Never Leaves Me

by C J Morrow

  ‘He’s not going back to Canada, he’s secured himself an excellent job here, and as soon as his house is sold in Canada, he’ll be looking to buy here.’ Sally is excited.

  ‘He’ll be looking for a wife too,’ Mum jokes.

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ Sally says. ‘He’s only the same age as Juliette.’

  ‘Nearly a year older,’ I pipe up.

  That year used to be so important when we were kids.

  ‘I’ll look after you because I’m older than you. I’m the oldest.’ Stephen was seven then, I was six. I remember it because I’d fallen over in the grass and he had rushed to pick me up. I wasn’t hurt but I had livid green stains on my knees, which Stephen spat on and rubbed away. ‘I’ll always look after you, Juliette. I’m the biggest and it’s just us in our families.’

  He was right, we were both only-children then; it would be another six years before Mads came along, but slightly less before Stephen’s dad left and took him away every summer.

  Mum and Sally chat on and I doze off in the chair only to be awoken by nurses wanting to move me back into bed and to remove my feeding tube.

  ‘We’d better get out of the way,’ Mum says, kissing and hugging me.

  ‘Yes, you won’t be needing an audience.’ Sally, always to the point, hugs me too. ‘And make sure you eat all your food.’ She delivers her parting shot, ‘you’re very thin now.’

  That makes me laugh.

  Robin will be pleased.

  An hour later I’m lying on my side in bed, recovering from sitting on the chair for hours and the tube removal. Jeff assured me that the tube coming out is so much easier than going in. I am grateful that I don’t remember it going in, because coming out wasn’t pleasant but at least it was quick.

  I feel fine now. Just tired. And hungry.

  ‘I’ve eaten three meals today,’ I tell Robin when he whispers a hello in my ear. ‘And I’ve opened my eye, with my hand, admittedly, but it’s a start.’

  ‘It is, it is. Well done. Watch you don’t overeat, no point in getting fat again.’

  I can’t believe he just said that. Except that I can.

  ‘Robin,’ I say, smiling in his direction. I’m so tired I can’t even summon up the energy to lift my hand to open my eye, anyway, Robin’s beautiful face is indelibly imprinted in my memory and if he’s grey and haggard like Mum and Dad, I don’t want to see it. ‘Do you know who was bullying Mads? Have the police said anything?’

  He sighs, and though it’s barely audible, I still hear his exasperation.

  ‘Do you really want to churn all this up again? It just upsets you.’ He pauses. ‘And me.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. But I do need to know everything. I can’t remember anything about Mads dying. I just don’t understand it. I can’t believe she killed herself.’

  ‘Well she did.’ His tone is snappish.

  ‘How?’

  He doesn’t answer immediately. I ask again.

  ‘Overdose.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you said that before. But how, what, where?’ I feel as though I am playing a game with him. I’d prefer it if he would spare my feelings and just spit it all out.

  ‘Pills. She’d been out after school. She’d been drinking. Your Mum found her next morning in her bed. Still in her school uniform. They got her to hospital but she died a few hours later.’

  I gasp. I feel sick. I had assumed it was quick and clean. When Robin said overdose before, I thought painless.

  ‘Did they try to bring her round?’

  ‘Of course.’ He snaps out the words.

  ‘How? What did they do?’

  A bitter laugh escapes his lips. ‘They did everything. Defib in her bedroom. Atropine. The works. She was alive when they got her to hospital. They tried so hard. You can’t blame them.’

  ‘I’m not blaming them.’ I’m blaming her. My little Mads. Why did she do it? ‘Did you say she’d been drinking?’ I’m sobbing now, but I’m determined to know it all.

  ‘Yes. Shall we stop now. I told you it’s upsetting.’

  ‘No.’ I almost howl. ‘What was she drinking? How much?’

  ‘Wine.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Probably three-quarters of a bottle.’

  I suppose she could have been drinking; she is fifteen, the perfect age for illicit swigging from wine bottles. That much would make her silly, I suppose. But suicidal? This doesn’t fit with the little sister I know. But, maybe I didn’t know her that well; I hadn’t seen her for weeks and weeks.

  ‘Where did she get the pills from?’

  He laughs. If I had the energy I’d slap him. ‘Juliette, anywhere. Internet. Street corner. School. God knows it’s easy to get pills, tabs, call them what you like.’

  ‘Is it? What was the drug? What did the police say?’

  ‘Um. Not sure.’

  ‘Okay,’ I manage between blubbering and sniffing. I manage to get my right hand up to my face and swipe away at my nose.

  ‘Urgh,’ Robin mutters, unable to suppress his disgust.

  ‘You can’t remember what the drug was?’

  ‘No. Sorry. But it won’t bring her back, will it? All this upsetting ourselves.’

  He’s right. It won’t. But knowing how it happened helps me. I can’t explain why, but it does.

  ‘I’ll ask Mum and Dad,’ I mutter.

  ‘Why upset them? You can’t bring her back. For God’s sake, Juliette, give it up.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He’s right, of course he is. I can’t bring her back. I can’t change the past. I’ll never see her again. A fresh round of crying starts and it doesn’t stop until I fall asleep.

  When I wake Jeff is back, so it must be day. He says something about doing my eyes as he passes.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter back.

  ‘You okay now?’ Robin’s voice is soft and tender in my ear.

  ‘Have you been here all night?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sounds drowsy.

  Darling, sweet Robin. He’s stayed all night. Sleeping by my bedside on a plastic, hospital chair.

  ‘Thank you.’ I wave a hand in his general direction hoping to touch his face.

  ‘I wanted to make sure you were okay.’

  ‘I’m okay. Well, apart from a broken leg, an injured arm and a bashed-in head.’ I attempt a laugh.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Have I gone on about Mads’s death before? I mean before the car accident?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh. It’s just I need to know. I need to understand.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve remembered what the pills were. Co-proxamol.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Painkillers. Strong ones.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the sort of drug you’d get from a dealer? Are they prescription?’

  ‘I think so. But you could get them, if you wanted. Websites for suicides, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I can’t believe Mads would do that.’ The image of her sifting through those websites on her phone just horrifies me.

  ‘They found some in her web history on her school laptop.’ He says the words quietly as if attempting to diminish them.

  ‘Her laptop.’ I imagine her sitting in her bedroom, typing in the search terms, hunting out the info. ‘Poor Mads. My Mum was right.’

  Mum never wanted Mads to have a laptop of her own, but Dad said that all the kids needed them for school. Mum said I hadn’t. Dad reminded her there was a big gap between our schooling. I remember the withering look she’d given him.

  ‘Can’t she use your computer, in your study, like I do?’

  ‘Yes. She can. Of course. But she must take a laptop to school. For lessons.’

  The laptop was purchased and multiple safeguards were built into it. The reason for Mum’s reluctance came out eventually; her friend’s son had been caught watching porn on his.

  ‘Madeleine wouldn’t do that,’ Dad insisted.

  Mum raised her eyebrows at him, pursed her l
ips.

  The laptop went to school most days and came back and lived in the kitchen. The agreement was that Mads did her homework on it at the kitchen table, where Mum could ensure that it worked properly. Those were the words said to Mads. That rule lasted a few months, then the laptop stopped coming out of Mads’s bag and before long it was living up in her bedroom. She did use it for non-educational browsing, of course she did, but all I ever saw were YouTube music videos or Facebook.

  ‘Big day today,’ Jeff says, his voice as jolly as usual. ‘After breakfast we’re going to get that central line and catheter out, give you a bath and you can wear your proper clothes. Won’t that be better?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘And you’ll be moving. And you’re lucky hun, cos you’ve got private insurance, so you’re getting a room of your own.’ He laughs and pats my good leg. ‘Sadly, I won’t be seeing you again, but I might pop in for a chat if I get time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Robin says, ‘so don’t waste your breath. I need to go too.’

  ‘Are you working today?’

  ‘No. It’s Saturday. But I need a rest and a shower.’

  ‘Course.’ I think of his power shower, then I think of my impending bath. Lifted in on a hoist, Mum had said. Not really looking forward to that.

  Robin kisses me on the forehead, says goodbye and I’m alone.

  During the bath I’m relieved that I can’t open my eyes. I’m also grateful that it is two women who hoist me about, they also wash what’s left of my hair. Once I’m dressed I do feel a lot more human. They soon have me sitting on the chair in my new room. It’s oddly quiet. That’s when I fully realise that, although I’ve not really been aware of other patients, I must have been in a ward with others, because there were little beeps and noises that I can no longer hear. I feel lonely.

  I have my own ensuite bathroom, I’ve even used the toilet, albeit via a wheelchair with a toilet seat on it. Undignified, but progress and better than lying in my own mess.

  I’m on my own, I’ve eaten lunch, I have a drinking cup beside me – a non-spill one, like a baby’s.

  ‘Here you are.’ It’s Emma, the physiotherapist.

  ‘Hello.’ I give her my best smile.

  ‘Okay. Shall we get started?’ It’s not a question I can answer no to.

  She hauls me up and plonks the frame in front of me, guiding my hands to it.

  ‘Okay, let’s see how well you can walk. There’s nothing in front of you, try a few steps.’

  ‘But I’ve got a broken leg. I can’t put it down.’

  ‘It’s not broken, well not anymore, it’s been plated, and we need to get it moving even if it’s just a few small steps. Don’t put too much pressure on it, but have a go.’

  I try and it’s agony but it’s definitely better than I expected. We have several goes before she lets me sit down again. I’m puffing and panting like a steam train, but standing up felt so good even if it did make me lightheaded.

  ‘Excellent. I can see a significant improvement.’

  ‘Really?’ I puff out.

  ‘Hand and arm movement is not too bad, keep moving and practising. How are your eyes? Still not opening?’ She pulls both my eyelids open and I can see her face quite clearly. ‘Hello in there.’ She smiles. ‘Look left.’ I can and do. ‘Look right.’ I can and do. ‘Excellent. Keep practising. Try to get those eyes open. Try walking but only when someone else is in here with you. Wouldn’t want you falling when no one’s about; that’s one of the disadvantages of these rooms.’ She gives a half laugh as she puts the alarm call button on my lap before she goes.

  And I am alone again.

  I put my right hand to my right eye and force my fingers to prize open my eyelids. I can see. There is nothing wrong with my vision, it’s just the lids that don’t work. I let the lids drop and do the same with my left eye, but with my right arm, my left arm is still too sore to lift. I look around the room. It’s bigger than I expected; all those years of Belton’s paying for health insurance have finally paid off. The bed has sides, the bathroom door is ajar, there are two plastic visitor chairs. My eye, my arm and my hand start to ache. I drop my arm back down.

  Mum bursts into the room.

  ‘This is better,’ she says, dragging a chair up to me. ‘And you look more like your old self.’ There’s genuine joy in her voice. ‘Well done, darling.’ She kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘I haven’t really done much, just hobble across the room a couple of times. And you were right, I was hoisted into the bath.’ We both laugh. ‘I have managed to go to the toilet, in the bathroom.’ I point in the direction of the ensuite. ‘Is Dad parking the car?’

  ‘No. He’s at work.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘It’s Tuesday, darling. What made you think it was Saturday?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I’m not telling her that Robin told me, she’ll catch him and ask him why he’s telling me lies. Again.

  Nine

  ‘Your parents don’t want to come to the wedding.’

  ‘What? Why? When did they say that?’

  ‘Your mum rang me. Let them stay away, we don’t need them.’ Robin smiled; a grim, straight line across his face. His eyes weren’t smiling.

  ‘But I want them to come, I want Mads as my bridesmaid.’ We’d already been shopping for her dress; Mum, Mads and me.

  Robin shrugged and turned away. ‘Shall we have a Chinese takeaway tonight? I don’t feel like cooking after this upset. Unless you do?’

  I agreed to the takeaway. I hadn’t moved into Robin’s place at that point, I was still living at home, more to placate Mum and Dad than anything. I was in the habit of going to Robin’s straight from work. I wanted to be with Robin all the time but despite Mum having said that I could live with him and not get married, both my parents vehemently disapproved of me living with him before we married. Since it wasn’t long until our wedding day, I took the line of least resistance.

  Later that night, after I’d pushed my Sweet and Sour around my plate, I’d checked my mobile. There was a missed call from Mum. I wouldn’t be calling back, I wanted to see her face-to-face.

  I sneaked in late that night, the house was in darkness, everyone was in bed. I didn’t catch Mum the next morning, but I went straight home after work that evening and confronted her.

  ‘Why won’t you come to the wedding?’

  She frowned at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You rang Robin and said you weren’t coming.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  She shook her head and frowned again. Was Mum being deliberately obtuse?

  ‘I rang Robin’s home phone yesterday when you didn’t answer your mobile. You weren’t in from work, so I chatted to Robin.’ She sighed and turned away.

  ‘Yes. And you told him you didn’t want to come to the wedding.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ She tutted and started to lay the table, her head shaking as she laid down the placemats. ‘I said, quite clearly, that I hadn’t found anything suitable to wear and at this rate I wouldn’t be coming. It was a joke. I laughed when I said it.’

  ‘That’s not what he understood. But if it was a misunderstanding, that’s okay then.’

  ‘He understood perfectly. He laughed and said I should wear my pyjamas as long I was there.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s such a liar, Juliette. You need to watch him.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ I didn’t attempt to hide the sarcasm in my voice. ‘I’m going to Robin’s now.’

  ‘Did he give you my message?’

  ‘Which message?’ I wasn’t going to say a straight no to that.

  ‘I was ringing to see if you wanted to go late night shopping with me tonight; Debenhams are having a blue cross day and are open ‘til eight. Thought I might find something for the wedding. But if you’re busy, it doesn’t matter. You go and have a wonderful time round there.’ She sm
iled but I knew she wasn’t wishing me a pleasant evening. I didn’t go to Debenhams with her, on reflection I should have.

  When I confronted Robin he too frowned his puzzlement. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that the pressure of being the mother of the bride is getting to her. She definitely said they didn’t want to come.’

  ‘No, she says she didn’t.’

  ‘Then, my love,’ he kissed me on the nose, ‘there was either confusion, or misunderstanding or both. Either way, it doesn’t matter now, does it?’

  I didn’t want an argument over it, but at the same time I wanted more explanation, but Robin wouldn’t be drawn into further discussion.

  ‘Sally’s coming in soon,’ Mum is saying. ‘Have you had your hair washed? It’s looking quite nice.’

  ‘For a half-baldy,’ I joke.

  ‘Well, it’ll grow back. It’s already starting to. Anyway, Sally is on her way, Stephen is bringing her.’

  ‘He’s not coming in with her, is he?’ I feel alarmed. I like Stephen, he’s such an old friend, but I don’t want him seeing me like this.

  ‘No. No. Don’t worry. He wouldn’t do anything to upset you.’

  ‘Did he actually say that?’ It strikes me as an odd thing to say; we’re just old friends.

  ‘Yes, he did. When we were chatting over lunch.’

  ‘You went to lunch with him?’ For some reason, I don’t like this. I don’t know why.

  ‘I went to Sally’s for lunch, Stephen was there.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’re very tetchy, Juliette.’ Mum sighs. ‘But I suppose that’s understandable.’ She pats my hand before changing the subject. ‘How are your eyes?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve propped them open with my fingers, but it makes my arms ache.’ I pinch my right eyelid to lift it. Mum’s face comes into focus. She looks better today, not so grey and tired. ‘I can’t turn my head very well, it’s so stiff and painful.’

  ‘The swelling around your eyes is definitely less. Have they said how long it will take before they work properly?’

  ‘No. Just got to keep trying.’

  ‘Hello.’ Sally bursts into the room. ‘This is better. Bit quiet though.’