A Dreadful Mistake
Emily woke in pain. Something important had lingered in her dream just before waking, but the sharp ache in her gut pushed it aside, leaving only fragments. Never had her stomach hurt like this—radiating even into her lower back.
She lay still, listening to the pain ebb slightly. Gingerly, she sat up, but the moment she tried to stand, it struck again, white-hot. A cry escaped her as she slid to the floor. Crawling on her knees, she reached the dresser where she’d left her phone charging.
She dialled 999 on her knees, one hand braced against the floor. “Calm down. The ambulance will come,” she whispered. “The door—must unlock it.” Pain pulsed through her as she dragged herself to the hallway. She tried to stand, to reach the bolt, but agony sliced through her. Tears blurred her vision. This was the true horror of living alone—not that no one could fetch you water, but that no one would be there to open the door when help arrived. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, heaved the bolt back, and blacked out.
Fragments reached her through the fog—voices, questions. She might have answered.
She came to in a hospital bed, autumn sunlight glaring through the window. Turning away, she winced as pain flared beneath her ribs. Her stomach felt swollen, tender, though the worst of the pain had dulled.
Not long ago, during yet another attempt to leave James, she’d thought death simpler than this half-life. No husband, no children, no one at all. Why go on? Yet when death had brushed her, she’d clawed for survival, terrified to vanish alone in the night.
“You’re awake. I’ll fetch the nurse.”
Emily turned toward the voice. In the next bed lay a plump woman in a flannel dressing gown, blue with yellow flowers.
Soon, a nurse entered—young, rosy-cheeked, her pink cap bright against her hair.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine,” Emily managed. “What happened?”
“The doctor will explain shortly.” The nurse turned to leave, her waist-length blonde braid swaying. Did women still wear braids like that?
“You’re in gynaecology. Brought in two hours ago. Slept like the dead, love,” said her neighbour.
“Love.” Lately, she’d been “madam” or “miss” in shops, on buses. Forty-two wasn’t old, yet she felt ancient. When well-meaning friends tried to set her up, she’d wave them off—her time had passed. That’s why she kept trying to leave James, though he always returned.
The doctor entered—a man in his fifties. “How are you feeling?”
“What happened? Was I operated on? I feel like I swallowed a balloon.”
“Mrs. Thompson, you’re needed in the dressing room,” he told her neighbour. The woman sighed, adjusted her gown, and left.
Emily met the doctor’s weary gaze gratefully.
“You had a laparotomy. An ectopic pregnancy—ruptured fallopian tube.”
“What?” She nearly bolted upright, pain instantly punishing the movement.
“That surprises you?”
“They told me I was infertile.”
“Doesn’t rule out ectopic—or even natural conception. Miracles happen. Trust me. Rest here a few days.”
“Can I get up?”
“You should. Gently.” He left.
Emily turned the news over. Infertile—that’s why her husband left. Or rather, it gave him an excuse for his affairs. Could she really conceive? At forty-two? She cut herself off. Why hadn’t she asked the doctor?
She swung her legs over the bed. Her slippers waited on the floor, dressing gown draped nearby—likely grabbed by paramedics. A dull ache lingered, muscles protesting.
She tied the gown, stepped into her slippers. Dizziness swam through her—anaesthesia, probably. Keys and passport weighed her pocket down. At least they’d locked her flat.
No mirror hung by the sink. She smoothed her hair with shaking hands and ventured into the corridor.
Outside the staff room, a key jutted from the lock. Further on, near the nurses’ station, dizziness surged. She sank onto a sofa before she could ask for the doctor’s name.
“Would James care if he knew I could’ve carried his child?” They’d met five years ago. He’d admitted being married—late to wed, with a young child. Their affair burned fast. She expected nothing. Countless times she’d ended it; he’d storm off, only to return. First, he promised to leave once his daughter started school, his wife went back to work. The girl was in Year Three now. James stayed. Emily stopped asking. Each time was the last—until his knock came again.
Voices snapped her from her thoughts.
“…during surgery, Dr. Harrison found a tumour. Massive.”
She recognised the rosy-cheeked nurse.
“And?” Another voice, younger.
“Closed her up. Harrison said it’s terminal. Thompson goes to oncology tomorrow. Not even old.”
“Bloody awful.”
Emily stopped hearing. Tumour. Terminal. Oncology. Heat flooded her; bile rose. “Thompson—that’s me. Cancer. Why didn’t he tell me?”
Trembling, she stumbled back to her room. Tears smothered her.
Her neighbour returned. “Crying? Should I fetch someone?”
“No.” Emily fled to the corridor, down to the lobby, out into warm September sun. Patients strolled the grounds. No one glanced at her.
No. No oncology. “Little time left.” She remembered her mum’s death—thirty rounds of chemo before she refused more. Weak. Yellow. Suffering.
Emily turned back to the hospital. No belongings—just keys and passport in her pocket. She wouldn’t endure that. Not like Mum. She walked to the gates.
Home. However long she had, she’d spend it there. At least she wouldn’t lose her hair. She walked, resting on benches. Too cold to sit long. Passers-by stared. She didn’t care. What did it matter now?
Under the shower, she scrubbed away the hospital smell. Tea steamed strong and bitter. Her stomach ached dully.
Tears came, then numbness. What had her life been? Who’d bury her? Tend her grave? Only James might remember.
Days passed. She only rose for tea or the loo. On the third day, she felt clear-headed, rested. The mirror showed no yellow tinge, no dramatic weight loss. Always lean—divorce, Mum’s illness, the funeral, James’s exhausting comings and goings. Yet with him, she’d been happy.
She blocked his number. Wouldn’t answer the door. Let him remember her like this.
The flat needed tidying. A will—leave everything to Mum’s cousin, not strangers. She booked a solicitor. No fortune—just a wedding band and gold studs. Always dreamed of a fur coat. Never bought one.
Eggs sizzled in the pan. She ate hungrily.
That night, Mum visited her dreams—stern-faced, as when Emily skipped school to see a film. A busybody had spotted her, told Mum. Detention for weeks.
Now, what was wrong? Did Mum’s grave need tending?
Next morning, Emily took the bus. Past the hospital where the ambulance had brought her. On impulse, she rang the bell, stepped off.
Why was she here?
“Thompson! Bloody irresponsible, discharging yourself!” Dr. Harrison scolded like a schoolmaster. “Open referral! Grown woman acting like a child. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Come with me.”
“Why?” She stepped back. “I won’t go to oncology.”
“What nonsense? You’re perfectly healthy.”
“Don’t lie. I heard the nurses. Thompson—terminal. Last stage—”
“Which nurse? This is madness.”
“The one on duty. I was coming to ask you—never mind. I overheard.”
“Right. Let’s clear this up.” He studied her panic. “Stop fearing me.”
She followed, hospital smells tightening her throat. In his office, she perched on the edge of her seat, ready to bolt.
He returned, dropped two files before her. Both read “Thompson.” Different first names. Thompson Emily Margaret. Thompson Isabella Anne. Born 1971.
She looked up. He smiled.
“Understand? Common surname. Once had two patients, same name, same street. Different birth years. Believe that?”
“So—I’m healthy?”
“Well, I did remove a fallopian tube.”
She hugged him, sobbing.
“Happy tears, I hope? Sit.” He handed her water.
“Maybe this happened to warn us. Fate says unless we change, it might really be next time. Think on that.”
She nodded hard, dizzy with relief. “Thank you. And please—don’t punish the nurses.”
Outside, she smiled into drizzling rain.
Home, she scrubbed dishes, started laundry. Sang. That morning, she’d planned her funeral. Now, it felt like a bad dream.
James knocked that evening.
“Why aren’t”She left the blacklist, and when the door opened, they both knew this time would be different.”
