Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop by Jenny Colgan Page B

fragility, and Rosie was worried about this more than anything else.
    She moved her hands to his face
    â€œMy love,” she said.
    He cast his eyes down.
    â€œI . . . I . . . You know, at the moment, they’re giving me things to make me sleep, so I don’t really have to think about it . . .”
    â€œThere’s nothing to think about,” said Rosie fiercely. “There was a terrible accident. You saved a child. You got the rest out. It would have been much, much worse without you. What happened before wasn’t an accident, it was evil. They are not the same.”
    â€œI know,” said Stephen.
    There was a pause.
    â€œBut the smell. And the dust, and the noise and the darkness. That was all exactly the same.”
    R OSIE SPENT AN hour with him reading him stories about celebrities out of the newspaper until he begged for mercy. Then they came to change his bandages, and she went upstairs.
    Intensive Care was very quiet. There was no bustle, no patients making demands, just the squeak of rubber-­soled white shoes on highly polished floors, and the steady beep of monitors and the decompression of breathing apparatus. It felt disconnected from the rest of the hospital, a bustling ship.
    She found Hester and Arthur by the farthest bed, closest to the window.
    â€œHello,” she whispered. There was no real need to whisper, nobody was napping, but it felt right somehow. Hester was standing up, despite her pregnancy; her face held none of the full-­moon glow of women preparing to give birth, but was pale and drawn and sleepless.
    They acknowledged her but didn’t respond. Rosie decided not to take out the Edinburgh rock she’d brought, Edison’s favorite.
    â€œWhat are they saying?” she asked. Hester gazed at her as if she wasn’t there, but Arthur looked grateful.
    â€œThey’ve put him in this coma,” he said.
    Edison’s body on the bed looked absolutely tiny; he seemed younger without his dirty glasses on, and very pale. He was breathing peacefully, tubes everywhere, like an aberration; something foreign in the little body.
    â€œIt’s to stop him moving his head. They need to keep him absolutely still for as long as possible. Give him the best possible chance.
    Rosie nodded.
    â€œThat makes sense.”
    â€œThen they’re going to put a cast on him. . . . He’s going to be on his back here, then they’ll keep turning him . . .”
    He swallowed, deeply upset at having to talk about his only son in this way.
    â€œIt’s for the best.”
    Hester sniffed loudly. Arthur motioned Rosie away.
    â€œShe’s taking it very hard,” he said.
    â€œOf course she is,” said Rosie. “Of course she is. Can’t you get her to sit down?”
    â€œShe won’t. She hates modern medicine and all it stands for.”
    â€œEven now?” said Rosie.
    â€œShe hates giving up,” said Arthur, looking slightly sheepish.
    â€œWell, she wouldn’t be able to treat this with herbs, would she?” said Rosie, then felt ashamed of her harsh tongue.
    â€œNo,” said Arthur. “But it makes it very difficult, having to interact with doctors and so on.”
    â€œShe doesn’t have to interact” said Rosie. “She just needs to say thank you.”
    Arthur smiled nervously, and Rosie instantly felt awful and harsh. To change the subject, she indicated the large pile of paper next to the bed.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    Hester looked at it dully.
    â€œOh, Mrs. Baptiste dropped it off,” said Arthur. Rosie went over and looked. It was a huge pile of cards and letters, drawn by all the children in the class.
    â€œWe miss you, Edison,” said one. Another had a very clear drawing of a stick man with a massive head and dirty glasses.
    â€œI think they’ve caught him,” said Rosie, smiling.
    â€˜We MISS YOU DOING ALL THE TAKING IN