The Wolf Who Cried Boy

2. Cherise

I had been working as a vet in Fourways for four years then and hadn't had a single vacation or day off in two years. So, I was excited when my parents invited me to come with to Chateau Cherise, a cabin in the northern Drakensberg, not far from Curry's Post.

Most years while I was growing up, the families on our estate decided that at the end of the year they would all shut up shop and travel to the Drakensberg where Mr Bruce and Mrs Cherise Knight owned a large house – we all referred to as "the log cabin" – called Chateau Cherise. We often stayed for two whole months from the latter part of November through to the middle of January. Though our travels meant we weren't getting away from one another, we didn't mind. Our four families were like one family and we adapted to living together very well. This vacation was set to be as fun as it had been years before.

One thing that would be different this time, though, would be that we were travelling there in the dead of winter rather than in the balmy summer months around Christmas. It would be a chance to maybey see some snow and, for once, enjoy the icy grip of winter from the safety of a warm cabin complete with enormous fireplace.

On the morning we were scheduled to leave, I was sitting at my parents' breakfast bar again. My mum had planted a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me and was watching me eat. I wasn't particularly hungry but when your mother calls you "positively anorexic" when you walk through the door and stares at you after setting your plate down, you know not to argue. Mum watched me for a few moments over her yoghurt pot as I sliced a piece of bacon and scooped it and some egg yolk into my mouth. "Regina Valise is expecting her son, Paul, to come this year," she commented casually as she licked her spoon. "You remember Paul?" I nodded. My mother hadn't spoken about Paul since Farewell. Everyone still pitied me slightly because of Paul's incivility – even Mr and Mrs Valise.

"How is Paul?" I asked trying to sound only vaguely interested and as casual as possible. I suspected that despite Mrs Valise's expectations, her son would not be joining us. In the five times that we had stayed at Chateau Cherise since I had graduated, Paul had not joined us once since the Christmas after Matric. He hadn't really been to stay at Chateau Cherise since we both began high school - not for longer than the few days around Christmas anyway. I doubted whether anything would change. But still, I was curious about what turns Paul's life had taken since we'd finished high school.

"Oh," Mum said, licking the last remnants of yoghurt off her spoon, putting down her yoghurt pot and picking up her coffee mug. "Regina says he's working in retail at the moment. She doesn't tell me much about him anymore. And, I don't like to ask."

The more I thought about Paul working in retail, the more I realised how perfect he was for that kind of job. Paul could sell ice to an Eskimo in winter and would be great at haggling for the lowest price and selling the item – whatever it was he sold – for the greatest profit. But, if Paul was working in retail, he was probably really busy and wouldn't be bothering to take time out (and lose money) to come on our little holiday. Despite trying to be cavalier about it, I did feel vaguely disappointed. I had hoped to see Paul again in our adult lives and felt a little crestfallen that I knew there was every likelihood Paul wouldn't show.

An hour later, I still considered my suspicions confirmed as we all stepped outside, arms full of our luggage, ready to get in the cars for the long drive. Everyone except Paul. Mandie would not be joining either but that was because she had a family of her own to deal with "A husband, two kids, three dogs, a cat and an iguana", Mrs Knight confessed to me as I nearly overbalanced, clutching my suitcase. But, I was too busy watching Mrs Valise to pay much attention to Mrs Knight's gossip. Mrs Valise seemed to keep checking her phone expectantly. She seemed to be waiting on a phone call that never came as we all stood piling luggage into our respective cars. I pitied Mrs Valise a little as I watched her sigh at the phone. It must have been hard for her to have had to deal with Paul's constant flakiness, for all those years, without feeling a little disappointed. I felt disappointed just thinking that he wouldn't show this holiday.

As we drove in convoy out of Hartebeespoort, through Johannesburg and onto Villiers, I tried hard to convince myself that it was alright. How many times had we expected Paul and he had disappointed us? Many. And yet, we still survived and carried on just the same. This time would be no different.

A few more hours later I was stumbling through the front door of Chateau Cherise and into the room that had been designated to me 20 years ago when we had first come to Chateau Cherise. There was still no sign of Paul and I jokingly chided myself for not placing any money on Paul's non-appearance. I had tried to replace my disappointment with derision. It was just so like Paul not to show up, even when his mother had been expecting him and would genuinely have loved to see him. Still I couldn't help laughing at myself for ever even considering, for a moment, the possibility that Paul would actually show.

My little ironic joke didn't last long. I was so tired from the journey that my feet couldn't hold me and I crashed roughly onto the bed that had been freshly made before our arrival. I must have fallen into a deep and penetrating sleep because when I next opened my eyes, I saw the cold light of morning and the gently ticking clock on my wall read nine o'clock. I was still fully clothed in the top and jeans that had been my travelling outfit and my duvet had been mussed by my sleeping movements.

Lazily, I rolled off my bed and rubbed my face. My head turned to the mirror that hung suspended over my dressing table and I looked at my reflection. I had chosen not to wear makeup for the journey. In fact, I often wore little makeup. It made no sense to spend hours putting on makeup when there was a good chance I would get covered in animal excrement before the day was over. I rubbed my eyes again to try and wake myself up then headed to the shower in my en suite.

A warm shower and a fresh set of clothes later, I ambled to the kitchen to see the activity of a morning at Chateau Cherise. Growing up, I had always loved watching the hustle and bustle of the holidays, preparing for outings and planning activities as someone worked to make sure everyone had had a decent meal before the day began.

But, instead of activity, I found a note on the refrigerator that told me that everyone had headed out for an early morning mountain hike – a favourite activity for everyone but those who, like me, were suffering from working exhaustion. The group, I knew, would be gone for several hours – possibly all morning – as they hiked up to one of the peaks, stopped to take in the view and possibly share a hot drink before they hiked back down again.

Silently praising myself for having slept through the morning rush of preparing for a hike, I made myself a cup of steaming tea and smeared a thin layer of butter and fish paste on a slice of toast. Armed with plate and mug, I headed to the living room which served as the main area of the house.

It was more of a living-room-come-dining-room-come-entrance-hall. The front door seemed to issue an invisible barrier that divided the great grey couches and armchairs from the Cherrywood dining table with matching chairs. For a moment I looked around the room. I had remembered it all exactly and yet, somehow I truly saw it all for the first time. Everything seemed so symmetrical and matching. The Cherrywood front door was exactly in the middle of the wall. Two large windows framed it on either side. The Cherrywood television unit stood at one end of the room near the couches while a large fireplace complete with crackling fire and Cherrywood mantle stood at the other end, like the reflection in a mirror. The tables were all perfectly square with sharp, neat edges and the soft furnishing – the upholstery, curtains and cushions – were all made from the same fabric.

I fell into a couch in front of the television unit and flicked the remote. I knew exactly what I planned to do that morning as I bit into my toast. I would have a little breakfast and watch a little television first. Then, when I grew bored, I would head back to my room to read a little of the book I had brought – a treat that I had had no time to do for the last few months. I lifted my cup off the table and took a swig of tea as I felt my body unwind.

I had just taken the last sip of my tea as a movie I had been longing to see was beginning when the telephone disturbed the opening credits by ringing. Thinking it was probably just one of those annoying phone calls advertising life insurance and feeling a little annoyed that they had chosen now, of all times, to call, I swung my legs off the couch and marched over to the phone standing on the little table near the kitchen door. "Hello," I answered, betraying premature boredom at what I expected to hear at the other end of the line.

"Um, yes, hello," the Afrikaans-sounding woman at the other end said with a hint of apprehension in her voice. "Can I please speak to Mr or Mrs Valise? It's urgent."

"I'm sorry but they are both out hiking. May I take a message?" It had been something I was trained to say when answering the telephone at Chateau Cherise and I did it instinctively now but I couldn’t help feeling uneasy about what this woman had to tell the Valises and what I might have to pass on.

"Um, is there another number I can get them on?" The woman questioned and I could hear the apprehension grow to anxiety.

I faltered at her question then thought for a moment. "I only have a cellphone number for my father but if you want you can try and reach them there." I riffled through my pockets to retrieve my cellphone so I could give her the number.

There was a shuffling noise on the other end of the line and what sounded like a long drawn-out beep. "Flip," the woman ejaculated sounding distractedly anxious. "When you talk to Mr and Mrs Valise, please tell them that their son, Paul, has been involved in a accident and that they must come to Pietermaritzburg Hospital as soon as they can."

At the woman's words my heart began to pound hard in my chest so that it sounded in my ears. I felt my breath catch in my throat as a lump rose and swelled. It sounded so serious. She had said "a accident" and yet it had sounded as though it was important Mr and Mrs Valise get there as soon as possible.

I made a short babbling reply that I would tell Mr and Mrs Valise as soon as possible and the woman hung up. With trembling fingers, I put down the phone and reached for my own phone again in my pocket. My head was spinning. Though we hadn't seen each other in years nor parted on such friendly terms, Paul was like my brother and I couldn’t imagine anything happening to him.

Still shaking from head to foot, I quickly dialled my father's cellphone. I hoped for enough reception to get the message to Mr and Mrs Valise. "Hello Pumpkin," my father answered his cellphone by shouting into the phone. "Had a good rest this morning?"

"Dad, I need to speak to Mr or Mrs Valise quickly," I answered, ignoring my father's question. "It's important." My dad grunted slightly in response.

I heard a rustling noise as the phone was passed to Mrs Valise and before she had time to say anything more than greet me I broke the news about Paul. My heart still pounded in my ears but I could hear the panic in her voice as she begged me to go to the hospital and see that Paul was alright since they had reached the peak of the mountain and couldn't get down quickly. I readily agreed promising to phone again when I had news.

With hurried steps, I raced to grab my coat and boots before hurrying out the door of Chateau Cherise. I knew that there was no time to waste. As I raced to get to Paul, I wondered about whether I was going to be allowed to see him or whether I was going to be able to learn anything of his condition. What if they were only letting family in to see him? What if he was so badly injured that they had to operate and were in theatre right now? What if I was too late and Paul was already… I shook myself and willed myself to think only of the present and not the immediate future.

The hospital was a big building, three storeys high. A set of large glass doors formed the front entrance. Virtually skidding in my boots, I pelted through the doors and spotted the reception desk at the far end of the long corridor. Taking off at another run, I nearly collided with the desk.

"I'm here to see Paul Valise," I wheezed to the worried-looking woman dressed in a nurse's uniform. "I was told he'd been involved in an accident."

The portly nurse looked at me sympathetically and calmly said, "Shame, lovey. Are you a family of the patient?"

A rising heat reached my ears and made me feel as though I was a volcano ready to erupt. "I'm his sister," I lied, feeling a mixture of satisfaction and guilt as the nurse nodded and examined her computer. I had only lied a little. Technically, though we weren't related by blood, we really were like brother and sister.

The nurse looked up from her computer and looked at me for a moment, as if making up her mind about something. I was still breathing heavily, though perhaps now more from nerves than the sprint through reception. "He's in the Intensive Care ward, lovey. It's on the first floor." She pointed up. "Just follow the signs."

Still breathless, I thanked her quickly and raced down the corridor where an arrow and a picture of stairs told me how I could get to the first floor. I took the stairs two at a time, willing myself once more to focus on following the signs rather than thinking of the immediate future. A great corridor stretched out before me as I hurried along, looking up as the signs continued to point still onwards.

Eventually, a sign pointing to the right rather than straight on told me that I had made it. Two large doors with glass panels in them and the words "Intensive Care Unit" in large ominous black letters separated me from the room beyond. I pushed them open.

A large, very white, very clinical looking open-plan room greeted me. Even the air smelled of sickly disinfectant. Curtains of blue hung around tall beds on wheels and separated the room. "Help you?" a woman wearing blue scrubs not unlike the green ones I had hanging in my office at work asked quickly as she walked past.

"Paul Valise?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable, for the first time ever, in a sterile environment.

"Second bed on your left," the woman responded pointing towards the second bed separated by curtains. "Make sure you disinfect." She pointed to white box on the wall.

I hurried to the box and held out my hands. The liquid I used every day at work felt foreign on my hands. I rubbed it in quickly then turned back to the room. Willing myself not to run out of respect for the patients, I glided towards the second bed on the left.

I gasped as I saw Paul, lying on a hospital bed with tubes surrounding his upper body. They protruded from his nose and mouth. Some were half buried beneath the blue covering that hid the rest of his body from view. A machine beeped rhythmically on his left-hand side while another beeped more infrequently and seemed to make his whole body jump. Looking at him, I felt sick and dizzy and faint. Here was my best friend fighting for his life in a hospital bed with a respirator and his will to survive being the only things keeping him alive.

"Oh Paul!" The words choked out just as the corners of my eyes filled with tears. My heart hadn't stopped pounding and was beating faster than the heart monitor as it climbed into my throat. Everything around me started spinning.

"Can I help you?" The male voice behind me made me jump. I spun around to see a man in blue scrubs address me. "Who are you?"

I ignored both questions. "How is he? What happened to him?" I pointed at Paul's almost lifeless body.

The doctor beckoned me closer. "Could we step outside for a moment?"

I followed the doctor as he led me into a room which overlooked the ward and shut the door behind us. The room smelled a little of stale cigarettes and the brown couches looked as sad, sagging and lifeless as the patients in the ward beyond. Even the carpet seemed lifeless and lacklustre. This room was a place for mourners and the most anxious souls in the hospital.

"Now," the doctor said in a matter-of-fact voice, "before I answer any of your questions, I have a question for you." I opened my mouth to say I hardly knew what when he held his hand up to stop me. "Whatever your honest answer, my dear, I will not kick you out of this ward. I assure you. Now, who exactly are you? What relation are you to that young man?" His finger pointed out into the ICU ward.

I took a deep breath and looked into the doctor's level blue eyes. It was hard considering he was head and shoulders taller than I was. "My name is Rosie Chesterton." My voice shook despite my attempt to keep it stable. "I'm a childhood friend of Paul's." Tears threatened to spill but I fought them back. "His parents asked me to come out here on their behalf since they were on a mountain hike when they received the news." I tried to breath as a spoke. Still, my voice rattled. I felt faint and didn't want to pass out with Paul's life in jeopardy.

The doctor nodded. "I see." He said again matter-of-factly. Then a strange expression came over his face as if a dark cloud was passing. "You're quite upset. Can we help you with anything? A glass of water perhaps?" I shook my head vigorously and turned away but he continued. "You truly look very pale, perhaps I can prescribe a mild sedative just to help you cope." It was the doctor's way of trying to be sympathetic.

I shook my head again. "How is Paul? What exactly happened to him?" I pushed, willing the tears back.

"Mr Valise was in a rather serious car accident, Miss Chesterton. He suffer severe trauma to the head. He was nearly pronounced DOA but we managed to resuscitate him and then I induced a coma. His breathing was erratic as was his heart-rate so I put him on artificial respiration for safety." The doctor looked out the widow which over-looked the ward with me and continued. "I must warn you and Paul's family that he is still in great danger." The doctor turned to go. "If you need anything, the nurse can page me here in an instant."

The doctor left the room. The lifeless form that was Paul could just been seen through the widow. I turned and looked around the room. A small telephone stood on a little table below a sign that read, "For ICU visitors only." I shut my eyes, knowing full well what I had to do but dreading it all the same. Mr and Mrs Valise were most likely in range now and I could call them. But, the very thought made me shudder.

It took a deep breath and every ounce of my strength to walk over and lift the receiver to my ear. I dialled the number and took a deep breath as the phone rang agonisingly in my ear.

Mr and Mrs Valise took the news I gave them almost as badly as I had when the doctor gave it to me. I spared them the details of what Paul looked like as he lay there leaping with every breath. That nightmare was almost impossible to put into words. Mrs Valise begged me to stay with Paul until she could get there and phone again if Paul's situation changed at all.

With a heavy heart and a dizzy head, I returned to Paul's side and watched as with each pump of oxygen, Paul's body leapt and fell. My heart still beat against my ribs and the smell of the ward was making me feel ill.

I turned when I heard the squeak of rubber shoes approach. A nurse held out a fold-up chair for me. "Thanks," I mumbled as she pulled it open and placed it on the ground. I took a seat, my eyes still watching Paul’s body jump with every induced breath of air.

I only vaguely noticed that the nurse hadn't walked away – hadn't left me to sit watching Paul alone. She stood just behind my chair, her hand on the back, seemingly watching Paul as I was doing. Then she spoke. "A…are you Rosie?" She asked tentatively, as though she wasn't sure whether she should be asking. I nodded. "The Rosie?" She asked again looking too excited for someone standing near a patient in a coma. "Oh wow!" She exclaimed. My face must have betrayed my confusion. "Earlier when Dr Carter resuscitated Mr Valise here but before he induced the coma, Mr Valise kept mumbling the name Rosie over and over again. We wondered what he was going on about but now I see what all his fuss was about." I sat in pure confusion as the nurse patted my shoulder and walked away to attend to other patients. Why had Paul repeated my name over and over after his accident?

"Do, do you think he can hear me?" I asked looking up at the nurse.

She smiled a reassuring smile. "You know, I've actually seen a patient in a coma, who doctors considered brain dead, wake up. Their family visited every day and spoke to them about everything and nothing.” She continued to smile. "There's still so little we know about how the human mind works." The nurse leaned in closer beside my ear. "Give it a go," she whispered before walking off.

I stood up and walked to Paul's side. I thought of touching Paul's hand but withdrew nervously. "P, Paul," I murmured nervously, looking at his head surrounded by pipes. "Your mum and dad are coming," I continued lamely as the machines beeped. "And I'm here. Your friend. Your Rosie."

It wasn't long before the great doors of the ICU ward were flung open and Mr and Mrs Valise spotted me. Mrs Valise rushed to my side and I found myself just in time as she swayed dangerously, her eyes rolling and her weight bearing down on me, as she took in the first sight of her son. "Nurse," I called out, trying to steer Mrs Valise into my chair. The nurse poked her head round the corner. "This lady's in shock; she's on the verge of fainting."

It took Dr Carter with a sedative to calm Mrs Valise down. Then he again explained Paul's condition as both Mr and Mrs Valise stared at Paul in shock. I felt a pang of sadness again as I considered what it must be like for Mrs Valise to see her one and only son, who should have been in the prime of his life, reduced to such a helpless and pathetic state.

For hours, we took it in turns of two to go in and visit Paul – the others sitting in the waiting room. I avoided telling any of them what the nurse had told me about Paul's mumblings. And, the nurse, though she had seemed keen to confide this secret to me, seemed to scared to tell Paul’s parents or even say more than a few words to them. Paul's musings remained a secret between us.

The sun which we could only just see through the glass panel in the ICU door was just beginning to sink when my mum addressed me. "We're going to go home now, Rosie. Tom and Regina are staying here in case there are any developments." I turned to the window, watching the Valise parents cling to one another as they stood by their boy. "Part of me felt like I was intruding, just watching the family together. But, the other part of me yearned to remain until I knew that Paul's life was safe. Each part yanked at my heart, threatening to rip it in two, as my mother stood beside me with her hand on my arm.

Mr Valise held the waiting room door open as his wife walked through. Her eyes were puffy from crying – as I knew mine must be – and she looked pale. "Tom, Regina, we're going to be heading back," I heard my dad say. “We’ll bring you both a fresh pair of clothes when we come through tomorrow. My mother's hand tightened around my arm as she made to walk towards the door.

"Oh, please stay, if you want to, Rosie love." Mrs Valise's voice was pleading as she looked at me through her puffy eyes. "Paul needs you now more than ever." My heart gave a lurch as I wondered what Mrs Valise meant by that. Did she know something of what the nurse had told me earlier that day.

My mother released my arm. "Are you sure, Regina?" she asked, eyeing Mrs Valise. "I know Rosie would love to stay. But, it wouldn't be an intrusion?" I looked from my parents to Mr and Mrs Valise. It looked as though it had all been settled, that the universe had decided without my input. My parents left minutes later and I continued to take it in turns with Mr and Mrs Valise to visit Paul. In the brief few minutes I occasionally got to go alone, I stood near him, whispering for him to be alright. That night was virtually sleepless as we took turns watching over Paul as the respirator kept him breathing.

As morning dawned and the sun began to rise over the mountain, I felt easier as Paul's condition hadn't deteriorated at all during the night. It seemed as though, for now, he was safe and wasn't going anywhere. With this relief bubbling towards the surface, I called my parents to let them know. Mr and Mrs Valise and I spent four more days eating and sleeping at the hospital, only daring to go home twice for a shower and a change of clothes when the Sauvages or the Knights promised to remain at Paul's side.

As Paul's sixth day in ICU dawned, I sat beside Mrs Valise, while Mr Valise slept in the waiting room, when Dr Carter poked his head around the curtain. "I have good news for you," he said with a smile playing gently across his face. "I'm slowly starting to bring Paul out of that coma. I have been trying for the last couple of days. He should be awake in another day or so. We'll then be able to tell the extent of his condition."

We waited with baited breath as slowly Paul became more responsive over the next twenty four hours until at one moment he opened his eyes. His bed had been tilted slightly so that, as the doctor said, when he woke up, he wouldn’t be staring at a blank ceiling. As we watched, he opened his eyes to look at us. “Oh Paul! You’re awake." His mother gasped with absolute relief.

Paul simply stared at us with the pipe, now removed from his throat, lying near his pillow. I turned to go and alert the nurse so she could page the doctor when his first word's halted me in mid-movement. I spun around, looking first at Paul then his parents in wide-eyed shock. Paul's first words were nothing like what I had expected. "Who are you?" I had heard him say quite distinctly, though he croaked out the question. I blinked and wondered who he was addressing. Had eight years been sufficient time for him to forget I ever existed?

But I was not only me he was addressing but the entire room. "Retrograde amnesia?" We all questioned feeling rather stunned as half an hour later Dr Carter stood with us in the hallway to explain. He had just examined Paul who had become rather agitated as a group of supposed strangers stared at him, the man who had no idea who or where he was or how he got there.

"Yes," Dr Carter responded. "Really, it's loss of memory caused by severe trauma. Patients tend to lose sections of their memory temporarily.” The doctor looked around to see whether we needed more. We did. "In Paul's case," the doctor continued, "he's lost a lot of biographical information – his name, his familial history, childhood years and his recent past. I would have to check and make sure but usually the patient loses their short-term memory as well." He paused. "That means Paul may not remember you even after you've told him who you are."

Mrs Valise stopped him. "Is this permanent?"

We all turned back to the doctor. "Not usually," Dr Carter responded with his index finger resting on his lips in thought. “Patients usually have things that trigger flashbacks of memory. Eventually, their memory comes back." He looked behind him as the nurse walked past the curtain with a broad smile on her face. "It can be rather and ordeal when the memory returns. Patients remember their accidents in horrible flashbacks that leave them shaken and sometimes in need of counselling." Mr Valise seemed not to like this news as lines creased his brow and he pursed his lips. "You're very lucky though, Mrs Valise," the doctor went on, "that Paul didn't suffer further or more detrimental damage to his brain than just retrograde amnesia."

The doctor was right. Though Paul had forgotten everything that had ever happened in his life including who he was, at least he still had his life. Even the wound he received at the back of the head, which Dr Carter was convinced caused the memory loss, was easy to stitch up and he had no other injuries or pain. The doctor described him as a little physically tender but told us that no bones were broken.

Paul was moved to a normal ward a day later. We were far less worried about him than we had been before but everything about Paul seemed kind of strange and surreal. He was still extremely weak and fragile from the coma and spent much of his time drifting in and out of sleep. Additionally, every time he fell asleep or we left him – even for a few minutes – when we returned or when he woke up we had to explain to him who we were again. I felt myself constantly explaining I was Rosie or having one of Paul's parents tell him I was his old friend, Rosie.

One morning as I sat in a chair watching Paul doze and dozing myself a little, I heard Paul stir and got up to see what was wrong. "I… it's Heather, right?" Paul questioned weakly as I came towards him. I kindly corrected him. "Rosie, I need you help with something. W… will you help me?" I blinked at him. Was this one of these moments you see in films where the dying man asks for a last request? I nodded tentatively wondering whether to run or scream for help. "W… will you help me remember again?"

His question, though whispered hoarsely, relieved me somewhat. It wasn't much of a dying request since I needed time to fulfill my promise. I promised quickly and returned to my seat wondering as I did how on earth I might fulfill that promise.

Another thing bugged me, though, as, day by day, I watched Paul growing stronger. I wondered why, of all people, Paul would have asked me to help him. Neither his mother nor his father had told him that we had not spoken in years. And I was also hesitant to explain that, while we had been school friends, we hadn't spoken in eight years because he had been unjust to me. I was worried that this information might be upsetting. Yet, I still thought it more likely that anyone would ask their mother for help in regaining their memory. I certainly would have, if I had lost my memory.

It seemed to me, though, that I was the only one Paul trusted. Every morning, I would arrive at the hospital and walk into Paul’s ward armed with my friendliest smile. He called me a different name every day. One day I was Jasmine and the next Petunia or Hazel. He even called me Rowan on one occasion. "Myrtle, would you go down to the canteen and by me a bottle of water please?" And, every day without fail, I would see to his requests, even heading into town to purchase him a set of flannel pyjamas.

Paul had nearly been in hospital two weeks when Dr Carter addressed Mr and Mrs Valise in the corridor. I had been waiting for them to take me home after our visit with Paul when he walked up to them. "It's about time Paul was discharged." Dr Carter said with a beaming smile on his face that told us he was pleased.

I walked over to where Dr Carter was standing. "How can you discharge him?" I asked in displeasure. "I mean, I know his short-term memory has improved" – I didn't have the heart to mention that he got my name wrong again – "but he still has no memory for biographical details and he can't remember any of the accident. He hasn't even had any of those fashbacks you were talking about." Mr and Mrs Valise seemed to be agreeing with every word I spoke, though they said nothing at all.

The doctor shook his head. "I'm afraid there's nothing more that can be done for Paul here. He's physically improving every day and the wound on the back of his head is healing well. His memory is really the only concern and that's not something that a doctor can fix. It takes time and a bit of luck."

Still horrified that a qualified doctor would simply place Paul in our care after only two weeks of treatment I asked, “But what can we do with him? How are we to help him?” I hadn’t meant to sound heartless. I just felt completely inexperienced to take care of someone who had been in a coma only a few days ago.

“As I said, Paul regaining his memory will take time and luck but you can help it along by doing things to relive the past. Show him old photos; tell him old stories and; when he’s little stronger, take him places he’s been to in the past. That should help him remember.”