Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(156)

At first they all slurred together. “Nottoomuchdifferentfromwhat-happenstotheheart,” someone was saying reasonably. “Butthisisabrain-attackinstead.”

Butthisisabrainattackinstead? What did this mean? Agatha wondered. Where was she? And why was she lying so still? She might have thought she'd died and was having an out of body experience, but she was firmly and definitely in her body, all too aware of its presence, in fact.

“OhGodhowbadisit?” This was Theo's voice, and Agatha warmed to it. Theo, she thought. Theo was there. Theo was with her, in the room, nearby. Things couldn't be as bad as they seemed.

So relieved was she to have heard his voice that she caught only snatches of words for the next several minutes. Thrombosis, she heard. Cholesterol deposits. Occlusion of artery. And right hemiparisis.

Then she knew. And what she felt in the instant she knew was a despair so profound that it welled inside her like a fast-inflating balloon of a scream which she could not emit, which threatened to kill her. Would that it could, she thought brokenly. Oh blessed Jesus, would that it could.

Lewis had called to her. Lawrence had called to her. But pig-headed as always, she hadn't joined them. She had things left to do, dreams to fulfill, and points left to make before she was done with living. So when the stroke had attacked and the blood clot had robbed her brain of oxygen for however long a time it had been, the substance and spirit of Agatha Shaw had fiercely fought back. And she had not died.

Now the words were becoming clearer. The light that filled the field of her vision began to transform itself into forms. From these forms, people emerged, indistinguishable from one another at first.

“It's the left middle cerebral artery that's been affected again.” A man's voice, and one she now recognised. Dr. Fairclough, who'd seen her through her last stroke. “You can see as much from the pull on her facial muscles. Nurse, use the needle again please. See? There's no reaction. If we repeat the pricking on her arm as well, we'll have the same results.” He bent over the bed. Now Agatha could see him clearly. His nose was large, with pores that were the size of pinheads. He wore glasses whose lenses were oily and smudged. How could he possibly see anything through them? “Agatha?” he called. “Do you know me, Agatha? Do you know what's happened?”

Bloody stupid man, Agatha thought. How could she not know what had happened. With an effort, she blinked. The very act exhausted her.

“Yes. Good,” Dr. Fairclough said. “You've had another stroke, my dear. But you're all right now. And Theo's here.”

“Gran?” He sounded so tentative, as if she'd become an abandoned puppy that he attempted to coax from a hiding place. He was standing too far away for her to see him clearly, but even seeing the shape of him was comforting to her, a sign that all might be well once again. “Why the hell did you try to get to the tennis court?” Theo asked. “Jesus, Gran, if Mary hadn't been with you …She didn't even phone for an ambulance. She picked you up and rushed you here herself. Dr. Fairclough thinks that saved your life.”

Who would have thought the silly cow had such presence of mind? Agatha wondered. All she could ever recall Mary Ellis doing in an emergency situation was blubbering, blinking, and letting her nose dribble onto her upper lip.

“She isn't responding,” Theo said, and Agatha could see that he'd turned to the doctor. “Can she even hear me?”

“Agatha?” the doctor said. “Will you show Theo you can hear what he's saying?”

Slowly and once again with great effort, Agatha blinked. It seemed to take every ounce of her energy, and she felt the strain of the movement all the way to her throat.

“What we're seeing,” the doctor said in that blasted imparting-of-information voice that had always caused Agatha's hackles to rise, “is called expressive aphasia. The clot denied blood—hence oxygen—to the left side of the brain. Since that's the region responsible for word-oriented rational reality, speech is affected.”

“But she's worse than last time. She had some words last time. So why doesn't she have them now? Gran, can you say my name? Can you say your own?”

Agatha forced her mouth to open. But the only sound she was able to make sounded to her like “Ahg.” She tried a second time, then a third. And she felt that balloon scream trying to force its way out of her lungs again.

“It's a more serious stroke this time,” Dr. Fairclough was saying. He put a hand on Agatha's left shoulder. She could feel him squeeze warmly. “Agatha, don't strain yourself. Rest now. You're in excellent hands. And Theo's here if you need him.”

They stepped away from the bed and out of her range of vision, but she could still hear some of their hushed words.

“…no magic bullet unfortunately,” the doctor was saying. “…will need extensive rehabilitation.”

“… therapy?” this from Theo.

“Physical and speech.”

“…hospital?”

And Agatha strained to hear. Intuitively, she knew what her grandson was asking because it was what she felt herself desperate to know: What was the prognosis in a case like hers? And could she expect to remain in hospital, immobilised in a rail-sided bed like a blasted rag doll, until the day she died?

“Actually quite hopeful,” Dr. Fairclough said, and he returned to her bedside to share the information with her. He patted her shoulder, then touched his fingertips to her forehead as if he were giving her a formal benediction.