Then She Vanishes(8)
Sheila, her friend and stable hand, had been the one to find Heather in the barn. She’d come in at 8.15 a.m. to feed and groom the horses. By then Heather had been lying unconscious for at least an hour. It’s a wonder she hadn’t died there and then. Margot had been away at a yoga retreat with her friend Pam – something she’d never done before – and had been due home later that day.
Adam had cried when they’d met at the hospital that day and she’d been mesmerized by how his tears trickled into his thick brown beard. She’d seen Adam cry before – when he’d married Heather, when Ethan was born – but happy tears. Never this. He told her he’d not been at home when Heather shot herself, because he’d been taking Ethan to nursery, then gone to see a friend. Margot had thought this was strange. Adam and Heather never took Ethan to nursery earlier than 8 a.m. She could tell he was hiding something, but didn’t want to probe. It wasn’t the right time. She was aware that things hadn’t been great between them for a while but didn’t want to interfere by asking too many questions. After all, she knows what marriage is like. She’d had enough of her own problems with Keith, God rest his soul.
Margot slows down as she approaches the door to Heather’s room. As always, her stomach turns over when she sees the police officer standing guard outside. It’s a different one today. A woman this time. And, inappropriately, she thinks how masculine the female constable looks in the unflattering navy slacks and black workmen’s shoes. The officer looks up at Margot and smiles. It’s brief and professional. She’s young, younger than Heather, with auburn hair tied in a low ponytail and clear, pale skin. She stands aside to let Margot pass. Margot has to concentrate on suppressing her desire to give the officer a telling-off. Why are you here? she wants to scream. How can Heather pose a risk when she’s bloody unconscious? But she doesn’t, of course, because this woman is an official and Margot was brought up by her strict councillor father to respect officials. Instead, she pulls the strap of her handbag further up her shoulder and pushes through the door into the room.
The quietness strikes her, as it always does at first. The only sound to be heard is the bleeping of the monitors. Heather’s long dark hair has been brushed and, apart from her pale face, which has lost its usual healthy glow, there is nothing to indicate that she’s fighting for her life. She looks peaceful, as though she’s sleeping. There are no obvious signs of trauma, no bruising or surgical dressings on show. However, Margot knows that underneath the regulation hospital gown, Heather’s chest and shoulder are tightly bandaged and, obscured by that fine head of hair, there’s a shaved patch on the back of her head, with a five-inch gash now stitched and covered with gauze.
Margot dumps her bag on the floor and sits beside her daughter, taking her hand. The left one. The one she used to kill two innocent people. The one she used to point the gun towards her chest. The bullet had gone through her right breast, thankfully just missing her heart and arteries, but she’d banged her head when she fell. Ironically it was the injury to her head, not the gunshot, that had put her daughter into the coma. This information, imparted by a serious-faced consultant when Heather was first brought in, gives Margot hope. It means Heather’s suicide attempt wasn’t serious. She could have shot herself in the head if she’d really wanted to die, or under her chin. The girl’s been around guns since she was a kid. They used to own a farm in Kent before they moved here. Heather knows how to use them properly, and she knows what to do to kill, she tells herself.
The shotgun had been Margot’s, used mostly for clay-pigeon shooting, kept in a special cabinet in a shed under lock and key, although Adam sometimes borrowed it to go shooting. They were both members of a shooting club about two miles away, although Heather was never interested in joining. The licence was up for renewal. Maybe she should have got rid of it. Guns, it seemed, brought nothing but bad luck to their family.
Four days. It’s now been four days that her darling Heather has been in this state. The doctors warned her that the longer she spends in the coma the less likelihood there is of a full recovery. She brings Heather’s hand to her cheek – her daughter’s skin is still so soft. Oh, please wake up, please … please, she silently begs.
Margot glances towards the All About Me board on the wall. The hospital issues them to all ICU patients so that their families have a place to display photographs or other information that might be useful. Adam’s written down Heather’s favourite radio station – Absolute 90s – and he’s pinned up some photos. Margot’s heart breaks every time she looks at them. There’s one of Heather, her face wide and smiling, holding a newborn Ethan just after she’d given birth. In this very hospital, in fact, only eighteen months ago. There’s another of Adam and Heather’s wedding day ten years before. Heather looks so beautiful, young and innocent in a simple yet elegant gown, her hair piled on top of her head, tendrils framing her face. Adam, tall, dark and brooding, is next to her in a suit that looks a fraction too small. They married young. Too young, Margot had thought at the time, but they’d been so much in love – they’d shone with it. Then Ethan came along, a much-loved and wanted baby, after years of trying. Heather suffered – suffers, she’s still alive, she’s still here – from polycystic ovaries, which made falling pregnant difficult. Things hadn’t been plain sailing since Ethan was born. Heather had had post-natal depression in the immediate weeks following a traumatic birth, and found it hard to cope. But things had been getting better. At least, she’d thought they were.