With a sigh at the thought of the inevitable wait she strode in, looking for the book she always kept in her bag for situations such as this.
At the empty seat she sat down and opened the book, slipping her bookmark into her fingers. She tried to focus on the words upon the page, but her eyes were tired and she kept reading the same sentence over and over again. The words were refusing to go in and make sense.
It was happening again. Every year when it started to get close to that date her body rebelled and she couldn’t sleep. The date would be hanging heavy in the near future, along with the dread of having to get through Christmas again, reliving what had happened before, every moment as clear as if it had just occurred. The shock. The fear. The guilt.
The difficulty getting to sleep. Then the difficulty staying asleep. She’d keep waking, staring at the clock, staring at those bright red digits, watching them tick over, minute to minute, hour to hour. Feeling alone. So alone in the dark! With no one to talk to. No one to go to, to reassure herself that everyone was fine.
That first year—the first anniversary of when it had happened—she’d got up and stood in the doorway of Olivia’s old room, staring at her daughter’s empty bed. She’d stood there almost all night. Trying to remember what it had looked like when it had been filled with life and laughter and joy.
The second year after it had happened she’d got up again and, determined not to stand in the doorway for another night, gawking at nothing, she’d decided to make herself useful. She’d cleaned. Scrubbing the oven in the middle of the night until it shone like a new pin was perfect therapy as far as she was concerned. She could get angry with the burnt-on bits. Curse at them. Moan about the ache in her back from all the bending over. But it felt better to be focused on a real physical pain than a mental one.
Last year, when the anniversary of Olivia’s death had come around, she’d decided to visit Dr Preston and he’d given her a prescription for some sleeping pills and told her to come and see him if it happened again.
This year, though her oven could no doubt do with another clean, the idea of being up all night again—alone again—just wasn’t an option. She hated losing all this sleep. And it wasn’t just the one night any more. She was losing sleep earlier and earlier, up to a month or more before the anniversary.
So here she was.
All she needed was a quick prescription. She could be in and out in seconds. Get back to her own patients—Fletcher the Great Dane, who needed his paw checked after a grass seed had become embedded under his pad, a health check on two new ferrets and the first set of jabs for Sara’s new kitten. There were others, she knew, but they were her first three and they would be waiting. Even now. Patiently watching the clock in her waiting room.
The screen on the wall in front of her gave a beep and she looked up to see if she was being called in. It wasn’t, but the person next to her got up out of her chair and left. Sydney was glad for the space, but it didn’t last long, Mrs Courtauld, owner of a retired greyhound, settled into the newly vacant seat.
‘Hello, Sydney. How nice to see you. How are you doing?’
‘Mrs C! I’m fine. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know. The usual aches and pains. That’s why I’m here. My knees are giving me a bit of gyp. They have been ever since Prince knocked me over in the park and broke my wrist.’
‘You did get quite a knock, didn’t you?’
‘I did! But at my age you expect a bit of wear and tear in the old joints. I’m no spring chicken now, you know. I get out and about each day if I can. It’s good to keep mobile.’
Sydney nodded, smiling. ‘But you’re still looking great, Mrs C.’
‘You’re too kind, young Sydney. I do have mirrors in the house—I know how old I look. The skin on my neck is that red and saggy I’m amazed a farmer hasn’t shot me, thinking I’m an escaped turkey.’
Sydney laughed. ‘Ridiculous! I’d be happy to look like you if I ever make it to pensionable age.’
Mrs Courtauld snorted. ‘Of course you’ll make it to my age! What are you now? Thirty-three? Thirty-four?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘You see? Loads of years left in you.’ She thought for a moment, her eyes darkening, and she looked hard at Sydney in concern. ‘Unless, of course, you’re here because there’s something wrong? Oh, Sydney, you’re not dreadfully ill, are you?’
Mrs Courtauld’s face filled with motherly concern and she laid a liver-spotted wrinkly hand on Sydney’s arm.
‘Just not sleeping very well.’
Mrs Courtauld nodded, looking serious. ‘No. ’Course not. The anniversary is coming up again, isn’t it? Little Olivia?’
Sydney swallowed hard, touched that Mrs Courtauld had realised the date was near. How many in the village had forgotten? Don’t cry.
‘Yes. It is,’ she answered, her voice low. She wasn’t keen on anyone else in the waiting room listening in.
Mrs Courtauld gripped Sydney’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course. Understandable. I’m the same each year when it comes round to my Alfred’s birthday. Ten years since I lost him.’ She paused as she looked off, as if into the distance. But then she perked up again. ‘I laid some flowers at Alfred’s grave the other day and I thought of you. Your little Olivia’s plot is so close. I hope you don’t mind, but I put an amaryllis against her headstone.’
Oh.
Sydney wasn’t sure how to respond. That was sweet. It was nice to think that Olivia had a bright, beautiful flower to brighten up her plot. Nice for her to be remembered in that way.
She hadn’t been to the graveyard for a while. It was just so impossibly bleak and devastating to stand there and look down at the headstone, knowing her daughter was...
She swallowed hard.
Don’t even think it.
It hurt too much. Going to the grave just kept proving that she was dead, making Sydney feel helpless and lost—a feeling she couldn’t bear. She’d found that by staying away, by existing in her dreams and her memories, she could still see her daughter alive and well and she never had to stare at that cold, hard, depressing ground any more.
Blinking back the tears, she was about to thank Mrs Courtauld when the computer screen that announced patient’s names beeped into life and there was her name. Ms Sydney Harper. Dr Jones’s room.
She got up quickly, then did a double-take, looking at the screen again. Dr Jones?
But she’d booked in with Dr Preston. He was her doctor, not this Jones person! And who was it? A locum? A new partner? If it was, and she’d been passed on to someone else...
She shoved her book back into her bag, wondering briefly if she ought to go and check with Reception and see what had happened, but the doctor was probably waiting. If she faffed around at Reception she might lose her appointment altogether—and she needed those tablets!
Clearing her throat, she pushed through the door and headed down the corridor. To the left, Dr Preston’s room. To the right, Dr Jones’s.
Sydney hesitated outside the door, her hand gripping the handle, afraid to go in. What if this new doctor wanted to ask questions? She wasn’t sure she was ready to tell the story again. Not to a stranger. Dr Preston knew everything. There was no need to explain, no need for her to sit in front of him and embarrass herself by bursting into tears, because he knew. Knew what she’d gone through and was still going through. He often saw her in the village and would call out with a cheery wave, ask her how she was doing. She appreciated that.
A