Lisa Heidke by Lucy (mobi) (rosie project .TXT) 📕

I’m the one suffering. I’m the one with a broken heart. I’m the one driving to hospital, searching for him. Me! I’m the one dealing with this shit.

The roads are narrow and there’s too much traffic. I’m desperate to get to the hospital, but desperate not to find out if Max is injured, or worse. My skin’s crawling. I almost can’t breathe. What if Max is in pieces somewhere? Why couldn’t he just have stayed at home? I still love him, I realise. Even while I hate him for leaving us for a teenager.

My phone rings and I’m flooded with relief. It’s short-lived.

‘Lucy, is that you?’ It’s Dad. ‘Your mother wants to know when you’re coming home?’

‘I haven’t really had -’

‘Your mother’s very upset. We both are. You need -’

‘Max is missing,’ I cut in. ‘So’s Alana. I’m sure they’re fine. It’s just that they didn’t make it back to their hotel last night, so I’m checking the hospitals, just in case.’

I try to sound upbeat but my voice falters. Maybe I’m really not that good an actress.

I can hear Mum in the background, whimpering.

‘Don’t tell Mum, but we were all at Jimbaran last night,’ I say. The whimpers turn into a shriek. I guess he told Mum. Big mouth.

Mum comes on the line. ‘They’ve been killed!’ she wails.

‘No, God, of course they haven’t. But I’m going to the hospital just to -’

‘And then you’re coming straight home, aren’t you, Lucy?’ Dad says, taking control of the phone again. ‘Promise me you’ll be on the first available plane out once you’ve found Max.’

At the hospital, the scene is chaotic. Cars, motorbikes and people compete for road space. Wayan stops his van where he can and I get out. I haven’t got a clue what to do or where to go. When I get close to the hospital entrance I see that the area is clogged with dozens of injured men, women and children lying on stretchers, their bodies ripped apart by the bombs. Those who can walk have blood oozing from wounds, metal shrapnel sticking out of their arms, legs and, in one case, both shoulders.

The stench and heat are overwhelming, but I’m shivering. I want to run and vomit under the red hibiscus trees nearby. I’m too afraid to push through the crowd and into the hospital. If this is what’s outside, I can’t imagine the carnage beyond the doors. So I hang around out the front, watching, listening, terrified and shaking.

Finally, I force myself to walk towards a woman holding a clipboard. She’s surrounded by scores of people, all clamouring for her attention. She has short dark hair, an olive complexion, and her worried expression is at odds with the pink tropical shirt and aqua shorts she’s wearing. When I get to the front of the queue, she asks me my name. She has an English accent and is my age, maybe younger. It’s hard to tell. As I piece together all the information I can remember about Max and Alana, she takes notes. I’m pleased I can recall what they were both wearing last night. She asks if either of them have distinguishing marks. My mind goes completely blank. She nods sympathetically and tells me to go inside and search for them there. But my legs won’t budge.

‘The sooner you go in . . .’ she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘In the meantime, their details will be entered into a register. If we find a match, we’ll let you know. But it will be quicker if you can look yourself.’

‘I know. I know,’ I say. I take a deep breath and walk inside the hospital. The corridors are full of able-bodied people like me, crying and searching for friends and relatives. Others - those who have heard the worst or fear the worst - sit slumped in corners, too shocked to move.

I stare at the bodies on stretchers. Many victims are being treated for cuts caused by broken glass; several have horrific injuries, missing arms, half a face. It’s hell on earth. I’m operating on autopilot, remaining calm, in a trance-like state as I walk past dozens of victims searching . . . searching for Max.

I see an arm poking out from beneath a bloodied sheet on an old, sagging stretcher. The rest of the body is hidden from view. Though blood-spattered, swollen and broken, the arm is familiar because of the bracelet. It’s the one Max was wearing last night.

I hear myself screaming. I cover my mouth with my hand but can’t walk closer to the stretcher. I don’t know how long I stand there, dazed, before a nurse comes to my aid.

‘My husband,’ I say, and collapse in tears.

She sits me down on a crowded bench and retrieves the paperwork stuck to the sheet. ‘It is a woman you are looking for?’ she calmly asks me.

I shake my head. ‘No. My husband.’

She pats my leg and explains that the body under the sheet is female.

I’m relieved, then feel guilty that this person is someone’s dead mother, daughter or sister.

As I fill out pages of forms at an overcrowded nurses’ station, snippets of conversation fill my ears.

‘I was at Jimbaran when the bomb exploded,’ a woman with a British accent says. ‘It sounded like waves crashing. People started running everywhere, screaming and crying.’

I bite my top lip, ignoring the pain and blood, keep my head down and continue writing.

‘We were in the building next door to a restaurant hit in Kuta,’ a man, possibly German, says. ‘There was a massive boom and the shop’s windows blew out. Complete chaos. People were lying in the streets with arms missing. Everyone gathered around trying to help however they could.’

I hang on to the hope that Max was one of those helping the victims rather than being helped himself.

It’s just gone eleven o’clock. Again, I phone Max’s mobile. It’s futile. I can’t help but imagine his phone smouldering in the wreckage alongside him. I text him,