The Silent Treatment by Abbie Greaves

Author:Abbie Greaves
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-04-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

I hear her before I see her, outside the door, her rubber-soled shoes flapping against the floor like whips.

“Aye, Frank, I’m here, what is it?” Daisy looks at Maggie before she sees me, still hunched over the button as if it will blow at any second. She notices the quiver too. She pages for help and immediately sets about tapping at Maggie—her wrists, her feet, her neck. All of a sudden it is as if my contribution never mattered at all.

I always did say Maggie had a knack for timing. How is this possible? I needed, what, five more minutes? I wish I had just cut to it. I see my chance, fleeting, running off into the distance, too far away for me to gain back that ground. I can’t say it here, not now, not with an audience. Can I?

“Daisy, what’s the situation?”

A flurry of consultants arrive, headed by Dr. Singh, his white coat billowing out behind him. Daisy responds with an array of numbers—too high or too low or too alien for me to make any sense of them. After so long with just my own voice, the noise feels grotesque, ungainly in the small intensive-care room.

I stand up and back toward the window as they approach Maggie, brandishing an array of implements and devices in front of her like aggressive sellers in the final minutes of a flea market.

“Frank, she’s gonna be OK, just like I said.” Daisy has managed to extract herself from her colleagues and has moved so that she is partially blocking my view. “You’ve got to be strong for her when she comes round. She’s going to need you.”

“I haven’t been, Daisy. I haven’t been strong for her at all.” It is all too much. The room, the people. I can feel the sob rising in my throat, and Daisy senses it too. Her sixth sense—compassion.

Daisy nods in the direction of the door. “We’ve got this. I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”

I don’t move.

“You did your bit, Frank, but now you have to trust us. Come on.” I don’t want to leave, but I am being steered out. Daisy places her hand on the small of my back in an attempt to shepherd me toward the exit and away from the freight train of terminology speeding through the room.

“Daisy, I can’t. I didn’t finish. There’s something I have to tell her. The one thing I came for—”

“You have to go. Really. Please, Frank, don’t make this difficult for me.” She is firmer now. I know I must look like a madman, blathering away, distracting necessary resources.

“I have to tell her why I stopped talk—”

“Frank, please, you can do this later. When she’s well. Just give her a kiss goodbye; you’ll see her again soon.”

There isn’t space in the wall of backs. Can I even say it in front of an audience? I can kid myself as much as I like, but deep down I know I am not that brave a man.

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