Pink - Speak to Me

This is the final part of the Pink series. I would suggest you read the other chapters before proceeding.

As always. All characters engaging in sexual activity are over 18.

All characters are fictional, and from the mind of the writer.

All material must not be replicated without my consent.

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"

My heart rate quickens,"Oh Charlie, Oh my poor baby I'm so sorry!" I scream, but the only thing he says is, "Can I get some help here," as an alarm goes off beside me.

I can feel something cold being injected into my hand and my heart rate seems to steady.

I don't hear Charlie's voice again that day, I hear a doctor say that it's evening time, and he would monitor me again tomorrow as I lose consciousness again.

"Morning Mum, how are you today?" I hear, and scream a reply but he doesn't hear me.

"The baby is doing well, she must be a little fighter, like our Mum," he says, before adding,"You're over half way there now."

"What?" I scream, "I'm only two months gone! How can I be half way there?"

He goes on to repeat what he said yesterday, he loves me and how sorry he is about the last weekend he saw me. I break my heart every time he says this for the next week. I can hear him telling doctors, in Spanish, that he knows I can hear him. He can feel me responding, but they don't believe him. They all don't hear me, no matter how loud I shout. Shouting only seems to succeed in putting my blood pressure up, fuck shouting!

One morning I hear someone arriving who's clearly walking on a zimmer-frame. Charlie, who stayed at my beside all night is talking to the person about me, telling them that I definitely hear him!

"Hello love," Mum says in her warm hug of a voice. "Charlie tells me you can hear him. You.....you've been in an accident, love. It wasn't your fault though. Can you Squeeze my hand, love?"

I squeeze and squeeze for all I'm worth, but nothing. This practice goes on for 3 more days, when finally, Charlie is holding my hand, asking me to squeeze. Like always, in my mind I'm squeezing tightly, when he suddenly lets go and runs out, shouting.

Doctors come in and do the shiny light thing again, bloody blinding me, and I see Mum just out of the corner of my eye, before it's closed over again. Mum asks if she can shout at me, and everyone asks why? She says she wants to see if she can get me to move my hand again, and the doctor says its worth a try.

The doctor takes my hand as Mum comes close to me and yells, "CHLOE ANNA CHAMBERS, Now that's enough of this lazing about. You need to squeeze this man's hand right away, because he thinks you're being very bloody rude! Now squeeze his fucking hand, now Chloe!"

And I do, I squeeze and strain like I never have before until gently, I grip this strange hand. Not tight, that's too much effort, but I can tell that he felt it as he asks me to open my eyes.

"What am I, a circus animal? Why are you asking me to perform?" I think before remembering, oh yes - unconscious.

I can hear the doctor moving, and another hand takes mine and even before he speaks, I know it belongs to my son. "Mum, Mum can you open your eyes for me? Please Mum," and how can I refuse my boy. With the same effort as squeezing the doctor's hand, I briefly open my right eye before the brightness makes me close it again. I summon all my power again and attempt another open. There, like a vision from heaven, glowing in the halo of light as my blurred vision struggles, is my son, Charlie.

"Hello Mum, we've missed you," he says and I smile. I try to speak but it still doesn't come out as he takes a wet cloth and dabs my lips and face. "Mum, can you squeeze my hand again?"

I squeeze again, twice, but he only acknowledges the second one with a "Oh Mum, you're really back. I love you so much," as I now also see the faint outline of Mum and what must be a doctor and a nurse. I get tired after that and fall asleep again.

I wake the next morning, much like the rest of the recent days. Only today, I can see. Charlie arriving makes me smile, I hope he can see me smile as I gently grip his hands as he kisses me on the cheek.

He tells me that next year we'll have a much better Christmas and I squeeze his hand multiple times. He asks me if I know it's Christmas and I squeeze his hand twice. He asks me if I know where I am, and I squeeze his hand once. He asks me other 'Tester' questions before we eventually agree on 1 squeeze for yes and 2 for no. It's so great to be heard again!

He rolls this out to Mum and the medical team, who are more than happy with my progress. But I still don't know the answer to the question I really want to know, where's Adam?

Another week goes on, and I get stronger by the day. I still can't talk, and I also can't feel anything below my waist. I progress enough to be transferred home, to England.

I move into a private hospital near home, where I have around the clock care. And, finally, Mum is well enough to go home too. Charlie visits me every day, and says he's moved back into my house and is having it modified for me getting out. But still no visit from Adam. I'm not liking this.

About a week after the transfer, I wake up feeling a pain in my left leg. I immediately realise the significance of it twitching, as this is the first time it's moved since I woke up.

A doctor arrives with Charlie, and both feel my leg, as they ask me if I can do it again, which I do.

I'm so frustrated, and scream in my head, "Oh for fuck sake stop with the moving my leg. I'm fucking fed up, I'm sore and Nobody has told me how my brother is!"

Still, nobody replies. I'm so deflated but at least this small step has happened. A few days pass, and I can now move my arms a little. Not enough to lift them or feed myself, I'm still pissing via tube, and it's all just shite! Then, they say that my carers are in place, my house is adapted, and I can go home. My amazing son has secured my freedom! But, before I go they want me to talk to someone. A shrink. I always knew I needed one of those.

The psychiatrist comes in with Charlie, my mum and another doctor and sit at the end of my bed. Mum sits beside me on the bed and takes my hand, cupping it as she looks in my eyes, she says "Chloe, love, do you remember the accident?.

Two squeezes for no

"You were in an accident darling, a truck's brakes failed and it hit you from behind and threw the car up in the air. you did everything right, love. You must know that."

"Love, there's no easy way to tell you this, but.......Mike and Adam were in the back of the car, they took the full force of the impact. They didn't make it, love. I'm so sorry," she says, the tearful words cutting into me like a knife.

I'm screaming "NO, NO, NO!" But nothing comes out. My son appears at my side and lies down beside me, kissing my forehead and hugging into me. I can feel tears running down my cheeks as I cry beyond grief, as my loving son takes a tissue and wipes them away.

"I love you, Mum. I'm so so sorry," he cries along with me, and Mum, who's in grief for her son and boyfriend, hugs me from the other side.

My rehabilitation is slow, I attend physiotherapy 3 times a week, talk to the shrink every week and attend speech therapy twice every week. The impact of the crash has severed so many connections that need to mend, but they are hopeful. The situation is made all the more awkward by the fact that I'm now heavily pregnant. At 6 and a half months, my tiny frame does a very bad job of hiding the prominent baby bump. I recall a dream like memory as I feel my daughter moving about within me, of Charlie before I woke from the coma, telling me he saw Adam and I, together. But I can't yet physically ask him and he hasn't brought it up, so there's nothing I can do but wait, wait for the hammer to fall when my son asks me if the baby is my brother's.

As January slips into February, I can't help but think how my life has unfolded since those fucking newspaper pictures, a year ago on Valentin's Day. The most wonderful experience of my life happened, my whirlwind romance and pregnancy with my Adam, the love of my life. And now, the crushing reality that I'll never see him again. But the little thing kicking and growing in my tummy will be a reminder of that wonderful man, this little treasure will be my world. If ever I can get this fucking body to work. I'm getting really fed up being washed by carers, fed by Mum and Charlie and wheeled about. Charlie has even bought an adapted transit van to ferry me about for Christ sake.

February slips into March, and the reality of my due-date is discuss. They want to give me an early c-section, and the date is set for the 20th, 2 weeks early. My movement and speech is still not improving, and the general theory is that once my daughter arrives, my body will focus more on healing.

Mum is in the delivery theatre with me, holding my hand, telling me it's all alright as the cold, sterile room appears quite daunting. Not the loving, warm home birth I had envisaged. All I feel is a sharp scratch, and a little bit of rummaging about in my stomach before I feel the pulling sensation that I know is my daughter being born. Silence envelopes the room as Mum, squeezing my hand says, "Well done, love. You have a daughter," as the joyful sound of crying pierces the quiet, and the little bundle is placed across my naked chest. Mum lifts my hand and holds it to the crying little wonder, as she protests about being wrenched from her cocoon into the cold world.

Soon, I find myself wheeled into the side-ward, and my little lady is in an incubator beside my bed. Charlie arrives and kisses me on the lips, telling me how proud he is, and then says hello to his little sister. "She looks like you, Mum," he says, adding,"Do you have a name for her?"

I focus all my energy, everything I have left, which can't be much at this stage, and manage to breathe, "Anna."

Mum looks at me, and immediately cries. She's still not able to move very well, but leans down to kiss my forehead, Saying, "Thank you. I love you, I'm so proud."

We get home a week later. I think they really kept us in because of my situation, as baby Anna thrived almost immediately. I felt so useless, as even the event of feeding my daughter required a nurse to help and hold her to my breast. But it felt wonderful and having only fed Charlie for about a month due to touring commitments, I was not going to hurry this one. It wasn't as if I was going anywhere fast.

The carers were amazing when we got home. Taking Anna on board along with my needs cannot be easy. Everything from helping me feed her, moving my arm so it was like I was cradling her, to washing and bathing us both, and helping me in the bathroom. They couldn't do more.

My son has also been spectacular. He changes his sister when required, he feeds her with bottles that the nurses help me to express milk for. How he seems to find time to help Mum with her rehabilitation too, I'll never know, driving her about to appointments and wherever she needs to go. He likes driving my Range Rover too, which I'm not happy about. The way he drives, he'll do himself a mischief as I've, as Adam put it "Did the Chloe thing," of having it lowered and made even faster. The only thing he refuses to do is be near when I'm breast feeding baby Anna. It's understandable, and not an issue as the carers help with this. He just respects his old Mum's privacy.

The next thing I want to do is go to Adam's grave, just next to Dad's. Charlie drives us there, and My son, daughter, Mum and I slowly make our way across the cold, windy terrain, why are graveyards always freezing?

We stand, together and talk about good times, and then Mum and Charlie allow me some time alone with my daughter at the grave side. I cry, telling him how sorry I am that I didn't do things differently like leave earlier, drive a different route, anything. I tell him how proud he would be of his daughter, and how good our son has been with us. Then, the rain comes on and it's time to go, and my son helps us back to and into the van.

Rainy, cold May arrives, and mother and baby both are doing well. I can now talk pretty well, but my movement is slow. Sitting up or walking by myself is a no no, and Charlie has said that he has did research into my condition and that being in a more relaxed and warmer climate might help. He has apparently had my Lanzarote home adapted like this one, had an elevator fitted, and has had the all clear for me to fly. I can't help but cry, I've missed it so much.

He has arranged to have carers there, ahead of our arrival, as the ones I currently have cannot travel with us. Mum is reluctant to go, so she stays in the care package applied at home.

It's such a palaver, getting on the plane with my son carrying me on board. He won't let anyone else do it, even though I know it's such a chore, having to carry your Mum about. As the plane touches down, he squeezes my hand and I grab his, saying, "Thank you, son."

He carries me off the plane, complete with Baby Anna, who he has been dealing with throughout the journey. Changing her, feeding her. I'm really so proud. Thankfully there are no steps down from the plane as it's level with the terminal, and he settles me into my chair with Anna strapped to his back, before wheeling me into the airport and out to a waiting, identical, adapted van to take me home.

Upon arrival, I see ramps where there once were steps. Entering the building, I see lots of adaptations to help me move about. Not least, a lift to get me up and down the stairs. I can feel my body sighing in relaxation, while I'm a little sad, as the last time I was here was with my Adam. Charlie sees a tear trickle down my face and leans down and hugs me whilst wiping the tears away.

"I know you loved him very much," he says, which is the first time he's acknowledged the elephant in the room.

"What do you know about us, son?" I silently ask.

"Everything, Mum. Granny Anna told me, and Dad, Matt, told me he's got over it so I need to suck it up. And I love you, Mum"

"I love you so much, son......I can't believe Matt said that," I nervously giggle.

"You know he flew over and sat at your beside for the first 2 weeks you were ill?"

"No! Really?"

"Yeah, then he really had to leave for work. But he visited you every 2 weeks and still rings me twice a week to see how you and I are.

"I had no idea," I breathe, as our moment is interrupted by Charlie's phone.

I then become aware of my son's agitation, and hear him on the phone as he talks to someone in Spanish. He leaves me watching TV with the remote close, Anna is sleeping in her crib. He comes back into the living room saying, "FUCK, FUCK, FUCKING CARERS!" He then goes on to explain that the carers have let him down, and won't be here for 10 days, adding, "Fuck it, I'll arrange flights back home tomorrow. I'm so sorry I've let you down, Mum."

"Nonsense," I say you've did all this, went to all this trouble, and I'm really looking forward to the change of scenery."

He looks at me, dejectedly and wails, "I can't look after you on my own, Mum. I'm just not capable!"

"Son, sit down," I say, as he takes a seat to my right. "I'd still be in hospital, or sitting at home not able to move if you hadn't got me this far. You adapted both houses, arranged everything to get us here, and Baby Anna seems to think you're doing a good job," I grin, looking at the sleeping bundle of joy, just as she starts to stir.

Charlie immediately jumps to fetch her as she brings a cry to our peace, carrying her to where we sit and takes a bottle he has somehow managed to have heated while he was on the phone earlier. He asks me if I want to try but I shake my head, telling him no. I love watching him with his little sister, he's naturally taken to feeding her and then getting her wind up.

He changes her, before eventually she settles down to sleep and I feel our first problem coming on. I need to pee. He wheels me into the downstairs toilet, which has been fitted with grab-rails and an alarm, he really has thought of everything except how I hold onto the rails and pull my jeans and panties down. "Can you help me, son?" I nervously say.

"Sure, what do you need me to do?" He chirps.

"Can you hold me while I slip my things down, or can you pull them down?"

"Oh, oh of course," he says, as he sheepishly reaches for the buttons. He looks over my shoulder to offer me some modesty as he slips my jeans to my ankles. Then I feel him take the knicker hem in his hands, and looking anywhere but 'down there,' lowers them too and helps me sit. He shows me how the funky new toilet works, that washes and dries everything, and waits outside the door before I call him in when I'm done. He helps me up from the toilet, and as I steady myself on the rails, he reaches down and pulls up my panties. They don't go up properly, and he has to straighten the elastic out with his finger, and in even more embarrassment, his finger brushes into what is now the 8 month bush of my vagina. He can hardly look at me as he pulls my jeans up and buttons them, his face getting noticeably red and I say, "I'm so sorry you have to do this."

"It's fine, Mum. I just wish those fucking carers had turned up," he replies, taking me by both hands back into the living room.

We decide to turn in for the night after giving Anna her last feed. Sitting on the bed, I can just about manage my blouse buttons, before seeing my predicament, he offers to help. He gets out my nightshirt and sets it on the bed, before he removes my blouse from behind me, slipping it off my shoulders.

I've managed to open my jeans but I'm unable to do anything else. He asks me if I want to keep my bra on, and I hesitantly say no. Moving behind me again on the bed, I feel him fumbling at the clasp of my boring, white, breastfeeding bra before he slides it down my shoulders and it falls onto my lap.

Then, taking the nightshirt, already buttoned for me, he lowers it over my shoulders from behind me, before helping me get my arms in right. My perfect gentleman then stands me up, shimmies my jeans down, assuming I'm keeping my panties on, which is fine.

He returns in about ten minutes, empty-handed with a look of horror on his face and says, "Shit, Mum, that was the last bottle. I didn't realise as I was on the phone earlier!"

"C-can you feed her yourself?"

"No," I say sullenly, adding,"I'll need your help to get her in place."

"Oh," he just says, and I note the first time a man ever had a terrified look, whilst glancing at the shape of my breasts within my nightie.

I open my shirt whilst lying back on the bed as my son lays Anna on top of me. He arranges pillows to support her and me, and trying his best not to look he supports the little, helpless girl as she feeds. "It's ok to look," I say and he gently lowers his eyes and smiles. "It really is a beautiful thing," I say, as he turns his eyes up to mine.

"I've never seen a baby feed naturally before. Is this how you fed me, Mum?" He asks.

"Not really, son. Only for a little while before album launches, tours and interviews interrupted it."

"Oh," he said with a hint of disappointment in his voice. "I'll go get the pump, you can express some for morning," he said, disappearing out the door, perhaps in embarrassment.

A few minutes later he came back, empty handed. "Anna has just finished, didn't take much," I say as he sits down at the bottom of the bed.

"It's not there," he mutters,"I took it out to re-pack some shit and left it on the table at home."

"Oh dear," I say, "You'll need to buy one tomorrow. I really need to express some excess at this time of night or I won't sleep."

"Can't you do it manually?" He asks.

"Normally, yeah," I sigh,"But you'd need to hold me up and forward.....and I'm not sure I can even squeeze my breasts hard enough as I'm still so weak. Just put Anna down for the night, son. I'll be alright tonight."