The Butterfly Storm (10 page)

I backtrack past nurses in pink uniforms and blue scrubs, bashing through doors. Serious faces rush
past me and I nearly collide with a trolley. My nostrils tickle from the sting of antiseptic. My trainers
join a chorus of other shoes in a rhythmic squeak down a corridor, shiny and identical to the last
one. Grey polished floors and stark white walls are only punctuated with occasional swing
doors.

There are no cheerful curtains framing the window of the end ward. I push open the heavy doors
and they wheeze shut. Ten beds line the walls. The room’s too bright because of the large window at
the end. A woman in the first bed sits upright, coughing repeatedly like a machine gun. There are other
visitors besides me, their laughter sounding false as I walk down the middle of the ward trying not to
stare at each patient.

Lying in one of the beds is the woman who made rum punch for my fifteenth birthday and
encouraged me and my friends to down it. Her skin looks fragile like tissue paper and just as pale. Fine
lines form creases around her eyes and lips. The only time I’ve seen her without make-up was at
breakfast, before I went to school. She looked good then, her skin flawless, almond-shaped eyes and
plump lips refreshingly devoid of colour.

Time passes, I’m aware of that. I’m closer to my thirties than my teens, Mum in her
late forties. She wasn’t middle-aged like the other mums. Candy said she was more like
an older sister – someone you could swap clothes and talk about boyfriends with. We’ve
lost time together; seeing her like this makes me realise how close we came to losing time
forever.

I sit in the plastic chair next to the bed and stare at her. Her breath is soft and the rise and fall of
her chest faint beneath the sheet. Eyes flutter under closed lids. Her arms are flat against her sides with
a thick bandage covering her right arm. One leg is plastered. Blue veins snake across her slender hands.
Her hair is darker than when I last saw her, lying in tangles against her hospital-gowned
shoulders.

Sunshine streams into the ward. Dust dances in the light. An elderly woman, attached to a drip, sits
in a chair next to the window, book clasped in her hands, her mouth open spluttering snores. Footsteps
patter across lino; I hear the scrape of a curtain being pulled back. I sit still, unsure what to do, unsure
how Mum will react when she wakes.

I struggle out of my cardigan and let it fall over the back of the chair. The heat here is
different from Greece, a humidity that leaves me sticky, rather than a dry heat smouldering on
my skin. Tomorrow is the start of September and already I long for the cooler touch of
autumn.

There’s a bunch of lavender in a vase on the bedside cabinet. I reach up and read the note
attached:

I don’t know anything about her life or who Robert & Co are. I don’t know how Mum will feel
about me being here. What am I doing? I grab my bag from the floor.

‘You must be Sophie.’

I turn to see a young nurse smiling at me. She’s pretty with shiny black bobbed hair.

‘We spoke on the phone,’ she says. When she talks I can see a tongue piercing. She pulls one of the
curtains closed. ‘You got here quick.’

‘I got a flight yesterday.’

‘I’ve never been to Greece.’

‘You should go, it’s a beautiful place.’ I get to my feet.

She squeezes behind me and pulls the other half of the curtains shut.

‘I’m in the way,’ I say. ‘I should leave you to it.’

‘There’s really no need,’ she says. She writes on the chart clasped in her hands. ‘We moved your
Mum here from intensive care yesterday afternoon. She gained consciousness during the night and has
been sleeping peacefully ever since.’

‘I’ll come back later when she’s awake.’

‘Stay, she might need you.’

‘I doubt it.’

Her eyes flicker across my face before she hooks the chart on the bed and tucks the pen
in her pocket. I hang on to my bag and cardigan, and watch her check the dressing on
Mum’s arm. Her actions are business-like. This is what she does every day. She reminds
me of Mum when I was ill, the no-nonsense approach. I could never wait to go back to
school.

She places a hand on Mum’s arm. ‘Morning Leila.’

I’m cocooned within these curtains, like a moth desperate to free its wings. There’s a gap; I can see
a square patch of sunshine on the cream wall opposite, can hear the old lady’s rhythmic snores. Maybe
I can slip away unnoticed.

‘Sophie?’ Mum’s voice, barely more than a whisper, startles me.

‘Hi.’

Her bloodshot eyes stare across at me from sockets so dark they look bruised.

The nurse wedges another pillow behind Mum’s head. She gestures towards me and says, ‘She flew
in yesterday to see you.’

‘Really? The accident must have been worse than I thought.’

Maybe I deserve that. I bite my lip. The nurse glances at me, her smile now a little subdued. The
three of us are silent within our curtained room: Mum half-sitting, half-lying in bed, forehead
creased while the nurse busies herself with medicines. I stand in the corner like an awkward
teenager.

Mum’s frown deepens. ‘Where’s Darren?’

‘Dr Mantel is on his way to talk to you and see how you’re doing,’ the nurse says. Her tone is
unchanging, assured in her disregard for the question.

Mum glances towards me. ‘Why are you here, Sophie?’

My mouth’s dry. It’s as if I’ve backtracked to my childhood and whatever I say will sound childish
and false. I’m saved by heavy footsteps that pause just outside. Our curtain is whipped back and a tall
man with rolled up shirtsleeves and a stethoscope walks in.

‘Good morning, Ms Keech,’ the doctor says, picking up her chart.

‘It’s Leila,’ Mum replies.

‘I’m Dr Mantel.’ His face is subdued. His frown is so deep his dark eyebrows nearly meet. He’s the
kind of man that Mum used to go for when I was in my teens: dark haired, clean-cut, thirty-something,
with a plain gold band on his wedding ring finger. He holds the chart tight against his chest. ‘How are
you feeling?’

Mum shrugs. ‘Sore.’

‘I treated you when you and your partner were brought in after the accident,’ he says brushing past
me. The nurse stops what she’s doing. I hug my bag and watch him place his hand on Mum’s good
arm. He leans towards her and almost whispers, ‘I’m so sorry… there was nothing we could do…’ The
patch of sunshine on the wall through the curtains looks inviting. I could be sitting in a bar on
Olympic Beach right now, sipping a
frappe
, wriggling my toes in the sand. Alekos would be
there, his hand resting on my knee beneath the table, Demetrius and Katrina laughing with
us…

I don’t want to watch but it’s as if I’m a passer-by at a road accident, unable to tear my eyes away.
Well-rehearsed words slip from the doctor’s mouth in a hushed tone. He’s a pro, said it a hundred
times: ‘I’m sorry there was nothing we could do, he was pronounced dead on arrival.’ I’m witness to the
split second between the words leaving the doctor’s lips and reaching Mum’s consciousness. The words
punch her in the gut. Her hands reach for her stomach, eyes and mouth wide open in a silent
scream.

The doctor’s hands on her arm are little comfort. I want to hug her. I can’t stand to see her damp
face screwed up with pain but I’m rigid in my corner unable to move. I hardly dare look at her. My
knuckles are white from gripping my bag. I swallow back tears.

With wide damp eyes Mum looks up at Dr Mantel. ‘I was wearing his crash helmet,’ she says. Her
face is flushed and puffy. ‘Stupid bastard…’

The nurse hands her a tissue.

‘He didn’t suffer…’ Dr Mantel says quietly. His words trail off leaving the curtained cubicle filled
with Mum’s short, sharp breaths.

‘Does his wife know?’

I nearly drop my bag at her words. The nurse and doctor glance at each other. Mum scrunches the
tissue in her hand.

Dr Mantel nods. ‘We informed his family yesterday.’

‘He’s got two children,’ Mum says between sobs.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Dr Mantel says. He removes his hand from her arm. ‘I’ll be back to see
you later today.’ He nods at me before disappearing through the curtains.

Mum lies still and stares unblinking at the ceiling.

The nurse leans towards her. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

Mum shakes her head. ‘I’d just like to be left alone.’

I find my voice. ‘Mum…’

‘You too,’ she says, turning away from me.

It’s noisy outside Mum’s cubicle. The daily grind continues. Not even the death of a patient’s loved
one causes a ripple in the routine. I walk down the ward, my trainers squeaking my retreat on the
lino.

‘Sophie!’

I turn and wait for the nurse to catch up with me.

‘I’m sorry, I thought she might want a familiar face around,’ she says, moving me out of the way as
a trolley slams through the doors. ‘People deal with grief in different ways.’

‘I didn’t know him,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how long they were together…’

‘I’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she’s okay.’

I nod and the smile she greeted me with returns.

‘Let her get some sleep and come back and see her later.’

I leave the ward and go in search of the restaurant. It smells of chips and fried food. The choice of
pizza, macaroni cheese or steak and kidney pie turns my stomach, even the well-stocked salad bar
doesn’t entice. I take my tray and pot of coffee and find a table by the window, away from the few
people dotted around the large seating area. Like the ward, the restaurant’s annoyingly bright. I can
feel the sun on my back. The plastic blue tablecloth is sticky with heat. There are a few flowers stuck in
a glass vase next to the salt and pepper and packets of English mustard and salad cream. I
pour myself a cup of strong, black coffee. It takes two cups before I feel human again. The
window’s open but I sweat, despite wearing only a vest top and cropped trousers. Outside the
sky is a dirty blue streaked with fine clouds. The sun is watery and makes the city below
sparkle.

The only person I know in the whole of this city doesn’t want to talk to me. Giving her time to
sleep off her anger and sadness won’t change her feelings. All I want is to hear words of comfort from
Alekos. I pick up my mobile and almost call him. Instead I scroll through the names in
my address book until I reach Candy’s number. I press call without meaning to but let it
ring.

‘Hello?’ The voice on the other end sounds out of breath.

‘Candy, it’s Sophie.’

‘Sophie, I’m so sorry I haven’t spoken to you for ages.’

‘How are you?’ I pour the last dregs of coffee into my cup and tip in two sugars.

‘I’m good,’ she says. ‘Busy as always. It’s great to hear from you. When was the last time I spoke to
you? Just after Holly was born?’

‘Something like that. I’ve been meaning to phone you for weeks.’ I stir the steaming coffee and wish
it was an ice-cold coke instead.

‘Me too. How rubbish are we?’ There’s a pause. ‘How are the wedding plans coming
along?’

I glance at my bare ring finger. ‘Okay, there’s still another nine months to go.’

The restaurant is getting busier. My quiet spot by the window is sabotaged by a worryingly
pregnant woman and her partner. He helps her sit down. She’s got her hands on her belly and breathes
deeply.

‘How are Lee and the kids?’ I ask.

‘Fine. Jake’s just started nursery and Holly’s being uncharacteristically quiet at the
moment.’

‘Thanks for emailing the photos of them.’

‘Aren’t they adorable?’

‘Gorgeous. I can’t believe how grown up you are.’ I take another sip of coffee. ‘By the way I’m in the
UK.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

‘I’m in Norwich with Mum.’

‘Is Alekos with you?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I’m visiting Mum on my own.’

‘You left him alone in Greece?’ She sucks in breath as if she’s about to tell me off.

‘He’s got his family.’

‘I wasn’t thinking he’d be lonely.’

‘Don’t be so cynical,’ I say with a smile. ‘It’s good to hear you haven’t changed.’

‘So you finally decided to visit your Mum. I’m really glad, Sophie.’

‘It’s not quite like that…’

A baby’s wail interrupts our conversation.

‘As always, I spoke too soon,’ Candy says. ‘She’s an angel really.’

‘I’d better let you go.’

‘How long are you staying for?’

‘I’m not sure, for a while, I hope.’

‘You absolutely have to come and visit us. I’ve missed you.’ Baby Holly’s wail turns into a scream.
‘I’ve got two more weeks’ maternity leave before I start back at work, come and stay for a couple of
days.’

‘It might be a bit difficult, Mum’s actually in…’

‘Jake! Leave your sister alone!’ Candy cuts in. Jake starts to cry too. ‘I’m so sorry. What were you
saying?’

‘About visiting.’

‘You must. Sophie we’ve not seen each other in more than four years. Plus I want to see your
tan.’

‘It’s not that impressive.’

‘Tan or not, I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ve got to go.’ Her tone is more urgent now. Holly is
screaming the house down. ‘But call me when you’re free.’

‘I will. It’s so good to talk to you.’

‘You too. Bye.’

I down the rest of my sweet coffee.

There was a time when I knew every detail about Candy’s life and she knew everything about mine.
It’s always been easy talking to her, despite four years of only chatting over the phone or via email. The
last time I saw her, the night before I left for Greece, she was a single career girl and now she’s a
mother-of-two.

I take a pen from my bag and draw on my coffee-splashed napkin: Candy, with a kid slung under
one arm, a mobile clamped to her ear and a cigarette drooping from her mouth. My cartoon is the only
way I can imagine her: a woman of conflicting realities and the least maternal person I’ve ever known.