Seven

At the hospital, after they had rushed Cullen away from her through chipped double doors, no one would tell Rachel anything.

‘You’re not family,’ the nurse said apologetically, and ushered her to a seat in an echoing corridor that smelled of disinfectant and misery.

‘But he doesn’t have any family,’ Rachel said. ‘All he has is me.’

Hours went by. She didn’t even know if Cullen was still alive, but she couldn’t go home. Her home was his home, both literally and figuratively, and she could not imagine either the lighthouse or her life without him there.

When a different nurse appeared in front of her, it took a few moments for Rachel to realize it was her own name being spoken. The words had taken on an unfamiliar quality, along with the notion of time. She didn’t have a watch with her and didn’t own a mobile phone. She had never needed one; everyone she ever wanted to speak with came to her at the bookshop, and she did not like the idea of being tethered by a contract. Now though, she wondered what the time was, what was happening at the lighthouse, who was there. She couldn’t even remember who she’d left behind as she’d rushed out with the ambulance crew. Had she even closed the door, locked it?

‘Ms Talbot?’ the nurse, painfully young, asked. ‘Are you Rachel Talbot?’

‘Yes,’ Rachel said, shaking off her torpor. Her back was stiff from sitting for so long.

‘Cullen’s asking for you.’

‘I – oh!’ Rachel shot to her feet and then, dizzy, had to steady herself against the wall. ‘He’s awake? He’s – talking?’ She hadn’t realized until that very moment how convinced she’d been that she’d never hear him speak again.

‘He’s very ill,’ the nurse said, as she ushered Rachel with her down the corridor. ‘You mustn’t wear him out. But he won’t settle. He keeps asking for you.’

‘What happened?’ Rachel asked. ‘Was it a heart attack?’

‘Yes. I’ll get the doctor to talk to you once you’ve seen Mr MacDonald,’ she glanced at Rachel with a harried smile. ‘We didn’t know you were his emergency contact.’

Cullen was in a room on his own, on a high hospital bed surrounded by the vague susurration of medical equipment. His upper torso was bare, monitor pads against his hollow chest. He wasn’t ventilated, but there was a transparent oxygen mask obscuring his nose and mouth. He looked frail and grey, and Rachel’s heart quailed at the reminder of what age does to a person. She went to his side and took his hand, half expecting it to be cool to the touch, but he was warm enough, though his skin bore the texture of paper, as if he had become a leaf from one of his beloved books.

‘Cullen?’ she said quietly. ‘It’s Rachel. I’m here.’

His fingers constricted around hers as his eyes opened and searched for her. He lifted his other hand, reaching for the mask, trying to remove it.