The Cure

Chapter 44

It was pneumonia, Mrs. Nicks had soothed her in a funny rasp, as six A.M. crept through the miniscule rectangular window of the room. Nothing serious. Just from lying around too long, because she was just too damn lazy, watching Coronation Street reruns all day from the comfort of her swanky new bed.

'Isn't that like a chest infection?' Lola asked, relaxing as her mother sat up gingerly, sipping at her small plastic cup of water.

'I think so.'

Nate had been called away as soon as Lola had entered the room, with a soft smile at Mrs. Nicks, and a murmured promise to return as soon as he could; Lola hadn't left her side since, linking her fingers through hers as she tried to make sense of the machines about her.

In a way, it was better that she was here.

With professionals looking after her, understanding her needs, watching over her recovery.

'Why didn't you say something, mum?' Lola whispered, pained.

'It's that bloody care nurse panicking over nothing. I'm a little wheezy, that's all.'

'What have they told you?'

Her mother rolled her eyes with difficulty. 'Oh, much of the same. How was the gig, then?'

The squeezing in Lola's chest intensified as she remembered her mother's winded encouragement over the phone during the pre-performance panic, whirling about the beer cellar.

She winced, recalling her irritation at the half-hearted effort.

'It was good.' She swallowed. 'You should've said you weren't feeling well.'

'What, and have you come running home and miss the chance of a lifetime? Not bloody likely.' Her mum was tutting affectionately, her laugh grating and rattling in her chest. 'It's bad enough that you're here now, half-sozzled at six in the morning. I'm as right as rain, now.'

'Well, as long as you feel better—'

'Enough about me.' Talking was exhausting, it seemed, and her mother's chest rose and fell in a shuddering hurry. 'Are they having you back?'

'It's every week.'

'Oh, good, then I'll be able to come and watch once I'm better. Get a good video on the camcorder.'

'Did they say how long you need to be in for?'

The nonchalant glance at the ceiling; the skyward eyes sidestepping seriousness, the familiar courageous lifting of the chin.

'Not too long, I hope. Food's shit. What did you sing?'

Lola abandoned her interrogation – her chest was too tight to continue – and had just finished listing her set, relating Mr. Hargreaves' strange apparition to rapturous delight, when the door was pushed tentatively open, and Nate poked his sweet, exhausted face around the door.

'Can I come in?'

'Doctor Wells,' Mrs. Nicks straightened against her pillows as Nate stepped about the door hesitantly, an abashed half-smile playing about his lips as he attached the clipboard back to the foot of her bed, his eyes flickering briefly over the smiling patient's face.

He noted the slight grimace as she sat up, and carefully adjusted one of the IVs accordingly as he smiled down at her. 'I've nearly finished my shift – thought I'd pop in and see how you were.'

'That's very kind.'

Lola wasn't sure which of the Nicks girls were watching him more intently as he moved quietly about the bed – one lightly admiring, the other desperately analysing his carefully guarded expression – checking her vitals, working silently, diligently, deftly.