The Lake

of what I might find. My hand grasps something. I pull it out into the light. It’s a sweet wrapper. I smile and shake my head. Michael’s swimming coach was always strict about healthy eating for her athletes, forbidding junk food of any kind. I would often sneak a Mars bar or two into his things before I drove him back to school. Our little secret.
I tip the rucksack over and shake it with a fervour that surprises me. A pencil and paperclip emerge; nothing else.
‘What the hell?’ I scream. What was the backpack doing here, hidden away?
Stay calm. Keep it together.
I fetch a damp flannel from the bathroom and carefully wipe away all the dirt, dust and grime before laying the rucksack on the desk next to Michael’s hoodie and an old swimming medal of his I’d found in the desk drawer. My personal shrine.
Nearby, church bells chime ten o’clock. I jump up as if stung. I’m going to be late meeting Adam.
It’s after eleven by the time I finally arrive at the hospital. I park near the maternity ward entrance and watch a steady stream of tired, yet elated faces pass me on their way to visit the new arrivals. An elderly couple emerge from a silver Honda Jazz, flowers and pink balloons in tow. A young man, no older than sixteen, stands hunched in the smoking shelter taking a slow drag of a cigarette. The smell of smoke lingers just long enough for me to be reminded of the guilty pleasure. I haven’t smoked in over eight years, ever since Adam and I made our first and only attempt at IVF.
As I get out of the car, I spot a dark-haired man with glasses, attractive in a greying-around-the-edges sort of a way, strolling towards me. It takes me a minute to realise that it’s my husband. Jesus, I must be tired. Closing the car door, I smile and walk towards him.
‘You’re late.’ Pushing back my fringe, he kisses me gently on the forehead. ‘You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep?’
I stifle a yawn. ‘A bit.’
‘I was hoping to catch Mr Emery before he starts his rounds in ICU,’ Adam gives me a look I know well, ‘but we’ve probably missed him now.’
‘I’m sorry honey. Traffic was terrible.’
‘No matter,’ he says, brightly. ‘I rang the head nurse this morning. It looks like they’re going to take her off ventilation this afternoon.’
I try not to think about the ramifications of that statement. Depending on the level of brain injury caused by the stroke, my mother may not be able to breathe unaided.
Adam hands me a small holdall. ‘I brought those things you asked for. You’re not planning to stay long, are you?’
‘Hopefully just a few days.’ I don’t mention how desperately I’m longing to be back at our house in Exmouth; back with the sea views, the pristine herbaceous borders, and my little study at the end of the hallway where I do my private work. ‘I’ll need to see what they plan to do about Mum long term. And I’ve really got to do something about the cat.’
‘Speaking of cats,’ says Adam, scratching his nose. ‘I can feel the effects of that thing already.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t get so close,’ I tease.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ he replies, hugging me close.
Our visit to the stroke ward is excruciating. My mother’s stats have improved slightly, but an unexpected spike in her temperature means they’ve decided to wait until tomorrow to remove her from ventilation. The back-and-forth treatment debate between Adam and Mr Emery, the consultant, is more like a medical conference between two old pals than a family-centred discussion. Eager to get it over with and leave, I find myself nodding without really listening. Maybe Adam is right. Maybe this place is so tied to tragedy and loss for me that I can’t think clearly.
It’s nearly three o’clock before we finally make our way back to the car park.
‘Well, from what Mr Emery said it sounds like they’ll be taking your mother off intubation tomorrow.’
‘Provided her temperature is down,’ I add.
‘Of course,’ says Adam as we walk to his car. He sounds almost pleased by the prospect of this potentially risky procedure, but I know him well enough to understand: diagnosis and treatment is his safe place. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asks. ‘You were very quiet in there.’
‘It’s just a lot to take in.’
‘I’m worried about you being on your own tonight, in that house. You know how you get when you go back there.’
‘I’ll be fine, darling.’ I try my hardest not to sound impatient. I realise that he’s only looking out for me; I just wish he’d stop expecting the worst. It was over a year since my last episode, and that was only after I received that letter from our insurance company. Have you considered coverage for the younger members of your family? It’s really never too early to think about life insurance!
‘Really, Adam, I’m okay.’ Why do I have to keep repeating that? ‘We’ll see how tomorrow goes and then we can look at getting an OH assessment for the house – handrails, stairlift, that sort of thing.’ We both know I’m stating the obvious, but sometimes obvious is the safest place to be.
Adam takes my hands in his. ‘I want you home by the end of the week.’ It’s a statement, not a request. ‘Okay?’
‘Of course.’ I’m grateful, as always, for his directives. He gives me a final kiss on the cheek before getting into his car.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven.’ He taps a finger on his watch. ‘Be on time.’
‘Yes, darling.’ I step back so a car can pass. ‘I’ll ring you later. Drive carefully.’
Giving him a final wave, I turn and head back towards the hospital. Behind me, I hear the Audi’s engine rev and pull away. I stand alone in front of the main entrance, watching as the huge building ingests and repulses the steady stream of sick