The Lake

that I disagree with him, but I’m tired. Tired of being managed and mollycoddled, and tired of being treated as if I were a child – or, even worse, a patient. Surely I have the right to remember my son in the way I see fit?
‘How was it?’ he asks finally. ‘At the lake I mean.’
‘Fine. Absolutely fine.’
I decide not to tell him about the little boy, or my sobs of relief as after nearly three minutes of CPR he mercifully began to breathe. Instead, I think of Michael’s memorial bench; of the pale, weather-worn oak, and the brass plaque glinting in the early morning sun.
In memory of Michael David Penrose (2000–2015)
One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: that word is love
Adam had disapproved, thought the quote morbid, but I had insisted.
‘Why don’t we go out for lunch tomorrow?’ Adam’s voice is firm, persuasive. ‘We could try that new tapas place on Fore Street.’
‘I’m not really sure …’
‘Kate.’ Adam runs his hand up along my arm to my shoulder, before slowly letting it slide down to my breast. ‘We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we? It’s been six years now. Don’t you think it’s time for us to move on?’
‘Move on?’ I reply immediately, automatically. ‘Yes, of course.’ And although my voice rises in agreement, inside I am screaming.
When Adam is finally asleep, I creep downstairs and pour myself a glass of wine. Reaching into the pocket of my dressing gown, I search for the small blue pill I hid there earlier. I welcome the sensation of the sugary coating dissolving on my tongue, before washing it down with a slug of Pinot.
I won’t have any trouble getting back to sleep tonight.
After a lunch of zamburiñas and San Miguel, Adam and I browse the antique shops that are dotted along the Exeter quayside. By the time we make our way back to the car, the sun is sinking behind the cathedral, the cream-coloured stonework a jagged silhouette against darkening skies. For the first time in months I feel lighter; more myself.
We return home to the unremitting blink of the answerphone light.
‘Just leave it,’ I say, as I slide our takeaways into the oven. ‘I’ll check the messages later.’ I’m looking forward to my squid in black bean sauce when the telephone rings. ‘Can’t we just leave it?’ I ask again, but Adam is already lifting the receiver to his ear.
‘Hullo?’ He has his consultant’s voice on, no doubt anticipating another call about an A&E emergency.
‘Who is it?’ I whisper.
‘Not sure – they’re asking for you,’ says Adam, handing me the phone and taking a sip of wine.
‘Hello?’ I can hear someone clearing their throat, and then a soft female voice.
‘Katie?’
‘Doris, is that you?’ Doris Livingstone is my mother’s next-door neighbour. ‘What is it? Are you okay?’
There’s a pause, and the older woman seems to be struggling with what to say next. ‘Katie, your mother has had an accident. I’ve been trying to ring you all day.’
I think of my mobile phone lying dead at the bottom of my bag. ‘Is she all right?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Doris makes a small hiccupping sound. ‘I found her at the bottom of the stairs. She was barely breathing. The paramedics came and took her away.’
‘Where did they take her? Which hospital?’
‘The big one,’ she replies. ‘Plymouth.’ There’s another pause, this time longer. ‘The way she looked when I found her – so pale – I thought …’
‘Thank you, Doris. I’d better ring the hospital.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll ring you back as soon as I know anything. Speak then.’ I carefully place the phone back into its cradle before turning and vomiting into the sink.
It takes nearly half an hour to get through to Plymouth A&E. I insist Adam eat his stir fry, but I can’t bear to touch my squid: the thin, rubbery circles remind me now of the transplant valves I handled in my days as a cardiac nurse, in that happier past when Michael was alive and my world was still hopeful. I glance at the refrigerator door. Preserved within a small magnetic picture frame is a photograph I took of him the morning he left for boarding school. Gorgeous, chocolate-coloured curls frame a strong brow and determined chin; but his deep brown eyes are uncertain, his smile hesitant. I feel Adam’s hand on my shoulder.
‘What did the hospital say?’
‘They think it was a stroke.’ My voice wavers, but I am determined not to cry. ‘Ischemic, but they won’t know for sure until they do more tests.’
‘Oh, Kate.’
I turn and touch his cheek. ‘I have to go.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I mean tonight – now.’
‘What?’
‘I could tell by the nurse’s tone it’s serious.’ I recall the expression of benign neutrality I’d always adopted before breaking bad news on the ward. Adam pours his wine down the sink and reaches for the car keys.
‘You get your coat. I’ll drive.’
I point to the calendar stuck to the refrigerator door. ‘You’re on call.’
‘Damn. Maybe—’
‘You can’t, Adam. You know you need to be within at least a forty-five-minute drive to the hospital.’
‘I’ll ring Sue, she might—’
‘Really, sweetheart, I’ll be fine. It’s probably better if I go on my own anyway. You know what my mother’s like.’
‘But that’s the hospital where—’
I lay my hand on his. ‘I’ll be fine. The nurse said she’s stabilised, but you know, these things can change in a heartbeat.’
‘But if you waited until tomorrow—’
‘She could be dead by tomorrow.’
Adam takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. ‘Well, I suppose we’ve got no choice, but I’m really not happy about you driving all that way on your own, especially at this time of night. You’re not planning to stay there, are you?’
I try to appear confident, to contain the panic that is threatening to overwhelm me. As much as I love my husband, I wish he would stop asking me all these questions. ‘Depends on her status really. I’ve still got my keys to Mum’s house, and there’s Tam to