Lifesaving for Beginners

She picks up her suitcase with the leather belt wrapped round it and that’s when I have the idea. About buying her a new case for Christmas. I still have most of my First Holy Communion money in the post office. I’ll buy her a green one. Green is her favourite colour.
    I stay at the window until she drives up the road and I can’t see her anymore.

2 June 2011; Dublin
    ‘She’s coming round.’
    ‘Thank Christ.’
    ‘Kat?’
    ‘Katherine?’
    ‘Can you hear me?’
    ‘Come on now. Wake up.’
    ‘Don’t crowd her.’
    ‘Kat?’
    ‘Easy now. Take it easy.’
    ‘Thomas?’ My voice sounds strange. Rusted. Like I haven’t used it in a long time.
    ‘Give her some space.’
    ‘Am I in a hospital?’
    ‘Get her some water.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘It’s all right. You were in an accident but you’re all right. You’re all right now.’
    ‘Tell me what happened.’
    ‘Calm down, Kat. Take it easy.’
    My breath is quick and shallow. Panic isn’t far away. I move my legs to see if I can move my legs. They move. I can move my legs. I try to calm down, to beat panic back with both hands.
    Someone puts a hand under my head. Puts a glass against my mouth. I think it’s Thomas. ‘Here, take a drink of water.’ That’s definitely him. The soft, low voice. It would make you think of Wispa bars, whether you wanted to or not.
    The water goes down, cold and pure. Panic falters. Takes a step back. Thomas’s hand is solid against the back of my head. I keep my eyes closed, in case he’s looking at me. In case he sees the panic. And the gratitude. I am weak with gratitude all of a sudden.
    When I open my eyes, I say, ‘I’m not forty yet, am I?’ so that we can have a laugh and everything can go back to normal. It works because everyone has a bit of a laugh and the atmosphere in the room slackens and there’s a chance that things can get back to normal.
    Thomas says, ‘You’ve still a bit to go.’
    The light grates against my eyes as I look around the room. The hospital room. I’m in a hospital. I hate hospitals. I haven’t been in a hospital bed since I was fifteen.
    I do a headcount. Four people. They look tired, like they haven’t slept, or, if they have, they’ve slept badly. My parents. My oldest friend, Minnie. And Thomas. Almost everyone.
    I say, ‘Where’s Ed?’
    My mother says, ‘I had to send him home. He was too emotional. You know how he gets.’
    ‘He’s not on his own, is he?’
    Dad steps forward. ‘Your brother’s fine, Kat. Don’t worry. I brought him to Sophie’s house and Sophie’s parents are there. They’ll look after him. You need to worry about yourself for now.’
    ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I feel far away, like I have to shout to make them hear me.
    Dad says, ‘You got a bump on your head. The doctor says it’ll hurt for a while.’
    Mum says, ‘And you’ve got a fractured rib. You either got it in the accident or afterwards, when they cut you out of the car.’
    ‘Jesus.’ I curl my hands into fists so no one can see the shake in them.
    Minnie says, ‘It’s not even a proper fracture. It’s just a hairline one.’
    Thomas says, ‘You were lucky, Kat.’
    I don’t feel lucky. I feel far away.
    Minnie looks at her watch. ‘Well, now that I know you’re not going to cark it, I suppose I should go back to work.’ She sounds annoyed but when I look at her, she’s got that pained expression on her face that she gets when she’s trying not to smile.
    It’s only when Mum puts her hand on my forehead that I realise how hot I am. Her hand is cool and soft. I’d forgotten how soft her hands are. Her eyes are puffy, like she’s been crying. But she never cries. The last time I saw her crying was in 1989, when Samuel Beckett died.
    She says, ‘We’ll go too. We’d better pick Edward up.’ She pulls at some strands of my hair that are caught in the corner of my mouth. I try to sit up but I’m like a dead weight so I stop trying and lie there and try to make sense of things.
    The room smells of heat and bleach. The sheets are stiff and make a scratching sound when I move. There’s a deep crack zigzagging along the ceiling. Like the whole place is going to come tumbling down. Right down on top of me.
    Dad says, ‘Get some rest, Kat. I’ll call you later, OK?’
    ‘Will you tell Ed I’m fine? Tell him I’ll see him soon. Tomorrow.’
    ‘Of course.’ Dad bends, kisses the corner of my eye. I’d say he was going for my forehead but