Page 7 of Never Tear Us Apart
Chapter Six
‘Maia? Maia? Can you hear me?’
The voice just reaches me from very far away.
I don’t recognise who it belongs to, so I ignore it.
Is this sleep or death? The distinction seems very hard to make.
Pain throbs throughout my body in sharp pulses.
Not death, then. At least, I hope death isn’t like this.
Is it birth or rebirth? I feel as if I’m encompassed in a thick, viscous fluid that wants to rock me back to sleep.
‘Maia, Maia, open your eyes please.’ A woman’s voice, a stranger.
‘Maia, wake up at once please. You are scaring me.’ Kathryn’s voice sounds urgent and demanding.
I remember her kindness. For her, I start to slowly fight my way back from the dark. It hurts.
‘What’s happening?’ I squint against the bright light. A woman is bending over me, shining a torch in my eyes – I think it’s the same doctor who saw me after the crash. I bat my hands at her. ‘What the hell . . . ? Go away!’
‘Oh, my dear.’ I feel Kathryn stilling my flailing hand, holding it to her lips. ‘Hush now, hush. Dr Gresch is just trying to help you.’
I work hard to bring her face into focus.
‘Is this . . . ? Was it . . . the crash?’ I ask, my voice dry as dust.
‘No, dear, no. You were with me at Mnajdra, remember? I left you for a little while, but I got worried when you didn’t come to find me.
Then soon after the temple opened to the public, a visitor found you unconscious, bruised, and with these deep cuts on your head.
We brought you right back to the hospital.
We’re not sure how long you were out for. ’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head and pay the price as pain burns down my nerve endings. ‘I was down there for at least an hour, maybe more.’
‘Down where?’ Kathryn asks.
‘In a shelter, in the middle of a war.’ Then I realise: it was all a dream. I am in that most hated of clichés. Still, the sense of relief is a blessing. Just a dream – just my damaged brain conjuring images to haunt me with.
‘Our best guess is that you fainted and knocked your head on a rock or perhaps fell onto stones and cut it that way,’ Dr Gresch tells me.
‘Though it’s odd you have cuts on the back and front of your head.
Maia, considering your family history and your mother’s illness, I’m concerned that I missed something after the accident. I want to do some more tests.’
‘But you said my scans were all clear?’ I ask, raising a tentative hand to my forehead. ‘I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD previously, Doctor. Do you think that’s relevant? I’m a war correspondent. But that doesn’t usually show up on scans.’
‘Well, actually, it depends on the scans, but I have ordered more to be safe,’ she says. ‘According to your records, from your insurers, your anxiety, the flashbacks and insomnia have been well controlled with therapy. Are you coping well?’
‘I am,’ I say.
‘Still, I will keep you overnight, I think.’
‘I don’t want to be kept in overnight,’ I protest, looking at Kathryn.
‘I’m fine, really. Well, I will be. The dream I had – it was so vivid .
. . I saw a door, Kathryn, at the temple.
And the stairs leading down, and then, somehow, I found my way into the Second World War, I think?
There was this American and a child . . .
I could hear the bombs falling – I could feel them. It was so real . . .’
‘The Second World War, really?’ Kathryn asks gently, quickly adding, ‘Not surprising, I suppose, given your experience in war zones. I should have taken better care of you. I shouldn’t have left you. Your father told me you can be a little delicate.’
‘He did?’ I ask, baffled. ‘I’m a lot of things, but delicate is not one of them.’
Then I realise he must have been talking about my mental health, how my mind has constantly teetered on a knife-edge ever since Syria. Is Dad ashamed of my ‘issues’? Delicate? Fuck that.
‘Perhaps you didn’t have enough water, or you’re not used to the heat,’ Kathryn goes on. ‘I should have stayed with you. This is all my fault, Doctor.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I insist, trying to prise a clear thought out of my head. It feels like time is stuck in a short-running loop.
‘I will be the judge of that.’ Dr Gresch sits on the edge of the bed, frowning. ‘You need stitches. I’ll arrange it. It could be delayed shock, your body reacting to a drop in adrenalin. Or perhaps I missed something, so I need to keep you tonight. We will have more tests – agreed?’
‘I don’t like hospitals,’ I say.
Kathryn hands me a glass of orange juice.
‘Neither do I,’ Dr Gresch admits. ‘But you are injured, and I’m a doctor. What are you going to do?’
She smiles; I smile. It hurts.
‘What about Dad?’ I remember a little too late to ask after him. ‘How is he doing?’
‘Your father is doing exceptionally well for a man of his age who has devoted so much of his life to smoking and drinking and other pursuits,’ Dr Gresch tells me.
‘He is frustrated and bored, but I take that to be a good sign. Would you like to see him? I can arrange for a porter to take you in a chair once we’ve got you properly cleaned up? ’
‘Oh no,’ I say at once.
‘Not today,’ Kathryn says, tilting her head to look at me. ‘You don’t need any more agitation.’
‘I’m an adult woman in a perfectly safe place,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll be OK. The doctor here is probably right – it’s a delayed reaction or something. I’m fine, honestly – a bit groggy but fine. I could probably come back to yours tonight, Kathryn, and come in for another scan tomorrow . . .’
‘No,’ Dr Gresch and Kathryn say in unison.
‘You are like your father in some ways,’ Kathryn chides me.
‘You think the laws of physics don’t apply to you, that you are invincible.
’ She reaches for her bag and brings out a large, glossy paperback, which she lays on the bed.
Malta: The George Cross Island at War . ‘No reading today, but I bought this for you at the museum earlier. I have my own copy at home. There’s quite a bit about our grandmother in it. But no reading today – promise?’
‘Promise.’ I nod, picking up the book to look at the cover image of Spitfires flying over the harbour. They blur, double and refocus. No reading today.
‘I’ll come again tomorrow, in the morning. Do as you are told.’ Kathryn kisses me briefly on the back of my hand as she leaves.
‘Ugh, I hate doing as I’m told,’ I grumble under my breath.
Dr Gresch remains after Kathryn has gone, reading something on the iPad that’s attached to the bottom of my bed. She’s in her forties, I think, tall and attractive, with the kind of glossy, neat hair that I have never managed to achieve. She gives off an air of calm confidence that is reassuring.
‘So, Doc?’
She looks up from the iPad.
‘Give it to me straight. Did you miss something bad? Am I going to die?’
Dr Gresch smiles. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Not quite as much reassurance as I’d hoped for.’ I laugh.
‘The brain is an enigmatic organ,’ she says.
‘Any serious injury should have shown up on the scans, but sometimes the effects of an accident can be invisible. It’s possible, though unlikely, that slight bruising or some swelling has developed since the scans.
Or the incident could have triggered the PTSD, reactivating some of the more distressing symptoms.’
‘Oh good,’ I say.
‘Count yourself lucky – sometimes after an accident like yours, people start speaking a new language perfectly or their personality changes completely. I once authored a paper about a woman who lived the rest of her life with a constant sense of déjà vu.’ She shudders at the thought and gives me a slight smile.
‘It’s more likely to be like the ringing you mentioned you are experiencing in your ears – an after-effect of having your body thrown around.
You might experience a little dizziness and some fainting, and you will perhaps need to take extra care for a while.
Try not to be worried, and if you start to speak fluent Maltese, let me know. I’ll take you to meet my mother.’
‘What, not even dinner first?’ I quip weakly.
‘You should sleep,’ she says, smiling generously at me. ‘The nurse will bring you some meds for the pain in a little while. There is nothing to do but rest.’
‘I’ve never been very good at resting,’ I explain. ‘I’m not keen on having time to think.’
Dr Gresch pauses for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. ‘Your doctors in the UK sent me your records. I see you were injured in Syria.’
‘It’s not as if I’m a veteran – just a reporter who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, I’ve done the therapy; I’m fine now. Basically.’
‘As I mentioned, the shock of the crash may well cause a resurgence in symptoms: flashbacks, anxiety, perhaps even hallucinations. Please, tell me if that happens. Don’t try to brush it off.
Listen to your body and ask for help. I am a world-leading neurologist and psychiatrist, I’ll have you know, and I’m at your disposal.
Make use of me.’ She raises a commanding finger at me just as she leaves the room.
Of course I will do no such thing, but even so, I like Dr Gresch.
If I were ever to truly confide in a medic, it would be her.
But experience has taught me never to tell them everything – especially not how I can never forgive myself for being alive when so many innocent lives have been lost around me. One because of me.
For a moment, I feel a pang of guilt about not being able to see Dad today, but he’d probably prefer me not to. I imagine his irritation at being confined to bed will only be compounded by seeing me, the architect of his downfall.
There’s a little part of me that worries, though. A nagging thought that it wasn’t just that I forgot to check my mirrors when I pulled out of that lay-by. An idea that it was more that I simply didn’t care what happened next.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d played roulette with my life in the years since Syria.