Pieces of You. - Ella Harper

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in my sleep? I blinked. My eyelids felt heavy and sore. I was in a hard bed with stiff sheets and the woman – I checked out the unflattering uniform – was a nurse. I was in hospital. What was I doing here? Where was Luke? I shifted myself up, beginning to feel scared. I felt bruised, inside and out. I moved my hands tentatively until they were on my stomach. It wasn’t flat and it still felt firm-ish but I could tell it was … hollow. Empty.

      I felt a sob rising in my throat. The memories came back in a rush: the pain, the frantic phone calls to the midwife, to Luke, and eventually, to Dee, who must’ve called the hospital. I gripped the sheet. Doctors, nurses, my clothes being removed, a gown being tied. My hand being held tightly by someone (Dee? A nurse?) and screaming for Luke. But he hadn’t come. And I had … God, I couldn’t even think about what I’d had to go through. Stillborn, they said. Just one of those dreadful, regrettable things, they said, stroking my sticky hair from my face.

      My beautiful, four-month-old baby … the baby we had longed for, was gone forever. They said it was a girl. This, I had taken in. A girl. A girl who should have had stars on her ceiling and a pretty, lilac bedroom.

      I put my hands on my face and started sobbing, chest heaving, shoulders shaking.

      ‘Oh, darling.’ Dee appeared carrying two paper cups with lids. Her blonde hair was in disarray and she was wearing a pair of Hello Kitty pyjama trousers and a massive grey Transformers T-shirt that must have belonged to Dan. ‘I’m so desperately sorry.’

      I started to cry again, hating myself for being such a girl. But it mattered, it mattered so much. The pain was unbearable. Not the physical pain, the other kind.

      Dee put down the coffee. ‘I guessed your news at the barbecue when you didn’t drink Dan’s sangria.’ She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I don’t even know what to say to you because it’s so bloody cruel. I’m so fucking angry that this has happened to you again.’

      ‘Where’s Luke?’ My voice sounded croaky.

      Dee shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been so worried about you, I left it to Dan. He’s been calling and calling, but he can’t track him down.’

      ‘Did you check my phone?’

      Dee bit her lip. ‘No. Sorry, Lucy; I didn’t even think … it’s all been so dramatic …’

      ‘It’s okay. I’ll have a look. Where is it Nurse?’

      The nurse turned back to us. She picked up my notes and then her expression changed. ‘Lucy Harte? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. You’re Luke Harte’s wife.’

      ‘Yes.’ I sat up. ‘Has something happened?’

      Dee stood up, her eyes darting around. ‘What’s going on? Please tell us.’

      The nurse hung the notes back on the bed, her mouth tight. ‘I’m going to get someone to come and see you. Wait here please, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

      I turned to Dee urgently. ‘My phone …’

      She rummaged in the bedside cabinet and found it. ‘Here. Jesus, there are tons of missed messages. Are they from him?’

      ‘No. Oh my God. I can’t … Dee.’ I listened to one of the messages. ‘They’re from Joe, Luke’s partner. Christ, he’s been in an accident – a serious one …’ I put a hand to my mouth. ‘We have to find him, now. Dee, help me … please.’ I flipped back the sheet and swung my legs over the side of the bed, trembling as my feet hit the cold floor.

      Dee stood paralysed. ‘Shouldn’t we just wait? Oh fuck it, we’re doing this. I brought you some clothes …’

      ‘No time. I want to find Luke.’ I was petrified. What had happened to Luke?

      ‘I get that, but … hang on.’ Dee tore off her T-shirt, revealing a pink vest top. ‘Put this on. And these.’ She grabbed a pair of my flip flops from the side cabinet and threw them down by my feet. Grimly determined in spite of my fear, I led the way and we took a lift, two sets of stairs and meandered down several corridors. Dee kept trying to thrust me into empty wheelchairs that were lying around, but I refused, pausing only once to ask someone the way. The slap, slap, slap of my flip flops on the scrubbed hospital floor was driving me nuts, the sound incongruous against the relative hush of the corridors.

      We were given directions to Luke’s room and my heart threatened to leap out of my chest. I felt Dee reaching for my hand and I curled my fingers around hers.

      We went in together, almost bumping into a youngish doctor – or was he a consultant? He had some notes in his hand and he was talking to a nurse. They were in the way of the bed and I couldn’t see Luke.

      ‘Mrs Harte? I was just about to come and find you. I’m Dr Wallis, Luke’s consultant.’ He seemed surprised to see me, but he was calm and pleasant.

      I squeezed Dee’s fingers. My terror was barely contained; it simmered just below the surface. I could feel the blood pumping round my body, was suddenly aware of its ebb and flow.

      Dr Wallis turned to me. ‘This will probably be shocking for you, but I’m going to talk you through what happened to Luke tonight, okay?’

      I think I nodded.

      I stared past him, trying to catch sight of Luke. When I did, I felt as though I’d been knocked sideways. He didn’t look like himself at all. His lovely face was caked with dark, dried blood, especially round his mouth. Someone had tried to clean him up but there had obviously been more important things to tend to.

      ‘Luke was brought into A&E some hours ago,’ Dr Wallis was saying. ‘He was assessed by the trauma team and he was immediately referred to the general surgery team. The most life-threatening condition that needed to be dealt with was Luke’s ruptured spleen.’

      A ruptured spleen. I searched my memory, trying to recall Luke’s study notes, the ones he used to recite aloud before exams. A ruptured spleen was dangerous but it might heal on its own or it could be removed.

      I glanced at Luke again. His body was still, bizarrely so. Luke was never still; he was constantly talking, laughing, goofing around. He had bandages binding almost every limb, halting him, keeping him inert. He looked completely broken. Broken; as though he was made out of china, not from bones and organs and skin. What the hell had happened to him?

      The specialist’s voice swam into my consciousness. As well as the ruptured spleen, Luke had several broken bones, including ribs, both legs and collarbone. Damage to the spine, full extent of damage not yet known. A head injury resulting from a shaft of metal from the front grill of the lorry sticking out of Luke’s head like a chocolate flake in an ice cream cone. Surgery to remove the metal.

      ‘Luke also had a cardiac arrest when he was brought into A&E,’ Dr Wallis said gently. ‘We think this was as a result of hypovolemic shock, brought on by his ruptured spleen. Spleens bleed like you wouldn’t believe,’ he added, ‘which in turn means there is a high risk of this kind of heart attack.’

      ‘This kind of heart attack?’ Dee asked, looking dazed. ‘Is there more than one kind?’

      Dr Wallis smiled at her. ‘Yes. But I won’t bore you with the details of the other kind. The only other thing I must add, Mrs Harte, is that we are monitoring Luke closely as he is at high risk of developing a blood clot. We call it an embolus,’ he said, I think for Dee’s benefit. ‘Luke has undergone extensive surgery and now that he is immobile and in a comatose state, this is something that can be a concern.’

      Really? A possible ‘embolus’ was cause for concern? Jesus. My brain couldn’t compute any of this. I flinched inwardly from the onslaught of information; I had to break it down. Broken bones could be mended – or operated on, worst case. The spleen had been dealt with. Comas were beyond my comprehension though, not something I could drag from my memory bank.

      I walked slowly to the bed. Luke was hooked up to lots of machines. They were beeping intermittently,

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