm sorry, Mum. Of course, you must be tired.” I get to my feet. “I'll go and find one of the nurses, Dad, while you sit with her—”

She grasps my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “Grace, you have to go and find Tom. You have to go now. It can't wait.”

“Mum—”

“Grace, listen to me.
You have to go to Tom now.
”

Something about her tone stirs a sharp and terrible fear deep inside me. I search her face, reading the warning there. “OK, Mum,” I say nervously. “I'll go. I'll find him.”

I drop a kiss on her forehead, and for a moment she holds me there, cupping my cheek with her dry hand. Then I straighten up, grab my coat and my bag, and practically run to the car.

I'M ALREADY ON
the road to London when I realize I have no idea where I'm going. Tom isn't answering his mobile.
I don't know the address of the flat where he's been staying; or even if he's still there. For all I know, he's moved in with
her
.

No. He's alone. I'm sure of it. Mum wouldn't be so worried otherwise.

I slam my fists on the steering wheel.
Think!
It's Sunday night. Where would he be?

Then it comes to me.
His office
. Of course! When he's upset, he always throws himself into work.

For the second time that night, I drive like a lunatic, jumping red lights and weaving dangerously in and out of traffic. It's been a while since I drove to the hospital, but I still remember the way. Thankfully, at this time of night, the roads are relatively clear. I pray to God I get to him in time. I don't understand how Mum knows he needs me, but she
knows
, the same as she knew about Ava, the same as she knew exactly what I needed to hear. Tom is in danger, and I don't have much time.

Once I reach the hospital, I abandon my car in a disabled bay by the main entrance, not caring if it gets clamped or towed. The administrative offices are in a squat wing near the back. Most are in darkness this late on a Sunday, though a few lights illuminate offices on the higher floors. The security is minimal; no one stops me as I run down the ill-lit halls, my chest tight with panic. Please God, let me be in time.
Please let me be in time
.

At first I think Tom's door is locked. Then I realize something is blocking the door. I push hard against it, and manage to ease myself into the room.

For a moment I think he's dead. His face is the color of porridge, and I can't make out the rise and fall of his chest. I drop to my knees, searching for a pulse. It's faint, but it's there.

Quickly, I grab the phone and hit the speed-dial button for ER.
If Tom had to have a heart attack
, I think,
at least he picked a hospital to do it in
.

I DON'T LEAVE
his side all night, torn between guilt and fear. Another twenty minutes, the doctor says, and it would have been too late. They can't tell me if he's going to be OK, or even if he's going to wake up. They don't know how long he was unconscious, how much damage the loss of oxygen may have done to his brain.
Touch and go
, they tell me.
The next twenty-four hours will be crucial. You may want to notify the rest of his family
.

I did this
, I think.
I brought this on. I literally broke his heart
.

A little before seven, I'm woken by a hand on my shoulder, and realize I've fallen asleep, my head resting on Tom's lap.

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” the nurse whispers, “but there's someone to see you. She says it's urgent.”

I pull myself up, wincing as the blood rushes into my limbs, and follow the nurse out of the ICU and into another bland, depressing waiting room.
I am so sick of hospitals
.

Someone is already there, sitting on the oatmeal sofa.
In this colorless room, she stands out like an exotic bird of paradise, her red hair so vibrant she looks like she's on fire.

She stands up when she sees me, but doesn't hold out her hand. “I'm Ella Stuart,” she says, “and I think I owe you an apology.”

“Yes,” I say calmly, “I think you do.”

We sit down. “Coffee?” she asks, as if we're breakfasting at Claridge's.

I shake my head. She studies her hands for a few minutes, as if gathering herself, and then looks up. “I told him to tell you,” she says. “I've kept secrets before, and it's brought me nothing but grief.”

I consider the long, elegant legs, the wide-eyed amber gaze, that extraordinary hair. I believe her.

“If it's any consolation,” she adds quickly, “the only reason Tom didn't say anything is because he didn't want to worry you.”

“Not much consolation, no.”

“You had so much on your plate already, he didn't want to add to it. And then, when we realized it was serious, it was too late to go back—”

“I'm really not interested in the details of your affair,” I say coldly. “I don't know what it is you want. I'm not going to keep you from his sickbed, if that's what you're afraid of. I'm not that cruel. But I would prefer it if you made sure we didn't have to see each other again. Perhaps we can work out some sort of schedule—”

“
An affair?
” She gapes at me. “Is
that
what you think is going on? An
affair
?”

Suddenly, I'm less certain. “He admitted it. He said he still loves me,” I add, defiantly. “He said he wanted to come home.”

“Of course he loves you! We haven't been having an affair!” Her expression softens. “Grace, I'm Tom's doctor, and his friend, but I'm certainly not his lover. There's only one woman Tom has eyes for, and that's
you
.”

“His
doctor
?”

“Well, not exactly. My field is neonatology, not cardio. But Tom's been having some experimental treatment for his migraines—it's a long story,” she sighs, seeing my look of confusion. “Tom has a patent foramen ovale, or PFO, which is a genetic, but usually not too serious, heart defect. Technically, it's a tiny hole in your heart. I'm sure he's told you. About a year ago, he started having some severe migraines, which a number of studies suggest may be related to the PFO.”

I suddenly remember last January, when the two of us went skiing in Colorado. Tom spent two days in bed with a blinding headache. At the time, we both put it down to altitude sickness.

“There's been some research linking the surgical closure of the PFO to a reduction in the number and severity of migraines, but then Tom heard about a new drug, promised to do the same thing. He wanted to join the clinical trial at the hospital in Oxford, but he didn't want to tell you. There can be some side effects, and he felt you had enough to deal with.”

I didn't want to worry you
. Oh, Tom.

As if my Tom would ever have an affair.
A drug trial
. I'd laugh at the absurdity, if he weren't in a room a hundred feet from me, fighting for his life.

“The drugs had to be administered via IV, a bit like chemo, and they made him dizzy and nauseous for a few hours, so he needed me to collect him from the hospital. I'm so sorry, Grace,” Ella says repentantly. “We should never have gone behind your back. We should have told you.”

“These side effects,” I say steadily. “Is that why he had the heart attack?”

She nods. “It's very rare, less than half a percent. Most of those were with people much older than Tom. He thought it was worth the risk.”

At some point, I'm going to have to process all of this, and come to terms with the fact that Tom couldn't tell me something so serious, so central to his life, because I was too preoccupied with my own. There was a time we could tell each other anything. I must have been so far away from him that he felt he had to do this alone. So self-involved that I didn't even notice what was happening right under my nose.

But the blame and self-recrimination can come later. This isn't about me.

Now I have to be with my husband. I have to be there when he wakes up, so that I can tell him how sorry I am. So that I can tell him I love him; that I choose him, will always choose him, for as long as he wants me.

MY LIFE IS
suspended between three hospitals. Later, when the doctors come to run more of their tests—“I don't want to worry you any more than necessary, Mrs. Hamilton, but I'm afraid we really need him to wake up soon”—I go outside to the car, which has been clamped but not yet towed, and call my father. My mother has had a good night, he tells me. They've run a dozen tests, and it's still a bit early to be sure, but they think she's going to be fine. I tell him to send her my love, and Susannah's, and close my phone.

Wearily, I rest my head on the steering wheel. There are times, even now, when I wish I were Susannah. She is probably sitting on a sun-drenched beach in Miami at the moment, drink in hand, with no worries or responsibilities. No ties.

I couldn't do it
, I realize. I may sometimes be tempted to get on a plane and leave my life behind, but I could never actually do it. It's our connection to other people that make us human.
You can't forsake the ties that bind
.

My phone rings, and I hold it in the palm of my hand, this silver bullet. For a moment, I'm tempted to hurl it into the gutter, but of course I don't. I never will.

“Yes?”

“It's Lucy at the NICU?” a perky young voice announces. “Would you be Grace?”

I'm too drained to summon fear. “Is it about Ava?”

“She's doing really well?” the girl replies. “Doctor says you can take her home today. Isn't that great? So can you
come down maybe later? There's a bit of paperwork we need to go through–”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “My husband is sick. I can't come.”

“Oh, that's too bad. Well, maybe tomorrow—”

“You don't understand. I can't come. Not today, not tomorrow. She's not my daughter. I can't look after her. I'm sorry. You'll have to find someone else.”

I close the phone. And then I switch it off, and put it carefully on the seat beside me.

I choose Tom
.

I don't remember any of it, fortunately. Out like a light. One minute I'm sitting at my desk, wondering how the hell I'm ever going to manage without Grace, and the next, there she is, sitting beside my sickbed, my own Christmas miracle. She says I actually came around two days after the heart attack, but I can't remember a thing before waking up to her on Christmas Day. Two weeks of my life lost, just like that.

Came close to cashing in my chips, they tell me. If Grace hadn't found me when she did, I'd have been singing with the heavenly choir.

Extraordinary, that whole thing. I've spoken to David Latham; he says it happened just like Grace said it did. Catherine woke up after ten months in a coma, said Grace had to go and find me, and off she went. I'm not one for psychics and spirits and all the rest of the mumbo jumbo, but I don't deny someone, somewhere, is looking out for me.

I pull the car over onto the hard shoulder, and glance
again at my scribbled directions. Got to be a turning somewhere up here on the left. Can't be far now.

Have to admit, I'm a tad nervous about this little venture. Grace'd have a fit if she knew I was driving around the Oxfordshire countryside on my own. The doc said I wasn't to get behind the wheel for six weeks, but I feel fine. It's been nearly a month since I came home. I can't sit twiddling my thumbs forever. Need to start picking up the reins again. Grace has been a bloody brick, but I can't rely on her to wait on me hand, foot, and finger forever.

When I think how close we came to losing each other, it makes my blood run cold. I was a bloody fool. I should've made more effort to understand what Grace was going through. Ella warned me. She had a similar thing happen herself a while back. Ectopic pregnancy, I think she said. Can't have children now anyway. She and her husband ended up adopting. She told me I should be a bit more sensitive, but I didn't bloody listen, did I? I thought Grace felt the same way I did: a baby would be nice, but if it wasn't meant to be, we still had each other, and a great life. I didn't have a bloody clue.

I should never have agreed to any part of Susannah's ludicrous plan. I knew it was a bad idea. The girl's a flake. It was bound to end in tears.

Grace says she's run off to America again, without a word of warning, and naturally she's left Grace to pick up the pieces. Can't say I'm surprised. The baby's being fostered now, until we can get the paperwork sorted out and put her up for adoption. Grace's decision, not mine: but as
the father, I need to sign off on it, apparently. Grace says she wants to look forward, not back.

I rejoin the road, and find myself stuck behind a tractor spitting chunks of mud onto the road. The rain is coming down in stair-rods, and I can hardly see where I'm going. I slow to a crawl. No point trying to overtake. Grace'd never forgive me if I got myself killed now.

We've done a lot of talking in the last month, Grace and I. Straightened a lot of things out. The business with Ella, for one. An affair! As if I'd ever look at another woman! Mind you, I suppose I was just as bad, jumping to conclusions when I saw Blake half-naked in my own sitting room. I was wrong about him and Grace, but I'll be honest, I'm not sure I'm ever going to see him in the same light again. He's cheated on Claudia one too many times. Makes him a hard man for anyone to trust.