I had an early shift cancelled on me at the last minute so thought I may as well use the time to finally write something after only writing anything in my head for so long. It's just a bit of mindless drabble because I can't make anything with any kind of plot work at the moment, but I wanted to get something across. As usual I wrote it in a single sitting and couldn't proof read for fear of just deleting the entire thing, so apologies for any typos! Song lyrics are from an Aly and AJ song I couldn't stop listening to on repeat for a good 30 mins.
For all the times I can't reverse,
For all the places where it hurts
I need a little church.
Peter walked through the now all too familiar car park at the back of building, following signs to reception. He had no idea what he'd imagined a specialist psychiatric unit to look like, but this hadn't been it, and initially the homely, hotel-like feel had made him somehow uncomfortable – he'd worried how Carla could possibly get the help she needed when the whole place felt more like a stately home than a hospital. But he needn't to have worried, and he now understood that the fact that it didn't feel clinical was exactly why it worked. It was comfortable, relaxed, a home from home. It also somehow felt like stigmatised. It wasn't a hospital in the classic sense, so patients didn't feel so sick, so wrong. She was there to rest and recover, not to be prodded and poked by men in white coats. Many of the staff didn't even wear a uniform, or if they did they were light tops and smart trousers, he'd even seen a few HCAs in leggings and jewellery. The beds were comfortable and the walls weren't sterile and white. There were canvasses on the walls, not posters about various diseases. Most doctors were referred to by their first names. It was nice.
As he approached the reception desk the receptionist smiled at him. "Morning, Peter" she greeted him, holding out a visitors badge before he even picked up a pen to sign in.
The visitors book asked the usual questions: name, who you're visiting, your car registration number. And your relationship to the patient. This always stumped him. He scribbled 'partner' for ease, but short of a 5000 word essay, he didn't feel like any one term would really do their relationship justice. Did he have any right to call himself anything, really?
Their new dynamic still felt strange to him. A few months ago, he had been all set to leave, their relationship was over, beyond salvation, done. Then the phone call came, and from that second until a week ago she'd been the sole focus of his life – an intensity that even during their marriage they'd never matched. The sleepless nights, the constant fear- that niggling anxiety that never quite went away, even as he sat and watched her sleep, still half expecting her to wake up at any moment and her panic to resume. He'd been in a perpetual state of tiredness, of mental and physical exhaustion, for weeks on end. And then again, that dynamic had changed as she'd become the responsibility of hospital staff, of psychologists and nurses. For those first few days he'd not known what to do with himself – he couldn't sit still, couldn't focus to read or watch TV or to think or talk about anything besides his girlfriend. A muscle memory, a habit. It was only these past few days that he'd allowed himself to relax slightly, to take stock, and suddenly he'd seemed to realise how tired he was. He'd slept for 16 hours that first night, after his first visit to the new unit here in Carlisle. Simon had travelled down for an exam, sat the exam, gone for an end-of-year drink with some friends and travelled back, all in the time he'd spent asleep. And yet he'd still woken feeling tired.
It was only now that he could bare to reflect on recent events, to contemplate his place in things. Carla's family phoned daily, usually Johnny but often Michelle or Kate, and every day he'd tell them the same thing – that she was okay, making progress. Johnny had asked more than once about visiting and he'd had to shut him down, as if he had any right. Suddenly he was, what? Her guardian? He still wasn't even sure what he was to her, not really. Were they even in a relationship, really? It hadn't escaped his notice that the last time she'd been in any real state of mind to consent to anything she'd been telling him to leave her alone, that she didn't need him. Then that weird exchange in a supermarket car park – He'd said she was out of her mind in that moment, and with everything that had happened since he couldn't help but wonder if he'd been right. Maybe the collapse hadn't been this final thing to push her over the edge after all, perhaps the rot had set in months before. She hadn't been okay since Aidan died, he realised in hindsight. Perhaps the roof collapse and Rana's death had merely given her declining health a focus, something to fix on instead of this general unease, the long hours, the anxiety, the fear. Perhaps her paranoia had been hiding away for months previously, and this had just brought it all to the surface. The medical staff had asked him on more than one occasion about her mental state before the accident, and he was ashamed that he found himself entirely without context for anything that had happened before she'd chased him down with that damn mermaid. He couldn't answer their questions to any respectable extent because he simply didn't know.
How had he gone from that to being the only touchstone she had to reality? What right did he have to claim to be there for her, to play this supportive role? To tell her own family what they could or couldn't do, or what she did or didn't need?
Sure, she told him she loved him, acted like she believed it. But she also believed that Rana was still alive, being hidden in some bunker by her own sister, and that her father had conspired to have her taken away. What if her love for him was just another delusion? Was he taking advantage without even realising it? If she had full capacity, would she even want him around?
Since the day he'd found her curled up on the floor of Roy's café, he'd vowed to be there for her. It was as if something had flipped and suddenly the past five years hadn't happened. They were still married, she was the centre of his universe and he knew her better than she knew herself. Except he didn't, not really. He hadn't been there when she'd been starring death in the face, when her health spiralled to the point of hospitalisation due to kidney disease; when her life had been saved by her brother's organ donation, or when he had been cruelly ripped from her in the worst possible way. These things change a person, and the truth was he had no idea how. He simply hadn't been there.
He felt like a fraud. The hospital staff clearly thought they'd been together long term and he hadn't felt comfortable correcting them, almost fearing they'd throw him out. All he could do was hope and pray that when she did come out the other side, that she'd forgive him.
He'd put her through so much already, he couldn't bare the thought that he may be unwittingly making her situation worse even now. In some strange way, he felt like he'd been given a chance to redeem himself, and he'd embraced it. He could only hope that she'd see it the same way.
Now he was living in a short-term rent apartment, having decided that the B&B they'd tried to make work just didn't, not with his son with him too. He'd have coped with the uncomfortable bed and stuffy nights, but he could see him son was struggling, and he'd known they had to find somewhere better. Who knew how long they might be there for- they had to get some decent rest.
He'd tried to stop himself from seeing it as a holiday, almost felt guilty for appreciating the rest. Yesterday he and Simon had gone out for dinner and his son had made a joke. They'd both laughed, he'd felt himself relaxing, before a snap of guilt brought him back. How was it right to be joking and laughing at a time like this? How dare he enjoy this? But he was also very aware that despite his new found maturity, his son still needed him, too. He couldn't believe the strong, compassionate young man his son was becoming, but he was also still a child who had suffered far more than any child should ever have to, seen him break down too many times, and he couldn't put him through it again. He was glad Simon was there, he was keeping him afloat, stopping him from falling into himself. He hated to admit it even to himself, but his son was probably the single reason he hadn't crawled into a bottle of the cheapest vodka he could find by now. He was more reluctant still to admit that perhaps them moving Carla 4 hours from home, forcing him to up sticks and move with her for this period of time had done him a favour. Perhaps this was as much a chance for him to collect himself and recover as it was for her. Perhaps he'd needed little bit of escapism, too.
As he entered the communal lounge he'd become so familiar with, he caught sight of Carla curled up on the sofa, talking with a HCA. His first thought was one of panic – what were they talking about? Was this young woman talking her down from something? But as he grew closer he begun to hear snapshots of their conversation, discussing the younger woman's recent travels to Australia, and he felt himself physically relax, his muscles unclench. He deliberately held back, both for fear of interrupting her and simply to take the chance to observe her unawares, so it took a while before she noticed him. A wide smile spread across her face as she did, and she stood to greet him, wrapping herself around him into a tight hug.
She was happy to see him, and for Peter, in that moment, that was all that mattered. They'd face whatever came next together, or not, but she felt safe with him right now, and that was all he could hope for.