Mr. Nobody(30)
But Rhoda’s patient shakes his head. He is not the man Mike Garrett is looking for. Mike lowers the glass ever so slightly, perplexed by the advancing man. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen, he thinks, this man doesn’t look scared, he looks kind. A fresh sadness seems to burst over Mike and he slowly sits back down.
Rhoda’s patient is feet away now. The room watches mesmerized. There’s an assurance to the way Rhoda’s patient moves, a calmness. He seems to know what he’s doing as he approaches the increasingly confused man. Close enough, Rhoda’s patient stretches out a hand, palm up. Mike studies him, then lets out a deep ragged breath, something inside him breaking under the strain—he begins to sob, in wretched gasps.
The patient takes another step toward him. Then, gently, almost tenderly, he takes the shard of glass from Mike’s unresisting hand. He places it on the bedside cabinet and sits down next to him. The patient reaches out and Mike lets himself be taken into a strong masculine hug, his body loosening limply into that of his new friend. His eyes squeeze tight shut, and remembering of all that he has lost, he lets himself fully surrender.
* * *
—
After Mike has been led away to another room, Rhoda makes her way over to her patient. “That was very brave but you should have let me help, you know. I could have helped.”
The patient shakes his head mildly.
No, his eyes say.
He brings a hand up to her head now by way of explanation. Careful not to touch her skin and the angry comma of scar tissue near her hairline.
No, not you, not again, his eyes seem to say. Not this time.
Rhoda’s eyes widen and her breath catches.
He knows, she realizes. He knows.
What happened to her. How she got her scar. The scar that hasn’t fully healed yet. Inside and out. Her eyes fill. He knows and he was protecting me. He protected us all.
She smiles up at him. He gives her a smile straight back.
“Well,” she finally says, “aren’t you just a gift from God.”
14
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 8—FIRST DAY
I grab the keys to the lodge, pull on my running shoes, and let the door bang shut behind me. I need to get my run in before work, as it’ll be pitch black by the time I get back. It’s drizzling slightly, which I actually like, the scent of rain fresh and pure in the early-morning air.
I decide to take a route out through the back gate of the garden that looks like it heads deeper into the woods. I want to see the forest in the daylight. I need to get used to it somehow, this dark tangle encircling me. I unhook the gate and set off at a brisk pace. The uneven ground is more interesting to negotiate than the well-kept footpaths of Regent’s Park. It’s only when my watch starts beeping that I become aware I’m soaked, my hands are numb, and my buzzing mind is finally clear. Time to turn and head back the way I came.
Back at the lodge, I cook a quick breakfast and hop in the shower, letting the warmth seep back into my bones. I’m not entirely sure what the traffic is like between here and the hospital, so I decide it’s best to set off early; they’re expecting me at nine o’clock. Once I’m dressed, blow-dried, and made up, I dash out through the rain again to the rental car, my new friend, my connection to the outside world. I think about turning on the radio but decide that I don’t want to break the soft bubble of silence surrounding me just yet.
The comforting aortic pump of the windshield wipers is my only company for the rest of the drive. The quiet beauty of the countryside thins as I near the bland gray of King’s Lynn, and finally I see Princess Margaret’s rise like a concrete lighthouse from the drab sea of the suburban town. I feel my pulse quicken; the last time I was here things were not good. I try not to think of that night…the coughing, the blood. But my cortisol spikes regardless.
I park and look up at the hospital, my view blurring as rain splatters the windshield.
I’m here for a reason, I tell myself. Somewhere inside is my patient. Waiting. The knot to be loosened.
Near the hospital entrance the news vans are setting up for the day. Crews milling, bustling with umbrellas, coffee orders, production runners with anorak hoods up, darting between the gaps in a recently erected press cordon, huddled together texting and laughing.
It won’t be like last time, I tell myself. They won’t know who I am as I slip past them, at least not today. This afternoon they’ll find out I’m the new doctor on the Mr. Nobody case but nothing more. They won’t know who I really am; that information would take a lot more than an Internet search.
But then, I suppose, time has a way of releasing the truth from its bedrock and floating it up into the sunlight.
I might get mobbed with questions as I leave tonight. But it won’t be like last time. And for now, I am no one.
I grab my bag, filled with my notes and my laptop, and dash from the dry heat of the car through the wet of the car park.
I pull my coat collar up high over my head as I run, partly to protect my first-day hair, partly as a barrier as I near the press area.
But no one even glances up as I pass by.
* * *
—
I’m early. The clock above reception reads 8:39. I let my eyes drift over the lobby: The two security guards standing by the entrance of the main corridor to the wards, are they there to stop the press getting in? I wonder. Or to stop someone getting out?