by C J Morrow
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, hun. Your body is just saying thank you.’ Jeff laughs, Robin doesn’t.
After the third spoonful Jeff suggests I carry on by myself. I remind him that I can’t open my eyes to see, but he just laughs, guides my hands to the bowl – yes, it’s in a bowl, like baby food – gives me the spoon and watches me try.
‘There you go. No problem. I’ll be back when you’ve finished.’
I tuck in, I can’t help it. I’m enjoying it.
‘Looks disgusting. It’s grey.’
‘Shush,’ I hiss at Robin.
He pushes the chair away from me. I imagine him sitting with his arms folded and scowling, but I don’t care.
I’m alive. I’m moving. I’m eating and drinking.
It’s a while before Jeff comes back for my bowl and he compliments me on not making much mess and congratulates me for eating it all.
‘I have trifle for you now, if you want it?’ Jeff lifts a straw to my mouth and I suck in water.
‘Yes please.’ I can’t remember the last time I had trifle. Yes, I can. Christmas tea at my parents three years ago. The last time we went there for Christmas. It had been a bit of an appeasement, an effort to all get on. Robin didn’t really do Christmas, he liked to spend the day at home, away from all the commercialism and overindulgence. I loved the overindulgence, on that occasion Mads and I had second, then third helpings of Mum’s sherry trifle.
On the way home Robin commented that it was no wonder my clothes were getting tight.
I went on a bit of a diet after that. It really didn’t make much difference. Mum said, when I told her, that I’d have to accept that I wasn’t a sixteen-year-old-girl any longer, and so would Robin. I was twenty-five.
Robin excuses himself when Jeff comes back to clean me up – I’ve managed to slop some on my gown which he then changes.
When Robin comes back he starts yawning. Big theatrical yawns as if making a point.
‘Why don’t you get off home,’ I say. There must be something in the air, Mum was tired too.
‘No. I’ll stay. Until your Dad gets here.’
‘Thanks.’
Half an hour later Dad arrives and Robin leans in to kiss me goodbye. That’s the first time he’s done that since this nightmare began – as far as I can remember. I wonder if it is for Dad’s benefit.
‘Bye Brian, I’ll leave you to it.’ Robin’s chair scrapes.
‘I’ve got your squash, orange and lemon barley,’ Dad says as he drags the chair into position and flumps into it. He too, sounds weary.
‘Thanks Dad. I’m looking forward to that, you know how boring I find water. I’d love a cup of tea, actually.’ I sound so cheerful and jolly and I’m doing it for Dad’s benefit.
He takes my hand and pats it. I squeeze back before our hands part.
‘Mum said you were moving now. Good work, Juliette, keep it up.’ His voice sounds as though it might break.
‘Yeah. Soon be up and dancing.’
‘Your work rang today. Someone called Mary?’
‘Marie. In HR.’
‘That’s it.’
I haven’t thought about work at all, not once. Hardly surprising. I’m still at Belton’s. Been there for ten years now. I’ve risen through the ranks and I love my job, and it pays very well too. That’s how we could afford our lovely house. As Robin has pointed out on numerous occasions, despite his hard work, long hours, extra curricula duties and private tutoring, I’m still the main earner. He moans about teachers’ salaries then reminds me that it’s down to him I didn’t go to university, incurring a big debt along the way, and that if I hadn’t got into Belton’s as a trainee, I’d probably never have got in there at all.
He’s right too, because most of their staff are home grown, which is quite unusual in today’s workplace. I’ve had offers from other companies, been headhunted more than once, but I’m happy where I am. I told Robin about the first one, he was keen for me to follow it up – the salary was a lot more than I was on at the time – but I didn’t. He was angry initially, asking me if I even cared about our future. I thought that was mean. Fortunately, Belton’s heard about it and offered me an increase to stay. We were all happy in the end. Especially Robin.
I didn’t tell him when it happened again. I didn’t pursue it either. I’m happy at Belton’s.
‘What did she say?’
‘Just asking after you. Wishing you well, that sort of thing. Mum spoke to her. Said you were conscious now and talking. They wanted to send flowers but it’s not allowed in here.’
‘That’s nice. Tell them thank you if they call again.’
‘She asked if they could visit, but Mum said no, not yet.’
How right Mum is, I’m grateful she’s put them off. Much as I like my work colleagues I don’t want them seeing me like this.
‘They asked if you had received the letter okay.’
‘I don’t know. I’m in here. I haven’t seen any post.’ I laugh, a little, bitter laugh. ‘Not that I can see anything at the moment, unless someone props my eyes open.’
‘No. I suppose not.’ Dad sounds so weary.
‘What was it about? Did they say?’’
‘It wasn’t from them. It was marked for your eyes only, the address, everything, was handwritten. It came in after…’ he stalls. ‘After Madeleine died.’ Now his voice is breaking.
I reach out and squeeze his hand again. I hear him catching his breath.
‘They sent it straight out to you. Before this happened. Your accident, I mean.’
‘Yeah.’ I don’t remember any letter. Do I? ‘Um. It must be at home.’ I have no idea if it is, Robin hasn’t said anything. I’ll ask him when he comes back.
‘Only Mum and I, we wondered…’ his voice falters again. ‘With it being handwritten, and for your eyes only on the envelope…’ He stops.
I’m worried. I think I know what he’s thinking.
‘Only there wasn’t anything from Madeleine. When it happened. No suicide note or anything like that. So, we wondered if the letter was from her.’
Eight
I try to sleep after Dad has gone, but how can I?
I go over and over in my mind, trying to remember the letter. Was it from Mads? Or are Mum and Dad just clutching at straws?
I wish Robin would hurry back. Did he say he was coming back tonight? I can’t remember. Damn my brain and its inability to function properly. I want to ask him if he remembers this letter. But, surely, he would have mentioned it if he had seen it; he would have told Mum and Dad if it was from Mads.
He picks up all the post in the morning, if it comes before we go to work he sorts through it in the hall before we go, making two piles – his and mine. We rarely have time to open it until we come home, sometimes he’ll open his in the car. Most days it’s just bills or junk mail. Unless it’s Christmas or birthdays, but now fewer people are sending cards at Christmas.
The more I think about it, the more I think that it’s unlikely to be from Mads. Yes, I know she used to write for your eyes only on envelopes, even birthday cards, but that was when she was ten or eleven. Not now. Anyway, why write a letter when she could text or email? Why send a letter to my work? If she wanted to give me a letter, she’d do exactly that. Hand it to me. But why? It makes no sense. It’s far more likely that the letter is just junk mail packaged in a way that makes you open it before you throw it in the recycling.
Mum and Dad are wrong. It’s nothing.
‘Sorry it’s so late, we’ve been so busy.’ It’s Sue. She’s wiping my face and arms.
‘Late?’ I had eventually dozed off and now I’m being woken by washing and moving. I have no idea of the time; I only know afternoon and evening by Mum and Dad’s visits.
‘Nearly midnight. Sorry.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I think they’re going to get you out of bed tomorrow.’
‘Really?’
‘Sit in a chair.
See how you get on.’
I don’t know how I feel about that.
‘You might want to have some clothes brought up, more comfortable than this gown. Leggings or tracky bottoms, a soft top.’
‘Yeah. I’ll get Robin to bring me something.’ The good thing with Robin is he’ll know exactly what to bring me.
‘Don’t forget underwear.’ Sue chuckles. ‘People often do.’
‘Sue,’ I say as a horrible thought occurs to me. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Must be nearly three weeks.’ She’s moved onto my bottom half and I’m cringing. I hadn’t realised I was lying in my own mess again, but I can smell it now. I’m so glad Robin isn’t here.
‘Have I had a period?’
‘No.’
My mind is working overtime. If it’s three weeks without a period then it’s imminent. Oh God, how embarrassing, and messy, will that be?
‘Can you give me tablets to stop it?’
‘We don’t usually do that. You’ve had enough medication. We’re trying to get you off everything, not add more.’ Sue half laughs. ‘It’ll be fine.’
I can’t bear to ask how they will handle it, just the thought of Jeff fishing around with a tampon is making me shudder inside. And Robin will be horrified. Absolutely disgusted.
‘Maybe it won’t happen,’ Sue says, sounding upbeat. ‘All the trauma and shock. It’s often the case.’
Is she just saying that to make me feel better?
‘Who knows, you might be up to dealing with it yourself. Once you’re out of bed, progress does tend to speed up.’ She’s definitely saying that to make me feel better.
Finally, she’s finished, new gown on, covers rearranged and she’s gone.
I doze off again and dream of Mads, her sweet little face, laughing. In the dream, she’s ten or eleven and she’s repeating for your eyes only.
‘Sorry I didn’t make it last night. I was so tired I fell asleep on the sofa.’ Robins lips brush my face. He smells delicious; his favourite aftershave makes my nose tingle.
‘That’s okay.’ I turn to face him, even though I still can’t open my eyes to see him. I smile. And I imagine him smiling back.
‘I can’t stay long I need to get to work.’
‘Can’t you get time off.’ I feel upset about how uncaring his school are being.
‘I’ve had over a month off, what with ….’
‘Mads,’ I finish for him.
‘Yeah, and you. Now you’re on the mend and getting more visitors, well...’ He pauses. ‘I’ll need to take more time off when you come home.’
‘Yes. I suppose you will.’
His lips brush my forehead again. I must be looking better, that’s twice in one visit.
The chair scrapes; he’s standing up. He’s going already.
‘Robin, before you go.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Did we receive a letter in the post, addressed to me, handwritten? It had for your eyes only on the front.’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just something from work.’
The chair scrapes again. ‘Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll be late otherwise.’
‘Okay.’
And he’s gone. Damn, I forgot to ask him to bring me some clothes.
‘I’ve had breakfast and lunch today.’ I’m telling Mum of my progress. I’m sitting in the chair with a sheet covering my legs.
‘And you are looking so much better. I’ve brought you some clothes.’
‘Thank you. How did you know? I forgot to tell…’ I’m about to say Robin but decide against it; Mum hasn’t mentioned him so it’s better that I don’t. She’s probably blaming him for all this, even if that’s irrational.
‘Hospital rang this morning, so I popped to yours on my way here.’
‘Thank you. There’s talk of me moving wards now I’m not so dependent, and having a bath. Though I’m not sure how that will work.’
‘Hoist, probably. Like in old people’s homes.’
‘Oh God, no.’
‘Does it matter?’
I think about that for a moment, and shake my head. My aim is to get well, to recover. It doesn’t matter how.
‘And look what I’ve been practising.’ I reach up and force my right eye open with my fingers. ‘I can see you if you’re right in front of me.’
Mum smiles. It lights up her face, but behind her smile she looks as thin and haggard as my fingers discovered yesterday.
‘I can’t do the other eye yet, it’s sort of sticky and lazy. And I can’t keep this up for long because it makes my arm ache, but it’s a start.’
‘Well done.’ She pats my knee.
‘They’re going to take the feeding tube out of my nose later.’
‘That’s wonderful. You’re recovering really well now.’ She’s saying all the right words but her face looks so sad.
I stop holding my eye open so I won’t have to see it.
‘We thought we were going to lose you too.’ Her voice wavers.
I hate seeing Mum like this; I need to divert her but it’s difficult when I feel so miserable myself.
‘Is Sally coming today?’
‘Yes. She came with me, she dropped me at the door and went off to find a parking space. You know what it’s like up here. Drives me nuts.’
I’ve diverted Mum, even if it is to moan about hospital parking.
‘And it costs a fortune.’ She stops, realising what she’s said. ‘Not that we mind, of course. Do you want me to help you get dressed?’
I think of how horrendous that would be, I don’t have the energy for it. Just sitting in the chair is a major achievement. I also don’t want Mum to see that I’m sitting on a big, square pad, that is akin to a nappy. She may be my mum but there are limits.
‘No. I’ll wait until I have a bath.’
‘Good idea.’ There’s relief in Mum’s voice. ‘I’ve brought several outfits and your pyjamas.
‘Thank you.’
Sally arrives, breathless and annoyed.
‘That bloody car park. I just had a standoff with some officious arse.’ She stops, evidently noticing me. ‘My God, look at you.’ She leans in and kisses me.
‘She’s having a bath later and getting dressed and moving ward.’ Mum’s voice glows with pride.
‘Brilliant. That’s just brilliant. How will they manage to bath you with that cast?’ I assume Sally is talking about my leg, and I admit, I hadn’t even thought about that. ‘Oh, I expect they have plastic bags they’ll put it in.’ She laughs.
‘I’m sure they’ll manage.’ Mum uses her best placating, upbeat voice, the one she used when we were children. It covered eating cabbage, ‘it’s not that bad and it’s good for you,’ falling over, ‘no harm done, up you get,’ and disappointing school reports, ‘room for improvement, I suppose.’ It’s the voice of my childhood. And Mads’s.
‘Did they lift you into the chair?’ It’s Sally again.
‘Yes.’ I’ll be quite happy to sit in the chair all day. I feel more human, more normal.
‘Any idea when you can get out of here?’ Sally makes it sound as though I am in prison. I suppose, in some respect, I am.
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m off work for as long as needs be,’ Mum says, positive voice again. ‘So, I’ll be available to look after you once you get home.’
I’m about to say that it’s all taken care of and Robin will be there for me, but realise that he might need a break and it might take the two of them to start off with. Robin probably won’t want Mum around at all, but if I need help going to the toilet or anything like that, Robin won’t want to do it. I’m going to save that discussion and potential argument until it happens.
‘Where did you go for lunch yesterday?’
‘Oh, lovely place. Stephen researched it online before we went. Fab reviews. A little bistro, you’ve probably heard of it, Carvells.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I ha
d this lovely braised lamb, oh it melted in my mouth. Stephen had…’
‘I’ve been there,’ I cut in. ‘I went with Robin on our anniversary last year.’
Someone, Sally I think, reaches over and pats my knee several times.
‘What did you have?’
‘Chicken.’
‘Stephen had chicken, cooked in a white wine sauce. It was lovely, I tasted it. I had a wine or two, as well. Stephen didn’t, he was driving.’
‘Robin had steak. He sent it back.’
He said it was overcooked. He made quite a fuss. It was supposed to be our lovely anniversary dinner and he ruined it. His steak didn’t look overcooked to me, he like it medium-rare and it was still bloody inside. He was in a foul mood before we even got there, so they could do nothing right. He’d booked the restaurant weeks before and almost forgotten about it, which meant he’d had to cancel one of his private pupils at short notice.
‘It’s not professional, Juliette,’ he hissed at me, when I dared to suggest it didn’t matter.
When I’d snapped back that we could cancel the meal instead, he’d rounded on me and called me stupid.
After that the night was never going to be a rip-roaring success, which was a shame because I had already checked the dessert specials on the board and knew what I was going to have, but we left before then.
‘Just as well, Juliette. You don’t need to pack any more puddings in there.’ He gave my stomach a cursory glare before yanking open the car door. He waited for me to get in and start the car. I’d have liked a glass of wine, or champagne even, but couldn’t because I had to drive. Robin, as usual, hadn’t drunk alcohol.
The evening had been a disaster and it didn’t improve when we got home earlier than expected and Robin disappeared into his study and didn’t come out until after I’d gone to bed. He was on his computer all evening, I could hear the frantic tapping of his keyboard. When he came to bed, I pretended to be asleep.
‘We’ll go there when you’re better,’ Sally is saying. ‘A group of us.’
‘Yeah, that would be nice.’ I’m not sure if it will or not, though.
Sally’s so good for Mum, distracting her from all this misery, from missing Mads, all the while chattering on about Stephen. It’s lovely to hear normal talk.