The Lost Ticket, page 22
“Really?” Libby said in alarm, and Clara looked at her sharply. “I mean, your dad obviously had a bad morning today, but when Dylan’s here, he’s usually fine.”
Clara let out an impatient sigh. “I’m sorry, but who are you, again?”
“I’m a friend of your dad’s.”
“And how long have you known him?”
“A couple of months.”
“Right. And I’m his daughter, who’s known him for almost fifty-five years, so I think I can look after my father’s interests a little better than you can.”
“Of course you can. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. I just know how much he was hoping to retain his independence, at least for a little while longer.”
“Look, I’m aware Dad’s not exactly delighted at the idea of moving into a care home. But this house is too big for him and full of hazards: it’s not just the kitchen; he could easily trip and fall down the stairs or hurt himself getting out of the shower. And with the dementia, he’s going to need more and more specialist care.”
Libby looked down at Frank, huddled in his chair, cradling his bandaged arm. For the first time ever, he looked old and frail.
“He’ll get used to it soon enough,” Clara said, her voice softening. “And it will be good for him. He’s been far too lonely, shut up in this house and riding the bus on his own. At a care home he’ll be able to socialize with people his own age.”
Libby remembered what Frank had said to her, not long after they first met. If they put me in a care home, they might as well put me in a box and bury me.
“Would you mind sitting with Dad for five minutes while I make him some tea?” Clara said.
“Of course.”
Clara nodded at her and then walked out of the room. Libby turned to Frank and rested her hand on his arm.
“Frank, what a day you’ve had.”
He didn’t say anything, but she saw a flicker on his face. Libby pulled up a chair so she could sit next to him.
“I went looking for Dylan this morning. He wasn’t at home but his dad said he’s been missing since last night.”
“Where is Dylan?” Frank was still staring at the TV, but she could see him trying to battle through the painkiller fug.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to try and find him.” Libby swallowed. “Did Dylan ever mention a girlfriend to you?”
Frank blinked slowly.
“His dad said he might have gone to stay with her.”
Frank lifted his right hand up to rub his face, and then looked confused when he felt the bandage. He stared at his hand.
“You hurt your hand this morning,” Libby said. “Apparently you were making breakfast and you burned it on the grill. I’m so sorry. I feel responsible.”
“It’s your fault?”
“You told me on the phone that you could smell something. I should have realized what was going on and come up here.”
Frank’s brow furrowed. “It’s your fault.”
“I really am sorry, Frank. But Clara said your hand will heal.”
He turned his head and looked at Libby as if noticing her for the first time. “It’s your fault about Dylan.”
“What do you mean?”
“He should have been here today . . . for my assessment. But because of you he missed it and I burned myself.”
“I’m not sure that’s strictly true. I mean, wherever Dylan is, I don’t think—”
“You broke his heart,” Frank interrupted. “He was so sad and now he’s gone.”
“He’s not gone, Frank. I don’t know where he is, but I’m sure he’ll be back.”
“He won’t.” There was a tremble in Frank’s voice. “You scared him off. And because of you, I missed my assessment and they’re going to lock me up in prison.”
“Oh, Frank, it’s a care home, not prison. And I really don’t think Dylan missed today because of me.”
“He did!” Frank slammed his hand on the arm of the chair and then gasped in pain. “It’s your fault.”
“What on earth’s going on in here?” Clara came in through the door. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Get her out!”
Clara glared at Libby. “I told you not to upset him.”
“I’m sorry. He started blaming me for what happened today.”
“Dad, it’s not Libby’s fault you burned your hand,” Clara said. “You know you shouldn’t have been using the grill in the first place. I’ve told you that dozens of times.”
“Just get her out,” Frank growled. “Now!”
Clara looked at Libby. “I think you need to go.”
“Okay.” Libby’s voice wobbled and she stood up and started moving toward the door. “I’m so sorry, Frank. I’ll see you soon.”
“No!”
She stared at him for a moment, his face contorted with anger. Then she felt Clara tugging her arm.
“I’m so sorry,” Libby said as they went to the front door. “I really didn’t mean to upset him.”
“He’s had a long day.”
“Can I come back and visit him tomorrow?”
Clara pulled the front door open and waited while Libby stepped outside. “I think it’s probably best you don’t. Dad’s going to have a lot to adjust to over the next few weeks, and I don’t want him upset more than is necessary.” She gave Libby a curt nod and then closed the door in her face.
CHAPTER
40
Libby went to bed early that night, exhausted after the events of the day. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Frank’s face twisted with anger and heard Dylan’s dad’s mocking laughter. How had everything gone so horribly wrong in the space of one day? Dylan had disappeared, possibly with another woman, and Frank wanted nothing to do with her ever again. All of a sudden the London life she’d felt so optimistic about had crumbled into nothing.
Libby sat up and reached for her phone in the dark. The illuminated screen told her it was 2:06 a.m. She opened WhatsApp and instinctively clicked on Dylan’s name, but all she could see were her own unread messages, taunting her. She typed out another short one saying she hoped he was okay. Her finger hovered over the x button, and then she pressed it twice.
No sooner had she pressed send than her phone began to ring, making Libby jump. She scrambled to answer it, praying she was about to hear Dylan’s deep voice.
“Hello?”
“Can’t sleep either, huh?”
Libby exhaled. “What is it, Simon?”
“I saw you were online and wanted to say hi.”
“It’s two in the morning!”
“Can’t you sleep?”
Libby slumped back on her pillow. “It’s been a long day.”
“You need to find time to unwind, Libs. You’re pregnant; you should be taking things easy.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m capable of looking after myself.”
“I know you are, but I can’t help worrying about you. You and my baby.”
His voice was gentle in her ear, and out of nowhere Libby felt a sob building in her throat. She tried to stifle it, but it emerged as a strangled gasp.
“Libby?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling the now-familiar warmth of tears.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.” Libby pressed her hand against her eyes to stop the tears. “I had a fight with a friend.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“He was really angry at me and . . . I messed things up.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“I did. This morning I should have gone to help him but I was too absorbed with my own problems. And then he burned himself.”
“Is this the old guy I met at your birthday?” Simon said. “If so, you can’t blame yourself. He’s not your responsibility.”
“But he blames me for all of it.”
“All of what?”
Libby didn’t answer because any explanation would involve mentioning Dylan’s name.
“I’m sure he’ll calm down tomorrow,” Simon said when Libby hadn’t replied. “No one can stay mad at you, Libs.”
“He said he never wanted to see me again.” Her voice wobbled, and she took a deep breath.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.”
His tone was so gentle, and before Libby realized what was happening, her tears had started to flow. This time she didn’t fight them, and for several minutes, she allowed herself to sob in the dark. She cried for Frank, who would now have to move into a care home, and for Dylan, who could be out there in the city right now hurt or worse. And she cried for herself: alone, pregnant, and scared.
The whole time she cried, Simon whispered softly into her ear. “It’s going to be okay . . . Everything’s going to be all right.”
“I’m sorry,” Libby hiccupped when the tears had finally stopped. She felt utterly exhausted, and she allowed her eyes to drift closed.
“Don’t apologize. I’m so glad I could be here for you tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“I want to be here for you when the baby arrives too, Libs.”
“Not now, Simon, please. I really need some sleep.”
“Let me help look after you, Libby. You need someone to support you.”
“Good night, Simon.”
Libby moved the phone away from her ear to end the call. As she did, the last words she heard were “You don’t have to do this on your own.”
CHAPTER
41
Libby was woken by the sound of her phone ringing. She was about to roll over and ignore it when she remembered Dylan and sat up with a start, scrambling blindly for her phone on the bedside table.
“Dylan?”
“It’s Esme.”
“Any news on him?”
“I’ve found him,” Esme said.
“Oh, thank god! Where is he?”
“He’s in UCH hospital.”
Libby felt the blood draining from her face. “Is he okay?”
“I knew he wouldn’t disappear, Libby. So I made Mum help me ring all the hospitals.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know; they wouldn’t say.”
“Can we visit him?”
“Yes. I have an appointment this morning, but you can go now.”
Libby wasn’t sure she’d ever got dressed and left the house so fast. Rebecca was down in the kitchen with Hector, and Libby ignored her sister’s questions as she sprinted out the front door. The 134 bus took her directly to the hospital, and she spent the whole journey chewing her fingernails and willing the bus to hurry in the early-morning traffic. When it finally reached the hospital, she dashed into the large glass-fronted atrium and was given directions to Dylan’s ward by a man on reception.
It took Libby a while to find the ward, and when she reached it, a nurse pointed her in the direction of Dylan’s bay. There were eight beds, four on each side, and Libby walked cautiously along to Dylan’s at the end, steeling herself for what she was about to see.
At first she thought there’d been a mistake. The man lying there had no distinctive hairstyle or ear piercings, only a white bandage that was wrapped tightly around his skull. He had a huge bruise around his right eye so dark it looked like some horrible Halloween makeup, and the side of his face was red and puffy. As Libby stepped closer, she saw a tube running out of his nose and a drip connected to his right hand. It was only the tattoos snaking up his arm that let her know it really was Dylan.
For a moment, Libby had a strong urge to throw her arms around his poor broken body, but instead she sank down into the plastic chair next to the bed.
“Oh, Dylan,” she muttered.
“Looks pretty rough, doesn’t he?” a croaky voice said, and Libby spun round to see an elderly man in the adjacent bed. He was sitting up against his pillow, eating from a large bunch of grapes. “He’s been like that since they moved him up here yesterday morning. I think they must have him sedated or something.”
“Do you know what happened to him?” Libby asked.
“From what I can gather, he was in a fight. Sounds like it was pretty nasty and he had to have some kind of operation, hence all the bandages.”
Libby turned back to look at Dylan. His left arm was resting on top of the sheet, and she reached out and took his hand between her own. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Dunno. They won’t tell me anything. I only knows this much because I eavesdropped.”
Libby stroked the back of Dylan’s hand. His skin was warm and surprisingly smooth, and she remembered the feel of it on her face. How had that been less than four days ago?
“If you ask one of the nurses, they might tell you more,” the man said. “Are you family?”
“No, I’m just a friend.”
“You should ask his girlfriend, then; she’ll be able to tell you more.”
Libby swung round. The man was studying the bunch of grapes on his lap.
“Has she been here?”
“Yeah, yesterday.” He found a suitable grape and popped it in his mouth with satisfaction. “That’s when I heard her telling the nurses what happened. It sounds like she was there at the fight, poor love.”
Libby released Dylan’s hand and sank back in her seat.
“I tried to chat with her too, but she wasn’t interested. She was a funny-looking thing, black makeup and hair all over the place. I never understand why some young people do that to themselves.”
So Dylan’s dad had been right. Libby felt a strange lurching feeling, like vertigo, and she closed her eyes.
“She’s the one who gave him those flowers,” the man was saying, but Libby turned away. She didn’t want to hear any more.
“He’s not botherin’ you, is he, darlin’?” came a thick Scottish accent, and when Libby opened her eyes, a middle-aged nurse was approaching Dylan’s bed, her Crocs squeaking on the linoleum floor. “I hope you’re not disturbing this young lady, Sam?”
“Of course not, sister. We’ve been having a lovely chat.”
“Even so, let’s give her some privacy. I need to change your dressing anyway.” The nurse winked at Libby and began to pull a curtain around Dylan’s bed.
“Can he hear me?” Libby asked her.
“Probably not, but yous can chat to him anyway; there’s no harm.”
The nurse moved away and Libby could hear her busying herself with the old man in the next bed. She looked at Dylan lying in front of her, the bandaged head and the tube running out of his nose. Without his Mohawk and piercings, he looked so different, younger and more vulnerable.
“Dylan, what happened?” she said in a whisper. “You told me you always run away from fights.”
He was so still she couldn’t even see his chest moving. The only signal that he was alive was the steady beep of the monitor next to the bed.
“I’ve been so worried about you. And Frank . . .” She stopped; Frank’s troubles were the last thing Dylan needed to hear about right now. “Frank misses you too” was all she said.
Libby faltered, feeling self-conscious talking to someone who couldn’t hear her. On the other side of the curtain, she could make out the soft chatter of the nurse as she changed the old man’s dressing, but her words were indecipherable.
“Esme sends her love; she’ll come to visit you later. She was the one who found you here. I went looking for you, at your flat . . .”
Libby took a deep breath.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend, Dylan? Your dad told me and I didn’t want to believe him, but then I heard she was here . . .”
Libby trailed off and it was a while before she spoke again.
“Simon’s asked me to move back in with him.”
She studied Dylan’s face, looking for any twitch or movement, but he remained motionless. She looked down at his hand resting on the edge of the bed.
“I know if you were awake you’d probably tell me to run a mile. But I’m scared, Dylan, scared to do this all alone. I thought I was strong enough after everything that’s happened, but now I’m not so sure.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Libby saw something move and she snapped her head up. But it was only the curtain blowing in a breeze as the nurse walked away.
“I think I’m going to say yes to Simon. It’s what’s best for the baby, so it can grow up with its biological father. And I think it might be what’s best for me too.”
Libby stopped, half hoping that Dylan might suddenly sit up and tell her she was making a terrible mistake, but he didn’t move. She reached out and touched the bandage on his head, running her hand along where his Mohawk once sat.
“I wish it hadn’t ended up like this, Dylan. I wish things could have turned out differently.”
From inside her bag, Libby heard a buzzing sound, and she reached down and pulled out her phone. Simon’s name was flashing on the screen. She stared at it for a moment, then slipped it back into her bag.
“I have to go. I need to speak to Simon.”
Libby stood up but didn’t walk away immediately. She looked down at Dylan, at his peaceful, handsome face. Then she leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.
“Good-bye, Dylan. I love you.”
The words slipped out of Libby’s mouth before she realized what she was saying. Tears stinging her eyes, she turned and hurried out of the ward.
CHAPTER
42
Three Months Later
Libby let herself out of the house and walked up the road toward the bus stop. There was a chill this morning, her breath visible in the autumn air, and she pulled her coat around her body as best she could. She’d not bothered to buy a proper maternity coat, thinking it was a waste of money, but at thirty-four weeks pregnant, she was beginning to regret not having anything that would cover her ever-expanding bump.
