The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

‘Morning, darling.’

‘Hi, sweetheart. Any plans for today?’

‘Hospital at eleven. I’m going to try and see if there’s any progress on the right side, and then,’ – I glance around the bedroom hoping for some inspiration – ‘a bit of housework, I think. The place needs a good dusting, and it looks like my mother has become a bit of a hoarder in her old age.’

I consider mentioning I’m planning a long walk along the river path later, but knowing Adam he’ll warn me against it. I don’t like you walking on your own. What if you fall over and hurt yourself?

‘They should be looking at another ECG and Doppler.’

‘I’m sure they are, but I’ll ask.’

‘What about follow-on?’ He’s referring, of course, to aftercare – most likely a rehabilitation unit a few miles from the hospital. The way it’s looking now, it’s very unlikely my mother will be returning home anytime soon.

‘It’s a bit early to discuss this now, isn’t it?’

Adam gives a little tut of irritation. ‘You know as soon as she’s stabilised, they’ll need to move her on, for the bed.’ Spoken like a true doctor. ‘Have you thought about long term?’

I really don’t want to be having this conversation right now. ‘Grace and I have already spoken about it.’

‘And?’

‘When the time comes, Grace said she’d handle it.’

‘Thank God for that.’

I’m feeling impatient to get back to my work. ‘Aren’t you on at eleven?’

‘You’re right, I’d better go.’ He takes what sounds like a large slurp of coffee. ‘I’m on a twelve hour, so may not have a chance to speak to you later.’

‘I’ll text you.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘Love you.’

‘Love you too.’

I end the call with relief and guilt, and I’m about to put my mobile on silent when I receive a text from Grace.

Hope you had a good weekend and you and Adam worked everything out. Call me Gx.

I sigh and return my attention to the laptop; to the photograph of Lisa Edwards. I wish everyone would just mind their own business and leave me alone. I still have a lot to do.

16

I am now beginning to actively dread the hospital visits. Every day I greet my silent, angry mother with a fixed smile and one eye on the clock. Visiting hours are from eleven a.m., and I try to get there as early as possible to avoid lunchtime when families are encouraged to help their loved ones with eating and drinking. This afternoon when I arrive at the ward, I’m shocked to learn that my mother’s bed is empty.

‘No need to worry,’ says the nurse, seeing the look of panic on my face. ‘After last week’s assessment it was decided she could have a bit of physio.’

‘Physio?’ I hadn’t realised my mother had made such progress. ‘Does that mean she’ll be coming home soon?’

‘It might be a little while yet,’ says the nurse. ‘But we will need to discuss next steps, and probably a visit home by an occupational therapist to determine any access difficulties.’

How long is a little while? I think, and then immediately feel guilty. It’s been nearly a week since my mother’s stroke, but in that time my life has changed so drastically that I’m beginning to not recognise myself. With that shift comes a tentative yet terrifying sense of freedom and fear. Last night I had dreamt I was walking through a pine forest, the sticky trees towering high above me, blocking out the sun. I was barefoot and could feel the sting of needles between my toes and the dusky smell of damp earth. As I walked, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into the ground. Then it changed, and I found myself wading through murky water, seaweed tugging at my toes. In the distance I could see a log floating towards me. As it drew closer, I could see that it wasn’t a log at all, but a body, blue-hued, the lips and eyelids eaten away by fish. I had awoken with a start before sunrise, and, afraid of sleep, had stood at the bedroom window watching the pumpkin glow of bedroom lights being switched on across the river.

‘Mrs Hardy?’ I realise with a start that the nurse has been speaking to me.

‘Sorry?’

‘I asked if you would like a cup of tea while you’re waiting.’

‘No, thank you.’ I check my watch. ‘Maybe I’ll just nip out for a bit of fresh air.’

I sit in the shade of a weeping willow and continue my search through the internet for any record of Lisa Edwards. As far as I can tell there is no active Facebook page or Twitter feed, and surprisingly no Instagram. What twenty-something doesn’t use Instagram? I am beginning to lose hope. How will I ever find her? How will I ever find the truth?

The afternoon brings a deep, driving rain that rattles the window frames of my mother’s house and makes me fretful and uncertain. I toy with calling Siobhan again, asking for more information, but the girl has already put her job on the line by sending the email. Opening the laptop, I study the photograph once more: Michael is happy and open, smiling at the camera as if he hadn’t a care in the world. On one side the unremarkable O’Neill, a dark blot of a thing who seems to disappear into the leather chair, and on the other the scowling Lisa. Anger spills out from her image and into the room. I study the girl’s face; the narrow, resentful eyes.

As I look closer, I realise that there’s a logo of some sort on her t-shirt. It’s circular with lettering around the edges that I can’t quite make out. In the centre is a drawing of a mermaid. Enlarging the picture doesn’t help, as it only makes it even more blurry.

‘Does that say club?’ I mutter, squinting to read the tiny writing. I stare at it for what seems like hours before finally closing the attachment and turning off the laptop. I