pushing upwards against the duvet in search of escape. What had been a comfortable nest a moment before now felt like a hot, suffocating tomb. Flexing her legs, the muscle in her upper right thigh protested, the one under the wound that always felt hot and achy even though it’d been four months since the accident and should have healed completely by now.
Accident. Disaster. Trauma. That’s what the doctors, nurses, surgeons and physiotherapists had taken turns calling it. To her it would always just be the worst day of her life. Who would have thought that someone else’s unexpected heart attack at the wheel could change her world so radically?
Feet drumming against the mattress, lifting her head, her long plait somehow wrapped around her neck. She sucked in a panicky breath and with a grunt of effort managed to flip down the duvet, freeing herself from the hair noose at the same time.
‘Thank God!’ Her relieved exclamation muffled a thud somewhere near the end of the bed. Fresh air and sunlight hit her and she winced, turning toward the wall. Then she bolted upright, wondering what had been on top of her. She twisted her head back and forth to see as much as the bed as possible, but there was nothing there other than a rumpled purple throw.
‘Good morning, darling,’ her mum sang brightly.
‘Jeez!’ George jumped, hand clutching her chest as she swung her head around to a spot a few feet from her bed. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack. Why are you on the floor? Praying for patience?’ she joked, sweeping aside the covers and swinging her feet down to the thick dark grey carpet. It reminded her of brewing storm clouds, the complete opposite of the sunny wooden laminate floor in her childhood bedroom, which they’d left two weeks before. However hesitant she’d been about moving initially, she had to admit that although she missed their old place, the en-suite bathroom here was fab because there was no need to stumble to the other end of the house in the middle of the night.
‘Well? What are you doing?’ George prompted her mum. ‘It’s not like you to be so quiet.’ She smiled to take the edge off the comment.
‘As much as I may soon have to pray for patience,’ Stella said, sinking back on her knees, ‘if you insist on staying in so much, no, that’s not my current activity.’ She fussed with some kind of round, quilted cushion. ‘I was leaving you a gift.’
‘Another one?’ George sighed. ‘Mum, you don’t have to keep bringing me things. I’ll be fine. I just need more time, that’s all. It’s sweet, but presents aren’t going to miraculously cheer me up.’ It made her feel cared for, but didn’t change how she felt about herself. She didn’t know if anything ever would. The new therapist kept telling her she needed more time, and to focus on the positives. She was trying her best, she really was, but it wasn’t just the physical scars she had to contend with. There were emotional ones too.
‘Mmmmm.’ Stella made a non-committal sound and dropped her head to plump up the cushion.
George knew she’d hurt her mum, and bit her lip. Well, at least she hadn’t shouted like in the weeks after first being released from hospital. Those had been dark days, and she’d been to some dark places. She’d just been so unbelievably angry all the time at the unfairness of it all. Some days that rage still surfaced, but she’d learned to get a better handle on her emotions, to stop striking out at those around her.
She smiled sadly. It wasn’t that long ago she’d attended lectures and gone out shopping with friends to blow her student loan.
It was Saturday today. On a Saturday at uni she’d have studied in the library in the morning and worked in the bar from lunchtime onwards before dancing and drinking the night away in a club, tossing her hair over her shoulder before turning to see how many guys were checking her out.
That might be only a handful of months past, but in reality it felt like forever since she’d laughed and grinned and had fun like a normal twenty-one year old. But she wasn’t normal any more, nothing was. The injury in her thigh made her limp when it was cold or rainy (which was most of the time given it was winter in Britain), her right eye was gone and her face was scarred.
She was slowly accepting that none of those things were insurmountable, that it could have been a lot worse, but a lot had changed. Now one of her most prized possessions, rather than her extensive clothes collection, was the large round spa-bath in the en-suite. She could hide her new, strange body under a layer of bubbles in a bath, rather than being confronted by her scars in a shower. Getting naked was definitely on her list of least favourite things to do these days. Still, at least a month ago she’d been able to take attending physio off the list. They’d said it was up to her now, and she’d been doing her daily stretching and muscle strengthening exercises like a good girl.
‘Mum?’ she said softly, focusing her thoughts, ‘Please stop buying me things. You really don’t need to.’
‘But they can’t hurt, can they?’ Stella replied. There was something in her tone that made George wonder if it made her mum feel better to buy presents for her. ‘Especially this one,’ Stella added. Making a funny clucking noise under her breath, she lifted something and shifted nearer on her knees, before depositing it in her daughter’s tartan pyjama-clad lap.
George peered down one-eyed at the warm, furry body wriggling around on her thighs. A yipping sound was directed at her face. She closed her eye, groaning. ‘Please Mum, please say you didn’t get me a guide dog after everything I said?’ Leaning over, she carefully deposited the small black and white splotched puppy on the floor. It immediately rolled onto its back and started squirming around on the carpet, paws pumping blissfully in the air.
Stella smoothed her low ponytail down. ‘Yes, he’s yours,’ she glanced down at the puppy. ‘He could be useful to you, but-,’
‘Yes, if I want to look like even more of a freak,’ George replied in an undertone, watching as the animal abandoned its army manoeuvres and started chasing its tail, spinning in tireless circles.
‘You’re not a freak.’ Her mum’s cheeks went pink. ‘And he’s not a guide dog. They’re usually different breeds, about a year old and fully trained. He’s just a normal Springer Spaniel puppy because you made it clear you wouldn’t accept a guide dog.’ She smoothed her ponytail again. ‘You can train him yourself. They’re usually quick to learn, and enthusiastic. It’ll give you something to do now you’re on the road to recovery but not back at uni. Walking him will keep you fit and get some fresh air into you. Besides, he’ll keep you company when I start my new teaching job next week. Spaniels like to be around people. They’re social dogs.’
‘I’m glad someone feels social.’ George responded, but despite her best intentions found herself sinking down to the floor to stroke the puppy’s downy neck. She smiled. Who could resist? Puppies were so cute. They had such big soulful eyes and little pink tongues. And a lot about her might have changed, but she could feel her heart melting already.
‘I know you’d rather be left alone to hide away from the world.’ Stella said. ‘But it’s not good for you.’
‘Hang on. I’ve come a long way since those weeks when I was holed up in bed all day.’ She switched to stroking the puppy's back, smiling when he turned to lick her hand. The arguments between them had been heated, especially since she’d refused to shower for days on end, or come out of her room to eat with her parents, or see friends or family. It’d taken her dad intervening and suggesting they move to London to make a fresh start to pull her out of herself. Normally taciturn and unwilling to get between his wife and daughter, it was like his daughter’s crisis had finally given him words. ‘I’ve been out since we moved here, Mum,’ she defended, uncurling her legs to stretch her leg out, ‘trying to learn the streets.’
‘Twice,’ Stella answered, ‘barely qualifies.’
George flushed. So what if she mostly stayed in watching TV or, when she got bored of that, watching passers-by from the living room window? It was perfectly normal to look at people sweeping up and down the leafy London street or dashing to bus-stops, and wonder who they were and where they were going. Wasn’t it? And it wasn’t creepy