“You’re probably concussed,” she said. “You’re on your way now to have a brain scan.”
I hoped they’d find one.
I wondered where I was. I knew that I was in the hospital, but where? And why was I in the hospital? The questions were too difficult for my befuddled brain, so I decided to take the easy option and do as I was told. I laid my head back on the pillow and closed my eyes again.
FOR THE NEXT few hours, I was dimly aware of being lifted and poked, of being talked about but not talked to. I just let the world get on without me.
I couldn’t remember why I was here. Rather worryingly, I couldn’t remember very much at all. Who am I? I wondered, and was comforted by at least knowing that it mattered. I decided that I probably wasn’t crazy. Surely, I thought, if I was crazy I wouldn’t know to ask myself the question in the first place. But what was the answer?
Thoughts drifted in and out of my consciousness without any threads of connection. Come on, I said to myself, sort it out. There were clearly some priorities to set. Who am I? Why am I here? And where is here?
“Mr. Moreton? Mr. Moreton?” a woman called from my left, and someone stroked my arm. Was Mr. Moreton me? I suppose it must be. Did I really want to come back into the land of the living just yet? I supposed I should.
I opened my eyes.
“He’s back again,” said the woman. “Hello, Mr. Moreton, how are you feeling?”
I tried to say that I was fine, but it came out as a croak. The woman obviously thought it was a good sign that I had reacted at all. She leaned over me and smiled into my face. “Well done,” she said. “You are going to be all right.”
Why did I think that she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince me?
I tried again to speak. “Where am I?” I croaked.
“Addenbrooke’s hospital,” she said. “In Cambridge.”
I knew I knew something about Addenbrooke’s hospital, I thought. What was it? Memory circuits in my head flipped and flopped and came up with an answer: Addenbrooke’s hospital was where the food-poisoning victims went.
Why did I think that? Who were the poison victims? Would they be OK? I decided not to worry about them. They would be all right, I said to myself. The woman had said so, and I believed her. I closed my eyes again. I wasn’t yet ready to participate in the world any further.
WHEN I WOKE next, it was dark. There was a window to my right and it was black, with the exception of a couple of yellow streetlights visible in the distance. I lay there, looking out. I remembered I was in the hospital. Addenbrooke’s hospital, in Cambridge. But I couldn’t remember why. Then I wondered what was happening at the restaurant.
“Hello, Max,” said a voice on my left.
I rolled my head over. It was Caroline. I smiled at her.
“Hello, Caroline,” I said. “How lovely.”
“You know who I am, then,” she said.
“Of course I do,” I said. “I may be in the hospital, but I’m not stupid.”
“The doctor warned me that you might not remember who I was. He said that earlier you appeared not to remember who you were either. Seems you have been drifting in and out all day. How do you feel?”
“Better, for seeing you,” I said. “But why am I here?”
“You had an accident,” she said. “You were hit by a bus and you banged your head. They think it must have been on the side window of your car. They say that you are just a bit concussed, but you should be fine in a few days.”
I couldn’t remember an accident or a bus. “How did you know I was here?” I asked her.
“I called your cell to tell you the time of the train I was coming on and a nurse answered it. She told me you were in the hospital, so I came straightaway.” Caroline smiled.
That’s nice, I thought.
“What time is it?” I said.
“About two o’clock,” she said.
“In the morning?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry about dinner,” I said. “Where are you staying?”
“Right here,” she said. That was nice too. “It took a bit of persuasion, but, in the end, they let me stay.”
“But you must have somewhere to sleep,” I said.
“I’m happy right here.” She smiled at me. I was so glad. “I’ll find somewhere to sleep in the morning.”
Wow, I thought.
“Are you still suing me?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she said, and she laughed. Her laughter turned to tears that streamed down her face. She was laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh God, I’m so relieved you are all right. Don’t you ever do that to me again.”
“Do what?” I said.
“Don’t you ever frighten me like that again. When I called your phone, they told me you were having a brain scan to check for any pressure buildup. They told me that they didn’t yet know of the extent of any permanent brain damage.” She was crying from the memory. “I don’t want to lose you, not when I’ve only just found you.”
“I thought it was me who found you.”
“Yes,” she said, choking back the sobs. “So it was. How was that, exactly? Perhaps it’s better I don’t know.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. Then she kissed me gently on the lips. I could get used to that, I thought.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not a convenient time, but I really need to go to the bathroom.”
“I’ll get a nurse,” she said, and disappeared. She came back with a large, middle-aged woman wearing a blue nurse’s tunic.
“Ah, you’re back with us again, Mr. Moreton,” said the nurse. “How are you feeling now?”
“Not too bad,” I said. “I’ve got a bit of a headache, and I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Bottle or bedpan?” she said. It took me quite a few seconds to understand what she meant.
“Oh,” I said. “Bedpan. But can’t I go to the bathroom?”
“I’ll see if I can find a wheelchair,” she said. “I don’t want you walking yet after such a bang. You have a concussion, and your balance may be affected.”
She returned with the wheelchair and helped me out of bed and into it. I was wearing what could only be described as a nightshirt with an opening down the back. It did nothing for my modesty, since my rear end was exposed for all to see as the nurse lowered me gently into the chair. My balance indeed wasn’t very good, and the maneuver could hardly be described as elegant. I hoped very much that Caroline hadn’t been watching.
The nurse pushed me down the corridor to the bathroom. I was getting rather urgent and I started to get myself out of the chair and onto the toilet.
“Just a minute,” said the nurse. “Let me put the brakes on first.”
The brakes? Wasn’t there something else about brakes? I tried to remember what it was.
As if wearing a gap-backed nightshirt wasn’t bad enough, the nurse insisted on standing next to me and holding my shoulders throughout the procedure in case I toppled off the toilet and onto the floor. Being in the hospital, I concluded, did nothing for one’s dignity.
Feeling much better but still embarrassed by the process, I was wheeled back to my bed by the nurse. She applied the brakes of the wheelchair. I sat there. Why was it that I hoped the brakes wouldn’t fail again?
“Caroline?” I called out loudly.
“Shhh,” said the nurse. “You’ll wake everyone up.”
“I’m here,” said Caroline, coming and crouching down to my level.
“The brakes on my car failed,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said. “A policeman told the doctors they thought it was the brakes failing that caused the accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think someone tried to kill me.”
“YOU’RE REALLY SERIOUS, aren’t you?” Caroline said.
“Never more so,” I said.
I had told her all about my car not being locked at Cambridge station, and about my concerns that the brakes or the steering may not have been all right on Tuesday night.