‘I love you too, darling. We’ll see you soon.’
‘Goodbye, Mum.’
‘Goodbye, dear.’
I step over the broken china, to look for paper and a pen in the drawer of the television stand and write a note telling him where I am going. To stop him being angry when he discovers that I have gone.
The note left beside the television, and the china and my tears left on the floor, I push down the door handle to get out.
The patio door glides open with a whisper, keeping my departure a secret. He will not know I have gone for a while. I’ll use the back gate into the alley beside the house.
The sound of a lawnmower cutting grass in a nearby garden enters the living room. The breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass and the sweet perfume of the mauve wisteria flowers that dangle from the plant above the door.
The note I left by the TV blows off the side and flutters to the floor.
3 days after the fall.
There’s a rhythmic electronic beeping near my left ear. It echoes back from bare walls.
The thin elastic cord holding the mask over my nose and mouth scratches at the top of my ear. I turn my head, twisting my neck to look at the machines. The air inside the mask is warm and moist with condensation that tells me I have been lying here with this mask on for some time.
A soft whistle plays out from the oxygen cylinder near the bed.
A bank of tubes that are connected to my neck rattle with a plastic pitch as I look over at the open door.
I am alone in the clinically all-white room with the machines.
The urge to touch the wound lifts my hand and drags the black cable hanging from the finger-clip over the greying-white cotton blanket.
The clip is sending messages to one of the machines beside me, measuring the oxygen level in my blood.
It feels as though a weight is hanging from my wrist, the pressure of gravity drains so much energy from me with the tiniest movement – I am used to that feeling. But a pulse thumps through the crook of my elbow – that is a new sensation.
Pump-pump.
Pump-pump.
The rhythm of a drumbeat is everywhere inside me and it is repeating on the monitor.
Bleep-bleep.
Bleep-bleep.
The oxygen travels deep into my lungs, releasing energy that says something is coming.
You are going to be strong.
The feeling speaks.
Nothing else tells me a ghost is here and I do not usually hear them talk, I just know when they’re near.
It might be my belief speaking.
I breathe out, and listen to the throb of sound in my ears. That is the heart calling to me. The rhythm of it tingles all the way down to my fingertips.
A hum rumbles in my nerves. I saw bees on a honeycomb once, when they had been pulled out of a hive. When my nerves hum like this, I see the shimmering silver wings of the bees as they work and dance to tell the others where to go.
Angels dance, in spheres of light, to tell others which way to go.
I can’t feel the wound, only the soft dressings that cover where the incision was made.
Beneath the sheet and blanket is a rash of sensors, scattered over my chest, their information conducting the rhythms on the machines.
A thin plastic tube shakes as I move my hand down; the tube dangles from the clear bag, dripping fluid into my arm.
A man slid the long needle for the tube under my skin while someone on the other side of me counted down from ten. I can’t remember anything else from then until now.
Voices chatter from somewhere outside the room. Things move and footsteps squeak across the tiled floor. The sound of one set of soft-soled shoes comes closer.
‘Helen?’
The owner of the unknown voice is at the doorway into the room. A nurse with dark hair scraped back into a high ponytail, wearing a pale blue pyjama uniform. She has a bright smile, with white teeth that look chemically treated.
‘Hello.’ The word scrapes my throat as though my voice hasn’t been used for a year.
The nurse’s smile widens as she comes closer and touches my hand.
Her hand is cold.
‘Hello. I am Mandy. I haven’t had the privilege before, but I am glad to meet you at the point you’ll be getting better.’ She turns away, looking at the monitors.
‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven, and it’s Saturday. We kept you unconscious for a while after the operation to give your body chance to rest.’
‘Is everything okay?’
She smiles again, more reassuring than any words could give, before looking at the bag of slowly dripping liquid. ‘Everything is fine and your brother is waiting outside. He’d like to come in and see you if you are up to a visit?’
‘Is he alone?’
‘Yes.’
A ripple of pleasure skims through my body. He chose to stay here with me. ‘Please.’
‘He’s been here a lot.’
A smile pulls at my lips. A smile that has risen all the way up through my body, right from my toes to my lips.
When the nurse leaves, my fingers curl and press into the crisply starched sheet. I check that my toes move, brushing them against the weight of the sheet and blanket.
The machine’s rhythm carries on with its sharp bleep declaring the pace of my heart. My heart now; someone else’s heart before.
But mine now.
The pulse resonates in my fingertips, toes and ears. It is a strange feeling – an extreme, unreal feeling – to have a heart that works.
A sphere of light shimmers at the corner of the room. Near the ceiling.
I look at the open door, waiting for him to come.
Pump-pump. Pump-pump.
The sphere flies in front of my vision, across the open door. But it stays in the room with me.
I am in a hospital. It doesn’t surprise me that there are spirits. But I do not want to engage with them here. They will have experienced pain here. I have known enough of my own pain, I don’t want to know theirs.
Another breath runs out of my lungs, in a smooth, easy, painless motion.
I am used to a lack of energy that doesn’t give me the strength to breathe. A week ago, my heart lurched in a beat when I breathed in but barely moved when I breathed out.
‘Hello, you.’
‘Simon.’ The excitement in my recognition is muffled by the mask but my hand stretches out, in the way I would have reached out and wrapped my arms about his neck if I could.
His footsteps are heavier than the nurses, hard leather soles that I am used to hearing on tiled hospital floors.
‘How are you feeling?’ He lifts the mask off my nose and moves it down to balance on my chin so he can kiss my cheek. Extra pulses shoot from