31

The waiting room at the Mater Hospital in Belfast was green, the carpet was blue, the air was dry and the magazines were a year out of date. A man with a badly burnt face, another man with an eyepatch and a few limping ladies came in and went out and still we waited to be called. John was off somewhere having tests; the boys were restless, shuffling about on the plastic chairs and flicking through the mags without even seeing the pictures.

– Mrs Johns? Mrs Mary Johns?

– That’s me, I say, raising my hand like a schoolgirl.

I must have stood up, I must have tried to move forward, but all of a sudden the whole room tipped. The blue and the green swirled faster and faster and I was thrown down, a black wave washed over my head and I was gone.

I came to in a recovery room, with only Daniel beside me, looking pale and worried. The curtain is pulled back by the other three who’ve just seen their daddy for the half hour he’ll be awake today.

– What did they say about him?

– They don’t see a break, but his back is still badly swollen so they’re keeping him drowsy so he doesn’t move too much.

John is lying at the far end of a ward with four beds. The gash on his arm is a mottled purple but already healing. A urine bag hangs on the side of the bed and a beaker with a straw in it is on his tray table. Daniel does what I should and moves to him, holding his hand and talking to him, but I can’t. I can’t touch him, I can’t speak. I’d watched him sleep a thousand times but this, this was different, he was too still, too vulnerable. I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t learn to live without this man. A bitter lump of tears is bobbing at the back of my throat. I want to hold his head against my breast and tell him he’s going to be okay. We are going to be okay.