Many minutes later, when the water had become too cold, I pulled the plug out and watched the whirlpool, thinking about what a perfect metaphor for my life it was. Draining away in utter chaos. Having soaped and hosed myself, I got out of the tub and was faced with another daunting look in that mirror.

It wasn’t so bad, I thought. Some colour seemed to have returned to my skin, and while I was a naked skeleton with some skin on it, I was also starving for the first time in a while. It was no longer on me to find Aaron, and relief was the order of the day. For something that had consumed a year of my life and then some, I was strangely candid about it, but the search was in safe hands now. It had a purpose.

After drying off and putting some comfy clothes on, including an oversized jumper just to lampoon myself, I found my dad in the living room, reading the news from his laptop. “Thanks for pointing it out,” I said, laying down on the couch and looking at him.

“What? That you looked like the Grim Reaper had joined us for Christmas?” he said.

“Yes! Sometimes we all need help to notice what ‘s right in front of our own noses,” I said.

“What have they done to you, though, really?” he said.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “It’s just been a stressful last week at work.”

“Work?” he said. “You were in an induced coma less than two months ago, that they even allowed you to work is a disgrace in my book.” He looked at me and leaned closer. “Is this about Aaron still?”

“Tea’s ready!” mum shouted from the kitchen, and moments later emerged from it, carrying a tray with a pot and three mugs on it.

Dad looked at me and mouthed “Later,” pointing to his watch.

“I took the liberty of making you some as well, love,” mum said after she’d had time to concentrate on something other than not spilling the tea. “I know you prefer coffee, but I thought you’d share the tea time with us.”

“Can’t say I don’t want now, can I?” I joked, and they both smiled, but their smiles almost looked as if they were hiding something. The steamy environment my brain had been in, what from the bath, what from the tea, had sent my subconscious to sleep, and I was autopiloting again, unable to read what they were hiding.

I was hoping it was just hidden relief from the fact that I was home again, and I decided not to push the issue, and steer the conversation towards life and my recovery, being very careful which parts of the story I was telling them. Everything about the physio, the training, the wheelchair and the crutches, and about my return to work, I told them.

Everything new about Aaron, the Alexanders, and especially about the illicit medicine we were engaging in, I wasn’t exactly going to tell them. For them, Aaron was just a fixation that I had had long ago, after my first procedure, and as far as they were concerned, I had let him go after dad came down to London to teach me a lesson.

I’d chosen my words very carefully, but dad was still suspicious because of what he’d seen. Still, we had a silent agreement not to bother mum with it, and so he kept any prodding questions into that part of the story to himself, waiting until mum was occupied with something else so he could ask me. That happened soon enough, as she’d excused herself to go make dinner, and the prodding began almost immediately.

“What happened?” he said. “I know this is about Aaron. You never stressed out over anything before he became a thing. I need to know.”

“So, as you might’ve guessed, I felt him again,” I said.

“Interesting. Was it your brain doing crazy things, or is he real?” he said.

“Here’s the thing, dad, they don’t know. They kept me on an EEG scanner throughout the procedure, and the weeks after it, but they never measured any non-base brain activity while I was under. When I dreamed, sure, they’d measure the REM and everything, but nothing added up,” I said.

“So, what did they do? Did you tell them about Aaron?”

“Of course I did. They gave up,” I said. “The doctor that was on me had three weeks to collect data, he collected everything he could, and concluded that he was just a figment of my imagination until proven opposite.” He didn’t have to know.

“Really? Thrown away, just like that?”

“Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “But that’s our beloved England for you.”

I snickered at his unabated cynicism of England, which only seemed to get stronger over the years, the Northern bastard. Still, no-one had to know about what the Alexanders and I were doing, not even my parents. The science had to be done on the down low. “I think I’m ready to let it go, dad.”

He got up from his chair to give me a long hug and a kiss on the forehead. “That’s my girl. Would be a shame if an imaginary friend took you out of the wonderful life you were leading, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, he did, for quite a long time. But it’s time,” I said. “Time to live again. Time to put some weight on. Time to put this all behind me. Thanks.”

With those words, I squeezed him tighter, and my subconscious finally woke up. He wasn’t crying, but he wanted to. His heartbeat and breathing only compounded the sense, and I could feel the hot mess inside of his head. Yes, he lived a simple life, but I was all he would ever leave behind. I was important to him.

“Anytime,” he said, and released the hug, leaving me to my own devices.

Christmas Eve came around quicker than I could say the word anaesthetic, and suddenly, we were all busy. Coordinating phone calls, decorating the fake tree, deciding which cousins and friends we’d join for dinner every day of the week, and who would host. It was a good thing to be busy, for a change, and I noticed I was eating far more than the weeks before.

The alleged birth of Christ seemed to breathe new life into me as well, with my body and mind grabbing the opportunity to be back home with both hands, allowing themselves to rest and recover. After two hearty meals, I was feeling leagues better than I did for weeks, and a look in the mirror reflected it.

Sure, my skin was still terrible, and I was still nowhere near fit, but at least I looked like a woman, and not a skeleton. My life had always been busy, and I was of the firm belief that idle time was time where intrusive thoughts appeared, but I was a different kind of busy this week, and it was paying dividends.