The Day We Disappeared (19 page)

The nurse
smiled. ‘It's a pleasure and an honour,' she said. ‘And you
should be thanking yourself too. He lives for your visits!'

I looked up the corridor. It was Mark.
In a panic, I slipped sideways into the toilet. He was at his lowest and most
vulnerable when he was being wheeled around the place, furious and trapped in a body
that no longer worked. The last time I'd witnessed him being brought back
after a scan he'd gone white and not spoken to me at all. He'd just lain
there, staring at the ceiling, battling angrily with the tears he would never allow
to fall.

I had cried those tears for him later,
my face buried in Stumpy's soft white mane.

Mark did not live for my visits, I
thought, listening to the trolley as it trundled past the toilet door. I
didn't really know what Mark was living for any more. He was desperately low.
He barely ate. I knew his lawyer had been in a few times to talk about custody of
Ana Luisa but Mark never mentioned it to me. He didn't talk about his little
girl at all, or his soon-to-be ex-wife, or any of the horses he'd lost. He
didn't talk about Sandra, or the financial peril that hung over the farm, or
the pain he must be in. He just answered my questions. If it weren't for his
interest in Stumpy's recovery, we would have sat in silence every day.

Not that that would have stopped me
coming.

I left it for a few minutes, then
slipped through his curtains, pretending just to have arrived. Mark shared a ward
with two other beds and, in typical Mark style, always kept his curtains firmly
closed.

‘Top of the morning to you,'
I said, in my very worst leprechaun accent. ‘It's nice to see you,
so.'

Mark looked
briefly at me. ‘Hi.'

‘How are you on this glorious
day?'

‘Shit.'

That was fair enough. The man was
recovering from a head injury, a pelvic fracture, a broken hip socket and a broken
arm and leg. He'd also suffered something called a flail chest, which – like
the head injury – should really have killed him but, miraculously, it hadn't.
That injury, in turn, had bruised his lungs and caused a major chest infection; the
damage to his pelvis and hip joint meant that he still couldn't really move
his legs, and the fact that he'd broken his right arm and left leg meant that
he wouldn't be considered safe enough to go home for at least another three
weeks. Oh, and he'd had plastic surgery to his leg where the tibia had broken
through and his skin was still laced with the eerie shadows of faded bruising.

‘Shit' was fair enough.

I hovered by the end of his bed.
‘I could go and get some lunch and come back later?'

He stared at the ceiling.

‘Or I could just come back
tomorrow …'

Mark shrugged. ‘Up to you,'
he said. ‘I don't want to take up your time.'

I smiled, even though he was refusing to
look at me. ‘I'm not all that busy with just the one horse and his
friend.'

Mark, as I'd predicted,
couldn't resist. ‘How is he doing?' he asked, turning his head
carefully towards me. A little light had appeared in his dark, watery eyes.

‘Wonderful,' I said, unable
to hide my excitement. ‘The vet came to change his bandage yesterday –
it's so huge –
and although
it's far too early to tell, she said it was all looking good. He's so
patient, Mark. So brave!'

Mark nodded, and I knew he wasn't
speaking now because he couldn't.

‘We're all very proud of
him,' I said softly. ‘He's fighting.'

Mark resumed his silence. I sat there
for a few minutes, humming a non-existent tune and digging out some dirt from my
fingernails.

‘So, Joe's been working hard
with the sponsorship calls,' I tried.

Nothing.

‘Oh, and your mum actually got a
haircut yesterday, so that's good. She was beginning to look a bit wild
there.'

Mark's eyes closed.

‘The nurse said she thought you
were doing really well,' I said desperately. ‘She said she'd never
seen someone with injuries as bad as yours. But look at you, eh? Making all this
progress?'

‘He told you then,' said
Tony, the physio, marching in with his white trousers and squeaky trainers.

‘Told me what?'

Mark looked cross.

‘We got him into a wheelchair
today! Wheeled him out of the front door and into the outside world!'

I stared at him, then turned to Mark.
‘Are you SERIOUS?'

Tony tutted. ‘Oh,
Mark
,' he said. ‘Come on, mate! This is a big day! I've
also said he can start taking showers, so things are on the up.'

Still Mark said nothing.

Tony rolled his
eyes at me. ‘I just popped by with your wallet,' he told Mark, putting
it on the bedside table. ‘You left it in physio.'

Mark failed to thank him and Tony
left.

‘This is incredible news!' I
cried. ‘You must be thrilled!'

There was a pause. Then Mark turned his
head to me.

‘I'm not fucking thrilled,
Kate. Sorry if that doesn't fit in with your vision of my life, but
that's just how it is. I'm far from thrilled. I've got pressure
sores and my muscles are wasting and I'm sharing my room with a complete
mental
whose wife keeps sneaking vodka in for him, which just reminds
me of Dad, and the whole world is talking about my wife fucking off with Jochim,
which apparently everyone knew about other than me. I'm terrified she'll
try to take Ana Luisa away for ever, and I haven't even the money to hire a
lawyer good enough to stop her. And, if all of that wasn't bad enough, I have
to put up with you just marching in here, day in, day out, being all chirpy and –
and
Irish.
I wish you'd all just fuck off, with your good news this
and progress that and exciting whatever, because from where I'm standing –
except, no, I'm not bloody well standing, I'm lying – there is no good
news here.'

I stared at him, my cheeks burning
red.

‘Just go,' he said.
‘Leave me alone.'

To think he'd dreaded my visits,
every day. To think I'd fooled myself into believing he enjoyed my company,
when he actually just thought I was an idiot.

I tried to collect myself so that I
could make a controlled exit, but I just found myself staring furiously at the
wallet Tony had left on the bedside table, trying to stop tears falling.

Mark took that
wallet to all of his appointments, tucked into his hand under the blanket; I'd
thought it was an odd financial thing. Perhaps an unconscious need to keep his money
close in case Maria took that too.

But as my eyes finally focused I
realized that Mark was doing nothing of the sort.

There was no money. The only thing left
in his sad, baggy, empty wallet were two photographs in the clear plastic sleeves.
One of Ana Luisa at the school fête, dressed as a bowl of sherry trifle, and one of
Stumpy, stretching his nose towards the camera as if he wanted to eat it.

I looked at his two little mementoes and
knew that it was time for Mark to start fighting. He couldn't carry on lying
there like a miserable old broken corpse, because he wasn't. He was a father
and a son, not to mention a medical miracle. He'd survived the unsurvivable,
just like his horse, and he had everything to live for.

‘You left the hospital for the
first time in six weeks,' I said. ‘I know things are dreadful. But,
Mark, can't you see that you're on the up? Can't you see that
you're getting there?'

Mark rolled his eyes angrily.

‘You won't acknowledge how
brilliantly you've done, Mark? You won't admit that this is a triumph
the size of the Republic of sodding Ireland?'

‘Just shut up,' he said.
‘You're boring me. I thought you were interesting, Kate, but
you're just like the rest of them.'

‘I'm trying to
help.'

‘No, you're trying to make
yourself feel better,' Mark said.

Was I?

‘I sat there, completely helpless,
while they wheeled me out,' he muttered. ‘They could have wheeled me
into the path of an oncoming lorry and I wouldn't have been able to do
anything to stop them. The accident was nearly six weeks ago, Kate. This is not a
giant leap for mankind. Tony was just being over the top. He's an
idiot.'

I broke. The rage, the despair, the
fear, the loneliness, the regret, every crushing feeling I'd had to bite back
over the last few weeks, it all exploded.

‘An idiot?' I shouted.
‘A fucking
idiot
? Are you for real, Mark fucking Waverley? He's
a physio at one of the best fucking spinal units in the country! How dare
you?'

Mark stared at me.

‘And what the fuck do you mean, it
wasn't a giant leap for mankind? You should be dead!' I cried, my voice
breaking already. ‘You had blood pouring into your brain, Mark, three of your
ribs detached themselves from your ribcage and crushed your lungs, and your thigh
bones smashed your hip socket to pieces. Yet you're mobile again!
They're talking about letting you go home in the next few weeks! What will it
take to make you realize what you've got? You lived, Mark! You lived! And
Stumpy lived!'

Mark was white-faced with shock and
rage. Well, fuck him.

‘Fuck you,' I shouted.
‘Fuck you, Mark! Where's your gratitude? I'll stop coming up if
you don't like my company but you can at least show some fucking dignity, and
some respect, and speak nicely about the people who are busting their fucking arses
to get you home!'

I stood up,
shaking with fury. ‘I've not seen Stumpy lying there muttering under his
breath. I've not seen him shoot down every tiny bit of progress he's
made. He's fighting really hard and he's doing it like a gentleman. Are
you going to be beaten by your horse? Are you really?'

And without waiting for an answer, I
swept back the curtain and left it open, shouting that he was not a fucking hermit,
and I left.

‘Have a nice afternoon,
love,' called the nurse, as I steamed past.

The next day I drove up the M5 for the
final time. I needed to apologize, several million times over, and then I needed to
offer to walk out of Mark's life.

‘You are a stinker,' I
shouted at myself as I drove. ‘A rotten, stinking, putrid old boil, Kate
Brady. You're a bastard and a tinker and a feck. You screamed at a man
suffering major trauma! You suck! I hate you!'

It was amazing how quickly I'd
stopped shouting at Mark and started shouting at myself. I'd been at it for
eighteen hours now.

I didn't know the hard facts of
Mark's mental health at the moment because, obviously, it was not something he
was keen to discuss with me. But I didn't need to steal his medical notes to
know he'd be suffering post-traumatic stress disorder. To have survived being
crushed by a half-tonne horse going at thirty miles per hour, being airlifted to
hospital, then spending a combined total of thirty-five hours in surgery
with
out
suffering major psychological trauma, Mark would have had to be
a non-human life form. Especially since his wife had chosen that moment to leave
him, taking his child, his horses and his sole source of income.

‘The man has nightmares and
flashbacks and he's in
pain all
the time. He can hardly move and he has to shit into a pot with a nurse there. And
look what you went and said to him,' I continued, as I came off the motorway
at Filton. ‘Gah!'

‘Hiya, love,' said the nurse
at the station, when I slunk in fifteen minutes later.

‘Hi, Jean,' I said. Until
now, I'd not even had the manners to check her name badge. God, I was
loathsome.

‘He's in there,' she
told me, as if to say, ‘Batten down the hatches!'

‘I hate myself,' I told her.
Jean just smiled.

‘Hi,' I said, sliding into
Mark's cubicle. My voice was barely audible.

Mark's eyes slid over me, then
away again.

‘Um, how are you?' I
tried.

‘Okay.'

‘God, Mark,' I whispered.
Tears welled in my eyes before I had a chance to stop them. ‘I can't
believe I said what I said. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive
myself. I am so incredibly sorry.'

Mark's eyes came back to me.

‘I don't think you're
undignified or ungrateful. I think you have the kind of courage that people write
about in novels, and the kind of patience that only saints should be
allowed.'

Mark closed his eyes.

‘I'm sorry, Mark. I was
suffering from the delusion that you needed to hear that stuff, but I was wrong. You
have every right to be sad and angry and frustrated. I think you're one of the
bravest and nicest people I've ever met,
and you have no idea how much you've done for me,
letting me stay at your yard. You are my hero. You've saved my life. And to
think that that's how I repaid you.'

I started to cry.

‘I'm so bloody ashamed. I
won't come here again. I'll stay at the yard and look after Stumpy, and
when you're ready to come home I'll have gone. I'm sorry, Mark
Waverley. I'm so sorry. You're one of the best men I've ever
met.'

I turned to leave. ‘Oh, and Maria
is an absolute twat,' I said over my shoulder. ‘She needs a brain
transplant, leaving a man like you.'

I opened the curtain and slipped
out.

‘Kate.'

I froze.

‘Come back.'

I didn't.

‘I said, come back, you irritating
fool.'

Slowly, barely able to believe it, I
turned. He was smiling. Mark was actually smiling.

‘Come back in here,
please.'

I came.

‘Shut the curtain.'

I shut.

‘Maria is an absolute twat,'
he repeated slowly. ‘She needs a brain transplant.' And then he laughed.
He laughed! It was the best sound I'd ever heard.

‘Thank you, Kate,' he said,
trying not to laugh too hard. His ribs were doing okay but laughing probably
wasn't great. He laughed until his lip started trembling and suddenly tears
were falling out of his eyes and into the pillow.
I went over to mop them up and ended up dropping my own
all over his face.

After an undignified scramble with a box
of tissues, I sat down and Mark turned to look at me. Dear Mother of God, he was
lovely.

‘I think your methods could do
with some tinkering,' he began, ‘and perhaps the volume could have been
turned down a bit but, contrary to what you might think, you said exactly what I
needed to hear.'

‘But I insulted you. And I said
fuck twenty times over. I hate that word.'

‘I needed some fuck.'

‘Really?'

‘Really.' He was smiling
again. ‘It's not been the best time,' he said. ‘And
I'm still very wobbly. And I've never used the word “wobbly”
before in my life, and I wish I hadn't because it makes me feel stupid as well
as vulnerable. But you're right, Kate. I need to be grateful, and dignified,
and positive. Because otherwise I'm going to end up with a fixed body and a
broken head, and what kind of a life would that be?'

‘A shite one?'

Mark laughed again. ‘A shite
one.'

‘I don't want a shite
life,' he went on quietly. ‘It's been bad enough, with Dad dying
and Mum being a liability and us never having any money, then talking myself into
marrying a complete monster, suffering the indignity of her constant affairs and the
never-ending fear that she'd take my baby away from me. But, for whatever
reason, I've been given a second chance and you made me see that I have to
grab that chance by the balls.'

‘The
balls,' I echoed.

‘My arm and leg have healed, and
I'm able to put a little bit more load through them every day. And the whole
pelvis catastrophe is fixing itself, which is why I'm in a wheelchair at last.
My ribs are stuck back in place and all of my brain scans have been fine. Basically,
I'm going to make it.'

‘Because you're a
miracle,' I reminded him.

Mark smiled. ‘Maybe.'

‘Definitely.'

‘Okay, definitely.' He
sighed. ‘I think part of the problem is just being so immobile. Maria told me
that I'm a workaholic. That I stay busy from dawn to dusk to stop myself
actually dealing with anything. Much as it pains me to admit it, I think she's
right.'

‘Oh …'

‘It's very easy to do a
runner from your own life, you know?'

‘It is.' I smiled sadly.
‘It really is.'

‘It's especially easy to do
a runner from your life in my line of work. I just get on a horse at seven a.m. and
that's it until I'm so shattered I go to bed. Busy, busy, busy. Life?
What? Problems? Eh?
Feelings?
Don't be ridiculous!'

He paused, thinking. ‘I guess
that's part of why I've been so particularly miserable. Being stuck with
myself. It's not much fun.'

‘I see what you mean there, boss
…'

‘I have everything to play
for,' Mark admitted. ‘I had a really good psychotherapy session today
because for the first time I actually wanted to feel better, and I managed to write
a few sentences in my journal with my right arm,
which I wouldn't have been able to do if the nerve
had suffered permanent damage. Plus Kelly's on nights at the moment,' he
added, ‘and she's brilliant. So things are pretty good.'

I smiled, as if to say, ‘How
wonderful!' Rather than ‘Who the hell is Kelly?'

‘Kelly's married to
Tony,' Mark said. ‘Isn't that funny?'

‘HILARIOUS!' I roared with
relief.

‘So, thank you,' Mark
repeated. ‘There's a long way to go with this head of mine, and a very
long way to go with this body, but you've reminded me that I'm not going
to get there sitting in here like a furious hermit.' He grinned, and I tried
not to stare adoringly at him. ‘I might even get you to open the curtains when
you leave.'

‘Steady on,' I said.
‘Let's not get ahead of ourselves there.'

‘So how are
you,
Kate?' Mark asked.

‘I'm … I'm
fantastic,' I said. ‘More fantastic than you could possibly imagine,
hearing what you've just said.'

There was a long silence through which
we both smiled, and it was not in the faintest bit awkward. ‘Oh, and I took a
photo of Stumpy this morning with food all over his nose, look.'

‘Oh, Stumpy,' Mark said,
smiling at the photo. ‘Oh, my Stumpy.'

‘He said to say, “Please
come home soon, Dad.”'

‘I want to see my fields
again,' Mark said simply. ‘I want to get back up on my feet and feel
fresh air on my face. I want to see Stumpy run round the paddock with my own eyes
and I want to get out there and fight for joint custody of my daughter.'
Carefully, I sat down on the side of his
bed, even though there was a big sign by it, saying,
‘PLEASE DO NOT SIT ON THIS PATIENT'S BED.'

‘Please keep coming, Kate.'
I felt his good hand slide hesitantly towards me. I saw it touch mine, shaking
slightly, and I heard Mark's breathing peak with the effort of making that
tiny gesture.

That enormous gesture.

I looked at him, even though it felt
dangerous to do so.

‘Joe is doing a wonderful job, by
the sound of things,' Mark said. ‘And Mum is doing her very best. But
you, Kate Brady …' he moved his hand fully over mine ‘… you're
giving me a reason to live every day.'

His eyes bulged with tears again, and
before I knew what I was doing, I lifted up his good hand and pressed it against my
face. We stayed like that for several minutes.

‘Oh, not you, too,' I said
eventually. ‘Not you at the crying as well. Joe was after crying yesterday
morning. Great bunch of girls, you are.'

I held his hand against my cheek for a
final, precious moment.

‘It's Stumpy I'm doing
it for, anyway.' I grinned. ‘Not you.'