Rebecca Thornton - The Fallout

‘You weren’t watching him, were you? Busy in that café with Sarah? Please, just tell me you were doing your job as a mother.’

‘I was,’ I try, but the words sound hollow. ‘I was. He was fine.’

‘And you trusted Sarah? What did she say? That he was OK?’

‘She said,’ I look up, trying to recall what she had said. ‘She said that she had waved and that he was fine.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have left it up to Sarah. She’s so dopey sometimes she wouldn’t notice if her arse was on fire.’

‘That’s not fair. And nor is it relevant.’

‘What about the club then? How could they have something so dangerous? In the kids’ playground. I’m going to fucking have them. I’m going to …’

‘Listen.’ Now he’s turned his attention to The Vale Club, at least it’s off me and Sarah. ‘We have to focus on Jack.’

‘Well, it’s all relevant. He was under your watch, after all.’ He stares me down. I know what he’s thinking.

‘Look.’ My voice comes out in barely a whisper. ‘He was in the sandpit. I had seen him minutes before. Sarah checked on him. There’s nothing else that we should have done. I know that … I know you’re thinking of …’ I can’t bring myself to talk any further, but I don’t have to because he takes a big breath. The room feels dry.

‘If anything happens,’ he points a finger at me but then tempers himself, rubbing his face with both hands.

If anything happens, then what , I want to say but I sit down, defeated.

‘And I’m going to make sure they damn well do an investigation into all this. The club. Someone’s going to have some answers. I want answers. I’m going to sue.’

This is the thing about Gav – he always needs answers. Even when there aren’t any. I’m torn between pushing the spotlight off me – and the fact that I hadn’t been outside with Jack – and getting Gav onto the fact that it might have been The Vale Club who was at fault. Eventually, however, he runs out of steam and we sit in silence, Gav fidgeting in his seat. He picks up his motorbike helmet, clicks and unclicks the clasp over and over. I give him a warning look but he carries on.

I’m scared. So scared. I’ve been through every single outcome of the fall. From the best to the worst options. Jack is alive, but what about his quality of life? What if he never walks again? One of my greatest fears come true. And then all these other fears start careering through my mind. If he is paralysed will we be able to afford it? How will I cope? I don’t want to be thinking of money at a time like this, but we’d have to make arrangements. Change the house. Maybe Gav’s right? Maybe we should sue? Maybe that’s the only way we’d get enough to pay for his care. I try and be sensible and give myself the advice I’d give Sarah. Wait and see what the doctors say. Stop making things up before they’ve happened. But I feel sick at the thought of my son going through all of this.

‘Please can you stop making that noise with your helmet,’ I finally snap. ‘I’m finding it distracting.’ He stands up. ‘I mean, not you,’ I add quickly, in case it makes him flare up again. I’ve just got more important things on my mind right now than stepping on eggshells around Gav. ‘Just the noise.’

‘I’m going,’ he says. I feel the familiar stone drop in my stomach. Where to , I want to ask, but I keep my mouth shut. ‘I need to know what’s going on.’

He walks out of the room and I start to sob. I pick up my phone, mainly as a distraction from the sensation of dread hanging over me. There’s a text from Sarah. About Thea. My God. Thea . All this time I haven’t even thought of Thea. I feel the tingle, the swelling of my milk ducts. Oh God. She needs feeding. I am a shit mum.

All ok with Thea. We’ve given her formula. She’s fast asleep. We’re thinking of you. We’re here for you if you need anything at all.

Thanks, I text back. Still waiting. Jack in surgery. Can Thea stay the night in case we aren’t back? Not sure what’s happening.

Of course, comes the swift reply. Don’t think about anything other than Jack. Let us know any updates if you can Sx.

I start typing a reply. Telling Sarah that she needn’t berate herself about what happened, but I put down my phone. I’ve got to concentrate on the matter in hand.

The doctor comes in with Gav. She’s still in scrubs, her dark hair pushed up under her cap. She’s very pretty, with kind features and a reassuring expression, which makes me want to start crying all over again. I stand up and go to Gav’s side. Without realising it, we are gripping each other’s hands.

‘I’m your surgeon, Mahim Qureshi,’ she says. ‘Nice to meet you. Sorry I didn’t catch you both earlier.’

Please, tell me he’s going to be all right , I plead in my mind. I’ll die if he’s not. I’ll die.

‘Jack is going to be OK,’ she says. ‘He’s going to survive.’

Gav snaps his head up, ripping his hand out of mine. ‘Survive? What do you mean , survive? I had no idea …’ I will the doctor to start talking, to put us out of our misery.

‘He had a very lucky escape,’ says Dr Qureshi, looking at me. ‘He’s broken a wrist. And he’s had a greenstick fracture on the seventh cervical vertebra. That’s to say that in adults, it would have resulted in a clean break. But children’s bones are a lot more supple. We’ve operated on his wrist but you’ll have to keep him lying down for the next few months whilst his vertebra repairs and he’ll have to be in a neck brace. He’ll be able to move a tiny bit. But it’ll be painful for him and we can’t be a hundred percent certain that it won’t have a future impact on things.’

For a second, I think about asking what things but I’m unable to process everything she’s saying to us. The only words that are flashing through my mind right now are survive and lucky escape .

‘So he’ll be OK? He’ll be able to walk again properly and everything?’ I ask, desperate to hear one more time that he’s going to be all right.

‘With the right care and support. But at the moment, I cannot stress to you how important it is that you keep him still. No knocks. The bone needs to heal right.’

I think of how the hell I’m going to do this but then I don’t care. I don’t care. He’s alive. He’s going to be OK. I feel like collapsing with relief. My boy. My beautiful boy. It’s all going to be OK. I start to cry.

‘You might want to arrange things at home so that …’ her gaze flicks from me to Gav, ‘it’s comfortable and easy for you to reach him.’

‘We’re …’ I can’t bring myself to use the words, even though it has been weeks now.

‘We’re not together any more,’ Gav finishes for me. I look over at him. His presence fills the entire room. ‘But I still live there and am watching Liza and the kids all the time.’

He glances over at me. I imagine him ending the separation. How we might be able to make things work if I can show him that we’re meant to be together. That we are a family unit of four. That I’m a good person. A good mother, who has just made some mistakes in her life.

‘It’s OK,’ says Dr Qureshi. ‘I’m sure you’ll work it out and we’ll send support for you, of course.’

I think about our house. My room in the loft. Jack’s on the floor below and the living area two more floors beneath that with a spare room attached to the end, where Gav sleeps.

I’ll move downstairs, or move Jack to the bottom room, and then we can be together. Thea can be in the … fuck . My mind feels like it’s spinning with all the options. Gav would never, ever agree to moving back upstairs to the room we used to share. And I can’t move downstairs to be nearer Jack – I wouldn’t be able to cope with being on the same floor as Gav, breathing down my neck all the time. And besides, Jack would pick up on the bad atmosphere if we’re forced to spend long periods of time together.