Woman Last Seen(8)
“Yes, that’s children for you,” comments the nurse, not unsympathetically.
Mark, Oli and I are asked to wait in a small room that is cheerfully decorated, specifically to distract children. Rainbows are painted on the walls. There are plastic toys scattered about and a basket full of books. Oli does not seem interested in any of them. He sits staring after the door where Seb was taken. Forlorn.
“Don’t worry, the doctors know what they are doing. They are taking care of him,” I say with false brightness. The air-conditioning in the room is brutal but I don’t want to put my shirt back on, even though it’s been returned to me, as it’s covered in Seb’s blood.
“What do you think they are doing in there?” Mark asks me.
I have no idea, but I realize Mark needs more than that. “Stitching him up, X-rays. Like they said. It won’t be long now. Someone will come out and tell you what’s going on.” Mark nods. I find it bizarre that they both seem to believe me.
“Should I call your wife?” I’ve already checked out his left hand. It’s just habit. The solid, steady gold band is of course nestled on his ring finger, as I expected. I mean, of course this man is going to be married, he has two kids with him. I just don’t understand why he hasn’t called her already. Does he think she’s going to blame him because he was in charge at the time of the accident? A number of my friends have kids—I’ve seen that some parents do judge one another’s parenting styles. “He’s so rough, when he plays with them.” “He can’t put a nappy on to save his life. I mean, there are sticky tabs, how hard can it be?” But I don’t know any parent that wouldn’t want to be called if their child is being x-rayed. Or is it possible this man genuinely is in shock and hasn’t thought that calling his wife is the next logical step?
He looks at me confused. “I don’t have a wife.”
“Oh.” I see. A weekend dad. He’s divorced. Some part of my brain does a small mental high five with another part of my brain. Low, below my tummy button there is an entire conga dance going on. I mentally berate myself. I shouldn’t be pleased that the man is divorced. It’s sad for the kids, and as he’s wearing the ring, I’m guessing he’s still raw, not exactly back on the market. Yet I can’t help my emotions. I should probably stop looking at his ring. It’s rude.
“She’s dead. She died.”
“Oh.” I want the ground to swallow me up. I don’t know what to say. I’m not good with death. Who is good with death? Apparently, our ancestors were really chill with laying corpses out in their front rooms, but times change. Eventually I manage to mutter the completely uninspiring response, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” He shrugs. “Well, it’s not, obviously. It’s completely shit. One hundred percent shit, but it’s not your fault.”
“When?” I ask.
“Just five months ago.” That perhaps explains why he behaved as though he was paralyzed when Seb fell off the top of the slide. Not simply a matter of a useless father, unsure what to do for the best, although maybe it was that, his wife might have been the practical one. But I think it was horror, fear. Not my boy too. Please, God, no. After you’ve lost someone, you never look at the world in the same way again; everything is unsure. You expect the worst. That’s why Mark Fletcher asked a total stranger to come to the hospital with him. He didn’t know how to cope alone with another tragedy.
“How?” As the question spills out of my mouth, I want to punch myself. It’s none of my business. I just wondered if it was a fall, an accident, something that might have triggered his extreme response.
“Cancer.” Mark looks away, uncomfortable. I’m an idiot. I’ve overstepped. The intimacy forged in disaster isn’t real, it has no roots. “Look, thanks for your help but I’ve taken up a lot of your evening as is. I totally understand you must have somewhere more exciting than A&E where you need to be on a Saturday night.”
“No, not really,” I admit. He drags his gaze back up to mine. Perhaps pityingly, perhaps relieved.
At that moment the doctor who took Seb to be x-rayed reappears. He indicates that he wants to talk to Mark alone, that Mark needs to go to Seb now. Mark looks at Oli, clearly wondering what to do for the best, what should Oli hear?
“I could stay, sit here with Oli,” I offer. He looks doubtful. Of course, he must be worried. How can he trust me?
“I’m sane, safe,” I add. I rummage in my handbag, although I’m not 100 percent sure what I’m hoping to find. I’m unlikely to have a certificate endorsing my sanity stashed in there. I pull out my wallet and then retrieve my driver’s license. I offer it to him. “Look—Leigh Gillingham, this is my address. You can hang on to it while I hang on to your kid.” As I hear myself make the offer, I realize I’ve almost certainly convinced him I am nuts, although I was hoping to reassure. I’m needy. He can probably smell it. I like kids. I like him. I want to help. I rummage in my bag and retrieve a business card, it’s a bit creased at the corner and dusty. I should probably buy one of those wallets designed specially to hold my cards but I think business cards might be a thing of the past soon. “I’m a management consultant,” I say. Although when has that ever made anyone trust me more? I fish in my bag once again, this time I pull out a packet of M&S chocolate-covered raisins. “Does Oli like raisins?” I ask. Oli glances at the packet, then at his father, then without waiting for permission, he reaches out and snatches them from me with considerably more keenness than his father is demonstrating. “I’m starving,” he asserts, ripping the packet open with a dexterity that I think is impressive in one so young. I wonder if he has had to do more for himself than other kids. Kids with mothers. He immediately tucks into them.