Second Chances Part 41

'Good, I hope. I'll be working with a colleague. He'll talk again to the school, to the family doctor and maybe others. I'd like to meet the rest of the family. Finn obviously can't speak for himself just yet.'

'Just a minute.' I stare incredulously as what she's said sinks in. 'You want to talk to Finn?'

'If our initial screening doesn't eliminate this as accidental, he may be interviewed. Don't worry. It would be done very sensitively.'

'That's ludicrous, Kura! If he recovers-and I'd remind you that at the moment it's if-he won't remember a b.l.o.o.d.y thing.' I'm confident on this point. People with severe head injuries have amnesia about their accident, in my experience. 'Anyway, I've told you fifty times that he was asleep-he never woke up.'

'These incidents are not generally isolated. Any interview with Finn wouldn't focus only on the fall itself, but on the bigger picture. Look, I can see the idea distresses you. Shall we cross the bridge when we come to it?'

'I wish you'd leave us alone.' I reach for Dad's hand. 'There's a tiny sc.r.a.p of a boy up there, hanging onto life by a thread. All we can think about right now-'

An incoherent cry of joy rings across the cafeteria. Dad leaps to his feet and turns to face a slender young woman as she hurls herself between the tables, knocking over a chair. Before we can blink, Sacha has careered into him, flinging her arms around his neck. 'Grandpa,' she sobs. 'Grandpa.'

'I've missed you,' says Dad. He encircles his granddaughter with both arms, almost lifting her off the ground. 'My beautiful, beautiful girl. I've missed you too much.'

Kura slips tactfully away. When she returns ten minutes later, Kit and Charlie have joined us too. The very sight of her grandfather seems to revive Sacha. She can't get close enough, sitting almost on top of him and b.u.t.ting her head into his shoulder.

Charlie is entrenched in his lap, clinging to his jersey like a baby koala bear. He keeps taking his grandfather's head in his hands and turning it to face his own. 'Talk to me, Grandpa,' he whines. 'Not them. Me.'

'A much-loved grandparent,' says Kura quietly.

We visit the intensive care unit in small groups. Sacha and Dad go up, followed by Kit, Charlie and me. We weren't sure whether Charlie ought to see Finn in such a distressing state, but he begged so frantically that we gave in. I think I was hoping for a miracle, like in the films: Finn would hear Charlie's voice and open those poor, bruised eyes, and say h.e.l.lo, and the doctor on duty would look astonished and say it's a first in medical history, he's out of danger, and we'd all sit on his bed and laugh during the closing credits.

The reality is pitiful. At first, Charlie tries to talk to his twin. Then he shouts and has to be shushed. Finally, desperate for some response, he offers to lend Finn his ultimate treasure-Blue Blanket. When even this sacrifice fails, he begins to roam angrily around the ward. We have to bring him away. He's troubled for the rest of the day, alternating between violence and white-faced silence.

Then Kura speaks to Kit in a family room. He tells me later that she cross-examined him about our row. He informed her that it was a private matter and he b.l.o.o.d.y well wasn't going to air his dirty laundry in her tumble dryer. All couples had their spats, he said, and we had plenty. Always had, always would. We were both strong characters and that made for a great partnership. If he had his time again, he'd marry me all over again.

She called the motel, whose manager bemusedly confirmed that at midnight on Monday, a Kit McNamara checked into a studio unit. Irish bloke-did she want his vehicle registration? Dark hair. Tired. Yes, it was doc.u.mented. Yes, he was quite certain. How many Irishmen did she think came ringing his bell at midnight? What kind of an establishment did she think he was running there?'

'b.u.g.g.e.r,' I moan, when Kit relays this conversation.

'b.u.g.g.e.r?' He smiles tiredly. 'The heat's off. I'm in the clear.'

'Now she'll harry me instead. She'll think I lost my temper because you stormed out on me. The woman's like Sherlock b.l.o.o.d.y Holmes.'

'Ah, don't worry. You've nothing to hide.'

That's what he thinks, whispers Mum.

Thirty-nine.

For a week we float in limbo between hospital and home, between hope and terror.

Sacha crashes after visiting Finn, curled tight and grey and dried-out in her room, like a dead spider. Ira and Tama return to their ordinary lives but kindling is magically chopped, the stove stoked, the lamb and the dog fed and cared for. Our phone rings all day-parents from the school, neighbours, all wanting to help; our kitchen groans with baking and ca.s.seroles, with get-well cards for Finn and toys for Charlie, many left by people I barely know.

Lillian, inevitably, makes a four-course banquet out of my absence from work. She reminds me that I've only just taken some leave. I remind her that my son is in the intensive care unit. She launches into a rant, but I accidentally cut her off in mid-sentence. Whoops. Must have pressed the b.u.t.ton by mistake.

Keith calls five minutes later and forbids me to show so much as a toe at Capeview before Finn is safely on the road to recovery. Yes, of course they'll manage. Tsk tsk, do I think I'm indispensable? The next afternoon I arrive home from the hospital to find a vast bouquet of flowers on our doorstep, along with a card signed by everyone at work. Lillian's name is written in very small, repressed letters; but then she is a very small, repressed woman.

As I carry the flowers into the house, Dad holds out the phone. 'Your big sister for you.'

Dropping my burden in the sink, I take the receiver and m.u.f.fle it against my chest. 'How's Sacha been?' I whisper to Dad.

'Poor la.s.s seems to be in pain. I gave her some St John's wort.' Dad waggles his fingers, sketching a goodbye. 'I'm off to the hospital.'

I wave, then lift the phone to my ear. 'Louisa, for goodness' sake go back to bed! It must be five in the morning up there.'

'I'm coming over.' Lou's voice is br.i.m.m.i.n.g with emotion. 'I can be with you by the weekend.'

I smile down the line. 'I love you! But no, you can't. How will your children manage, poor motherless creatures?'

'Philip's found a nanny agency.'

'Thank you. And thanks to Philip, too. But Dad's here. Come another time, when we aren't in such chaos and can really show you around. You're going to fall in love with this place. You might even decide to stay!'

There's a f.a.g-inhaling pause. 'But you'll be coming home, now this has happened.'

'Um . . . Actually, we aren't thinking that far ahead. At the moment we're just taking one day at a time.'

She sounds mystified. 'You need to come home.'

I look at the Capeview flowers in the sink, the cards and m.u.f.fins and meals left for us. I look out into our garden, down our valley. I can smell the spring pasture. It occurs to me that we are already home. But I don't say so.

When Pamela and Jean return from their holiday, it takes half an hour for them to hear the news and arrive at the kitchen door. My heart lifts. 'Come in, come in! You're a sight for sore eyes,' I enthuse, flinging the door wide. 'They're all at the hospital. Just Charlie and me holding the fort.' I don't mention Sacha.

Pamela embraces me wordlessly. My friend seems distressed, her mouth set and her clothes less ordered than usual.

'How is he?' asks Jean, who is clutching a frozen lasagne.

'We're so lucky. They saved his life.' I've embarked on my story when Charlie potters into the room, looking vacant and pressing Blue Blanket to one ear. The Colberts greet him with cries of affection. I thought he'd be pleased to see them, but he just holds his hands up to me like a weary toddler.

I sit him on my lap at the table, while he regards the visitors with possum eyes.

I rub his back. 'Charlie's less than half a man without his twin. He wakes up every night and cries for him.'

'Indeed. They're a double act,' murmurs Jean.

Without a word, Charlie pokes his foot into Jean's comfortable stomach. When the Frenchman tickles his toes, he giggles silently behind his thumb. Pamela reaches out and strokes his silky curls as I tell the tale for the hundredth time: how Finn was walking in his sleep; how he suddenly climbed onto the balcony and toppled over. I have told and retold it so often that it has become reality-I can actually see it all quite clearly, happening in exactly the way I describe. It has become a part of our family history. It has become true.

Charlie takes out his thumb. 'Finn went in an 'elicopter.'

'We'll have to go and see him, won't we?' says Pamela. 'When he's a bit better.'

'I think he might be dead,' says Charlie. 'I talked to him and he didn't wake up.'

Pamela and Jean tut, and I clutch him closer. 'Finny's not dead, sweetheart. They've just made him sleep very deeply while he gets better.'

'He had a big pipe shoved up his nose. That would really really hurt. Someone should pull that out.'

My throat tightens. 'That's to help him breathe. It doesn't hurt.'

Charlie shrugs uncertainly. I can see his mind whirring, full of questions he's afraid to ask. 'So . . . no, I think he's probably dead. They cut his brains out.'

As they stand to leave, the Colberts offer babysitting and meals and lamb feeding. They promise to come back whenever we need them. They mean it.

'Odd thing.' Pamela hesitates, her hand on the doork.n.o.b. 'There's a message on our phone from someone at Child, Youth and Family.'

'Ah.'

'They want to talk to us about Finn's accident. But what's the point of that? We weren't even here.'

'They'd like to know if we're a dysfunctional family,' I say, uncomfortably aware that we are precisely that. 'You know, the sort who would grab their five-year-old and chuck him off a balcony.'

There's a chorus of scandalised tongue-clicking. Jean's eyebrows shoot right off the top of his head and hover in the air. 'Extraordinary!'

'Ooh!' His wife pushes up her sleeves, wearing her hungry seagull expression. 'I can't wait to call them back.'

On the fifth day, a team begins to wake Finn. They're at pains to explain that this might be a very slow process. He could be confused or agitated initially, and there may be false starts. If he seems too distressed they'll put him under again and wait until tomorrow. Kit and I are on tenterhooks.

'We might even have our Finn back by tonight,' says Kit hopefully, as we drive together to the hospital. He looks pinched and anxious, which is how I feel.

If he's still in there, I think, neurotically searching for wood to touch.

They varied the drugs last night, but begin to try to bring Finn to the surface at about midday. We've dug out the boys' Mr Men tape, and a play specialist comes along to help. She has the tape running quietly.

It's a slow process, all right. I see Finn's eyes open for the first time, just slits because they are still grossly swollen. He begins to wail, jerking his limbs and trying to tear at the line in his arm. He sounds like an animal in pain. I want to shout at them to stop, to leave him in peace.

Kit takes his hand. I can hear the urgency in his voice. 'C'mon, Finny. C'mon. Please, my friend. Come back.'

Finn makes an odd gargling sound. Then his eyes close, though his body is still tense. I think they've increased the anaesthetic just enough to put him under.

Sometime later, they try again. This time the eyes look blankly at me, at Kit, at the strangers who surround him. He doesn't seem to know us at all. We talk to him, talk gibberish, trying to sound calm and jovial, but he just doesn't register at all. It's deeply disturbing. Then his eyes close.

Making an excuse, I run out of the ward. I stumble blindly down the corridor, lock myself into a toilet and have a meltdown. By the time I return, the team have disappeared and a nurse is monitoring Finn's machinery.

'They reckon it's up to Finn now,' says Kit. 'They're going to do more tests and things tomorrow.'

As day wears into evening, sheer screaming panic begins to take hold of me. 'Perhaps his soul is already gone,' I whisper, and feel the answering pressure of Kit's hand in mine.

'Our boy's there all right,' he insists doggedly. 'I can hear him yelling in there. I can feel all that craziness and fun. I'm not moving. I'm going to sit right here in this chair until he comes back to me.'

Kit's pa.s.sionate faith keeps me from collapse, but I can't hear Finn yelling, not at all. I imagine the years pa.s.sing: Finn as an adolescent, a grown man; a thirty-year-old body, needing to be shaved and fed and have his toenails cut, but unable to die. An empty Finn, with no trace of the wicked smile and brilliant eyes.

At eight o'clock, Dad phones.

'No news,' I say unsteadily.

'Charlie is going to bed now. He's been quite upset. I wondered when you'll be coming home? You'll be needing to rest, yourselves.'

I say I'll call him back. Then I lean into Kit. We pinned such hopes on this day.

'Go on home,' Kit says, nuzzling my hair. 'Charlie's going to wake up in the night and he needs one of us there at least.'

'I want to stay with you. With Finn.'

Kit fumbles clumsily in his pocket and hands me the car keys. 'Go home and get some rest. Witch doctor's orders.'

It's awful, leaving my husband and son among the lights and buzzers and death. In the end Kit walks me to the door of ICU and more or less pushes me out. I drive home in a fog of horror and exhaustion. We're starting a different life, with a different Finn. I know the old Finn isn't coming back. He is lost.

Someone has written in the chapel book: You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Why create such brilliance if all along you were planning to destroy it?

I stop by our letterbox at the sight of a misshapen parcel. Even in the starlight, I recognise Louisa's oversized handwriting. I open it in the kitchen where Dad is waiting for me.

'Slippers, books . . . posh colouring pencils . . . a magic set! My sister is amazing.' There's a card as well, signed by everyone including a rather revolting s...o...b..r mark from Thundering Theo. I leave it all on the table and slump over the stove, haunted by Finn's empty eyes.

'What's the worst that can happen?' asks Dad, resting a cup of tea beside me.

'Head injuries.' I blow out my cheeks. 'They're my Room 101; my greatest fear.'

'But the people you work with are bound to be at the higher end of the scale?'

'True. And a lot of them recover, though it can take years. But Dad, some never come back. I talk to the families and they say it just isn't the same person. They're mourning for the parent or wife or child they've lost forever.' I describe Gareth, the pilot, who is soon to be rehabilitated home to his grieving parents. 'I don't think he'll ever attain anything like normality. Thirty years old, and he's condemned to a twilight life.'

'Will his parents be able to manage?'

'They aren't young. They'll care for him until they drop, and then . . . well. There aren't many options.'

'The doctors are optimistic for Finn, though?'

'Ah, well. They're feeling pretty pleased with the way the trauma was managed-and yes, it was managed brilliantly. I can see that now, although I was in a flat spin at the time. Really impressive. But a success from their point of view could still be a tragedy from ours.'

'We'll soon know, either way.'

'It was horrible, Dad. He opened his eyes but there was n.o.body in there. The lights weren't . . .' I swallow a sob. 'Lights weren't on. I don't know if the lights will ever come on again.'

'He was always a bright little spark,' insists Dad. 'Such a clever look in those eyes, right from the day he was born! He'll come back, I'm sure.'

We sit by the stove until the early hours, talking about many things but always coming back to Finn. I ask how Sacha's been faring.