The Blame Game. C.J. Cooke

smile.

      I am restless all day. Even when I join another climbing group with some French dudes who are eager to practise rope skills I feel distracted, my thoughts spiralling off in all directions.

       13

       Helen

      1st September 2017

      I’m at the British High Commission, sitting in a leather chair opposite Vanessa’s desk. I’m too numb for tears. I’m paralysed with fear and blind confusion at what has just happened. The walls seem to move in and out, exhaling. I don’t trust anyone.

      I watch Vanessa on the phone to her superiors asking for advice. At least, that’s what she tells me she’s doing but for all I know she’s part of this. For all I know she’s involved in the crash.

      I want to go back to the hospital and find Michael and tell him what’s happened. I need to leave, call someone, beg for help. Inside I’m floundering like someone tossed into the middle of the ocean without so much as a life jacket. When Vanessa looks up I ask if I can use one of the other phones to call my friend, Camilla, back in England, but she simply nods and holds up a finger, distracted by the person she’s speaking to. My breath comes in short, quick bursts. I move in and out of my body, into the past and the future.

      The shrill sound of Vanessa’s mobile knocks me back into the room. She sets the handset of the landline down and answers, then hands her phone to me quickly. It is Alfredo, the neurosurgeon, and suddenly I’m plunged seventy miles north, in the hospital with Saskia.

      ‘We have done extensive scanning of Saskia’s brain,’ he says. ‘We can see a number of contusions on the frontal lobe and signs of a diffuse axonal. What I cannot see just now is whether there is any bleeding or swelling in the brain.’

      ‘Will she be OK?’ I ask tearfully.

      He gives a sigh, and my heart plummets. ‘There’s a possibility that the pressure will increase and slow blood flow to the brain. If this happens, something called cerebral hypoxia and ischaemia can occur. It means that the brain can begin to protrude through the skull, which we certainly do not want.’

      I feel turned inside out by this news. My mind races with questions. Will she survive this? Will she walk again? Speak again? What are the long-term effects?

      ‘What can you do to help her?’ I say weakly.

      Another grave sigh. ‘She will need an operation to insert an ICP bolt to monitor pressure in the brain cavity.’

      There’s a long silence, and I realise he is asking for my permission to perform this operation. To put a bolt in my daughter’s head.

      ‘Yes,’ I hear myself say, though instantly I feel terrified, flooded with doubt. Is this the right thing? Did I just agree? Can I trust him?

      He tells me that the next twenty-four hours are absolutely critical for her survival.

      ‘Yes, please do whatever it takes,’ I tell him, apologising as I break into sobs. I tell him I will do anything, absolutely anything for her. I will sell my body, rob a bank, plunder a city. I will give her my organs. I will give her my life.

      ‘You must leave this to me,’ he says, and I realise with terrifying helplessness that Saskia’s fate – her survival – is entirely out of my hands.

      ‘Can you take me to Michael, please?’ I ask Vanessa as she wheels me through the hospital doors. I’m so weakened with worry about Saskia that I feel sick, and although I am desperate to see Michael I have no idea how to tell him about the van driver’s accusation. How will he take it? How will he cope with news of Saskia and this accusation?

      As we turn towards the corridor linking to his room I hear a man’s voice bark, ‘Helen? Helen Pengilly?’

      The man is white, broad-shouldered and sandy-haired, the sleeves of a white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows, his hands in fists by his sides. He seems restless, as though he’s searching for someone.

      It is Theo.

      I give a sharp, high-pitched scream.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ Vanessa shouts. I turn all the way around in the wheelchair and pull on her clothes, yelling at her to get me out of here.

      ‘Oh my Lord, Helen!’

      A woman’s voice. My vision blurred with tears, I make out another blurry figure racing up the corridor towards me. A slim woman, early thirties, short red hair, a black cotton dress and yellow sandals. Her face is wet and streaked black with running mascara. My heart pounds in my throat as Theo walks briskly towards me, but with each step he reveals himself as someone else entirely. It’s not Theo after all. For a moment everything turns black and I’m gasping for breath.

      Moments later my younger sister, Jeannie, is on her knees in front of me, her arms reaching around and pulling me into a painful embrace. I can smell her, feel her lips on my cheeks.

      ‘I can’t believe it,’ she says, fumbling to take my hand in hers. ‘I just can’t believe what’s happened, Helen, I can’t! It’s so awful!’

      She reaches up and pushes a strand of hair out of my eyes, then cups my face. I burst into tears and she pulls me into another embrace.

      When she pulls back she seems to be looking at the man behind her with a frightened expression.

      ‘This is my boyfriend, Shane,’ she says quickly. ‘Shane, my sister Helen.’

      ‘How do you do?’

      I flinch as he looks at me, half-expecting him to turn into Theo again. My heart is still doing somersaults in my chest in case I’m mistaken. But he remains Shane – handsome, mid-forties, surprisingly anodyne, at least compared to Jeannie’s usual class of boyfriend – and offers a hand, as though we’re meeting in a café or bistro instead of a ramshackle hospital halfway around the world. He shakes Vanessa’s hand and pulls a banknote out of his pocket, handing it to her, before stepping in to take over the job of pushing my wheelchair.

      ‘Vanessa’s from the British High Commission,’ I say.

      ‘Oh, apologies,’ he says as she looks down with confusion at the twenty-pound note in her hand. ‘Shane Goodwin, how do you do? You guys do a terrific job.’