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

The first few days are a blur. I sleep most of the time, finding reading and even watching television too tiring for my rattled brain. Adam is attentive, bringing me trays of food and helping me in and out of the shower. By the end of the week, and with Adam needing to return to work, I am allowed to be home alone, although he does enlist the help of the neighbours to check on me throughout the day. Each morning he makes me a packed lunch, downloads a new audio story on my tablet and tapes a list of dos and don’ts on the refrigerator.

Do go for a walk around the block.

Don’t forget to lock the front door when you do.

Do be careful using the kettle.

Don’t forget you like one sugar in your tea.

Most of the time I either sleep or sit in the garden watching the squirrels stealing nuts from the birdfeeder. Even the simplest decisions seem beyond me. When one Saturday Adam convinces me to go to the beachside café for fish and chips, I can’t remember if I like vinegar on my chips. Adam starts laying out clothes for me in the morning as I am often unable to decide what to wear. I feel as if I am slowly shrinking, dissolving into myself, and I imagine ending up as nothing but a tidy pile of dust on the bedroom carpet. It’s a telephone call from Grace that changes all that.

‘I’ve booked us on a spa weekend,’ she announces, a few weeks after my accident. ‘Massage, reflexology, sauna, the whole hog.’

‘I – I’m not sure …’ I stutter. I’m not sure about a lot of things these days.

‘We’ll go at your pace,’ says Grace, ‘no pressure.’ Almost as an offhand comment, she adds, ‘and Adam could probably do with a break too.’

When we arrive, I discover it isn’t just a beauty spa; there are physiotherapists and osteopaths on site as well. I give my sister a searching look.

‘I know, I know,’ says Grace. ‘You’re the expert, but I did a bit of research on recovering from concussion and thought—’

‘Thank you.’ I can say no more.

After checking in and giving a detailed medical history, all I can do is lie on a sun lounger and sleep. When I wake, I feel a tiny bit better. Escaping the stifling atmosphere of home has done me good. We have lunch, a body massage and then an ‘Introduction to Meditation’ session, where it feels as if bits of my brain are slowly beginning to slot back into place.

After lunch, Grace slides a newspaper across the table towards me.

‘You know I don’t read the Daily Mail.’

‘Not the paper, silly.’ Grace opens the page to the crossword section. ‘I read somewhere that doing crosswords and sudoku helps the neurons start firing again.’

I smile and take the newspaper gratefully. As a nurse, I know that the most successful recovery takes place within two months of a concussion. I haven’t been doing much to aid my recovery except to stare at the begonias in my garden. Maybe Grace was right. Maybe it is time to put in a little effort.

We sit in the solarium doing the crossword together until I grow tired. Then there is a gentle yoga session where I am thrilled to discover some renewed strength in my body.

‘You’ve finally got colour in your cheeks,’ Grace says at dinner that night.

‘I don’t quite know how to explain it,’ I reply. ‘Except to say that I feel a bit like my body is rebuilding itself.’

‘Hallelujah!’ Grace cries, lifting her glass of sparkling water in celebration.

I do the same, and then reach across the table to squeeze my sister’s hand.

‘Thank you.’

Grace’s smile seems to falter. ‘It’s nothing more than you deserve, Kat.’

‘Shame we have to leave tomorrow.’

‘Not we.’ Grace’s smile has returned. ‘Just me.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve booked you in for the rest of the week.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘Look at the progress you’ve made in three days. Imagine what a week will do?’

‘But the cost!’

‘I’ve put it on my card,’ says Grace, and then almost sheepishly adds, ‘It may have to come out of the sale of Mum’s house though.’

‘Agreed!’ I wish there were no table between us so that I could reach out and give her a hug.

By the end of the week I’m not cured, but better. My mind is clearer, my motor functions more precise. There’s still more work to do, but with a list of therapeutic exercises and a stack of completed crosswords I feel as if I have come a long way. It’s only when Adam comes to collect me, and I decline his hand to help me into the car, that I realise just how far I have come.

Back at home I begin to integrate myself back into my pre-concussion routine.

Thank you for the sandwiches, darling, but I don’t really like pastrami.

I’ve got plenty to wear in the wardrobe, sweetheart. No need for you to choose.

I never had sugar in my tea in the first place!

I observe his reluctant acceptance of my newly regained independence and wonder if he preferred me as I was.

The one thing we don’t address is the diary. I imagine both he and Grace had a good look through my mother’s house for it when they were collecting my things. Clearly they haven’t twigged that my call to Doris while in hospital wasn’t about the cat, but about the diary and laptop; I asked her to keep them somewhere safe, and under no circumstances to give them to anyone.

I try not to think about it all too much – the diary and everything I have discovered. I just don’t have the energy, courage or ability to go there at the moment. I can’t even remember that much about the month leading up to my injury. How can I possibly resume my research? I have decided that I will try and put everything to do with Lisa and Susan O’Neill in