by C J Morrow
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’ Did I? Has someone told me? It had been mentioned but nothing specific was said. No definite date.
‘It’s been lovely working with you, Juliette. You take care and keep up the good work.’ Her hand is on the door.
‘Thank you, Emma. For helping me. For everything.’
‘My pleasure.’ And she’s gone.
I lie back on the bed and close my eyes. As usual, after Emma’s visit, I am exhausted. I just need to rest and recover.
‘I see he’s been here.’ Robin’s voice is in my ear.
I can’t bear to open my eyes and look at him. I feel both guilty and angry.
‘Who?’ I say this just to rile him.
‘Your lover boy. Him. Your old friend. Your neighbour. He’s always tried to come between us. Conniving bastard.’
‘Shut up.’ I can’t believe I’ve just said that to Robin.
‘Oh, he’s made you so brave,’ Robin spits in my ear.
‘No, he’s made me remember. I remember seeing you kissing one of your pupils on her doorstep while her parents were out. A child. Was she the only one?’
There’s silence for a minute, Robin is, no doubt, working on his reply.
‘Bullshit,’ he says. ‘Laughable lies.’
‘I don’t find it funny.’
‘Huh. It’s a sick joke.’
‘Sick. Yes. By the way, I’m coming home tomorrow.’
I wait for him to think about that.
‘I won’t be wiping your arse.’
So much vitriol. I’m beginning to wonder if he ever loved me. Maybe. But maybe not enough. What happened to in sickness and in health?
‘I’m not asking you to. My Mum will be with us. She might stay overnight.’ I’ve managed to wipe my own backside but I’m not telling Robin that.
‘Over my dead body. She’s interfered enough. Go and stay at your parents until you’re better.’
‘No. I’m coming home. To my home.’ Even if it often doesn’t feel like my home.
The door slams and he is gone.
In his place the aroma of lunch, served at 11.30am today. I open my eyes, put the bed up and smile. The lunch, mashed potato and mashed chicken, accompanied by very dark, chopped green beans, is placed on the overbed table in front of me. I promise myself that from tomorrow I will have my favourite foods, especially if Mum is cooking.
After lunch, I hobble over to the bathroom then, on my return, settle myself in the chair.
When I get home, I will be able to use my phone, catch up with people, let them know I’m okay. It was in my handbag, wasn’t it? Where’s my handbag? I must have had it with me when I crashed the car. Damn. It must have gone up in flames. When I get home, I’ll organise a replacement phone, and credit and debit cards. What else was in my handbag? And what about my car? A wreck now. Since he isn’t willing to help me physically he can make himself useful, he can sort out the insurance. He may have already done that. He likes to look after all the household bills, insurance for the cars, our joint bank account. I don’t mind. He’s good at it, keeps a spreadsheet on his computer. He’s showed it to me, to my accountant’s mind it seems simple, but it does the job.
Maybe, there’s already a brand-new car sitting on the drive, waiting for me. I smile at the prospect. I shudder at the prospect. Will I ever want to drive again? Should I?
I still don’t know how it happened. Am I dangerous? Will I lose my licence? The police must be involved - will they visit me when I get home?
I feel the panic and fear in my body.
Robin will have to deal with them. Just as he will have to tolerate Mum’s presence in our home.
And what about Mads? I promised Mum and Dad that I would find out what happened? Why she killed herself? I need to find her friend, Chloe, and ask her. Was Mads really being bullied my Chloe? Robin seemed convinced she was. I don’t know how Robin would know, but he sounded so sure.
‘We’ve just heard the news.’ Mum and Sally burst into my room. ‘Tomorrow. Isn’t that wonderful.’
‘Yeah. I think so.’ Part of me can’t wait to get home, part of me is petrified.
‘You can always come and stay with us,’ Mum says, pulling her jacket off and dragging a chair over. ‘We’ve got plenty of room…’ She realises what she’s said and slumps into the chair.
‘And me and Stephen will be on hand to help.’ Sally tries to lift the mood again.
‘I ought to go home. I think I should go to my own home.’ Robin may not like it, but it’s my house too. I may be about to leave him – am I? But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the comfort of my own home while I’m recovering.
‘Well.’ Mum forces a smile. ‘I can stay if you like. We’ll just have to sort me out a bed.’ She beams the best smile she can muster, but sorrow shows in her eyes.
‘You can borrow that put-you-up bed I’ve got. It’s very comfortable.’
‘Oh yes. Good idea.’
‘Stephen can bring it over. He’ll want to be there anyway, make sure you’re okay,’ Sally says to me.
Robin won’t like that. He won’t like that at all. He probably won’t allow Stephen over the threshold. But I didn’t like seeing Robin kissing his child-pupil.
‘I bet you’re looking forward to getting out of here.’ Sally glances around the hospital room that has become my sanctuary, only I hadn’t quite realised how safe I feel here.
I give Sally a nervous smile by way of response. Mum looks anxious too.
They start talking about the baby, it’s obvious that Stephen has told them that I now know the baby is his. Sally is as thrilled at the prospect of being a granny as Mum is. It makes me pleased too, to see them so happy. And Dad deserves something lovely to look forward to.
When they start talking about the sex of the baby and possible names, I have to rein them in.
‘It’s early days. Let’s not get too carried away.’ I worry that I will lose this baby, that the injuries I have sustained will affect it.
Sally’s and Mum’s faces drop. I’ve killed the mood, which wasn’t my intention; I was just exercising a bit of caution.
After they’ve gone I haul myself back onto the bed. I lie back and half expect Robin to come bursting in.
I don’t relish the prospect of another row with him, another slanging match. How we will manage when I go home tomorrow, I do not know. I could take the soft option, I could go to my parents. I’m giving it serious consideration, but why should I leave my home? It’s as much mine as his. Yes, I admit, I have committed adultery. But so has he. Probably.
I lower the bed and close my eyes. I’m not asleep but it’s peaceful and quiet. I breathe deeply and attempt to meditate, something Emma has suggested when I find the situation overwhelming. A little sleep might be nice, but instead I find myself reliving the accident. I’ve been through it so many times in my dreams that it has lost its power to appal me now. I’m watching myself being hauled out of the car, laid on the ground. Robin is laid alongside me. There is not a mark on his beautiful face. It was only my head which took the beating.
Who pulled us out?
The black coat, spattered with blood, is straining across my chest. Robin looks immaculate. I realise all this is happening in my imagination, because I could never have had this view.
Someone is calling my name, shaking my shoulders gently as I lie on the ground. It’s grass, damp grass. I can almost smell it.
The voice is Stephen’s.
Did Stephen pull me out of the car? And Robin?
I rouse myself and I’m agitated. I need to get to a phone. I need to speak to Stephen.
I wander out of my room, try to locate the nurses’ station. The corridors all look the same. I don’t really know where I am.
‘Hey, hun. What you doing?’ It’s Jeff. Thank God, it’s Jeff. ‘I hear you’re going home tomorrow. I’m on my way home myself, so was coming to say good bye and good luck to my favourite patient.’
‘I’m lost. I’m lo
oking for a phone.’
‘Let me help you.’ He takes me by the arm and steers me back to my room, settles me in the chair.
‘But I need a phone.’
‘Hey, you can use mine.’ He pulls a mobile from his pocket and offers it to me. ‘I’ll get us some tea.’
I don’t know Stephen’s mobile number. I don’t know Sally’s home number. I ring Mum and Dad’s landline instead. But no one’s home. I leave a garbled message asking Stephen to come and see me as soon as he can. Mum will fret, so I add, ‘nothing to worry about.’
Jeff comes back with sweet tea, and biscuits, sits down and drinks with me. We talk about nothing, but it makes me feel better, calmer.
‘I got to get out of here. I’ve got a blind date tonight.’ He pockets his phone. ‘And he’d better be hot.’
‘Thanks, Jeff. For everything.’
‘Just doing my job, hun.’ Then he whispers, ‘But you are my favourite ex-patient.’
An hour later and I’ve eaten my last hospital supper, and still no Stephen. I’m calmer now, the urgency is gone, but the need to know is still strong.
Finally, he comes rushing in.
‘Did you get my message?’
‘Yes, eventually. I’m sorry. I tried to call you back, I forgot you haven’t got your mobile. Stupid of me.’ He swings a little gift bag in front of me. ‘For you, until you get your own sorted.’ A pay-as-you-go mobile peaks out of the top of the bag. ‘I’ve done all the stuff, set it up, put the important numbers in it. It’s not top of the range, just useful.’
‘It is. Thank you.’ I put my arms out and he falls into them, hugging me hard.
‘I wish I’d thought of it sooner. It’ll need charging. I’ll plug it in.’
I watch him find a plug and set the phone to charge. I wait until he is finished and sitting in front of me. His earnest face waits for me to speak.
‘I think I’ve remembered something about the accident. It was you, wasn’t it, who pulled us out of the car.’
‘Yes. It was.’ How solemn his face looks. ‘You were first out of the car park. Your parents, my Mum, others were still looking at the flowers, walking up and down that covered pathway. Your mum said she wanted to take some home. Your dad wasn’t sure. Then I saw you and Robin, roaring away.’
‘So, you followed?’
‘Yes. Not immediately, probably six or seven minutes later. We were meeting in the pub, you know The Bellwether Inn, your parents had booked a room there.’
‘Yes, it’s the nearest to the crem.’ I do remember we had booked it. I went with Mum and Dad to arrange it, I helped them choose the food from a special funeral menu.
‘You’d already crashed by the time I caught up with you. You were opposite the pub, wrong side of the road, upside down.’ He stops.
‘Go on. Tell me.’
‘You were hanging upside down. Both of you. Just your seatbelts keeping you in. I got you out first. You were badly injured, but you kept asking about Robin. I went back and got him. Then the car burst into flames.’ He stops again.
‘You saved my life.’ I take his hands, I squeeze them. ‘Please tell me everything.’
‘You looked bad, far worse than him. You were gasping, your eyes fluttering, then they rolled into the back of your head. I was shaking you and calling your name and rubbing you and begging you not to die.’ He stops again, his eyes glistening. He takes a deep breath. ‘I’ll never forget that. Never.’
‘No.’
‘I did all those first aid things, tilted your head back so you could breathe better. I couldn’t let you die.’
‘You didn’t. Thank you.’ I’m crying now. ‘I remember bits of it.’ Flashes, disjointed pieces.
His face is ashen. His eyes search mine.
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help Robin more.’
‘You got him out.’ I half laugh. I don’t know why. ‘He’s all right now.’
‘Well, I suppose.’
‘He knows about you. He’s really mad about the baby. He’s not happy I’m coming home tomorrow. We’ve had a row.’
‘When?’ Stephen’s brow furrows.
‘This morning, after you left. He came, he didn’t stay long, just long enough to be nasty.’ I try to make light of it. ‘Told me to go to my mum’s, I’m not. Why should I?’
‘This happened today?’
‘Yeah, this morning. I said.’
‘No, Juliette. It can’t have. You’re getting confused. I was here this morning, early, remember?’
‘Yes. Then Emma chased you off and as soon as she’d gone, Robin came in. I expect he was lurking in the corridor, hiding out until she’d gone. He’s here every time I’m alone, he never leaves me alone.’
‘No.’ He shakes his head several times. ‘That’s not right.’
‘Yes, it is. You weren’t here.’
‘Juliette, neither was Robin.’
‘He was.’
‘He wasn’t. He can’t have been. He died in the crash.’
Fifteen
I am not going home tomorrow. Maybe not the next day either.
I had to be sedated.
I didn’t believe Stephen, he was lying. I couldn’t understand why he was being so cruel. He rang my parents. He fetched a nurse. He explained it to her, she looked shocked. She paged a doctor who looked flustered as he assured me it was true.
Between wailing and shaking I asked why no one had told me.
‘They did tell you. Several times. You even discussed his funeral.’ Stephen had tried to hug me, tried to make it better. I pushed him off.
‘No. No. One. Told. Me.’ I was hysterical by then.
‘That explains why you took it so well. You weren’t hearing it. Oh, Etty.’ Stephen tried to comfort me again, hugging me, stroking my head. I pushed him off. Again.
They put in an emergency call to the psychiatric unit. Four hours later Dr Bev something or other turned up – I couldn’t pronounce her surname. Four hours was a super-fast response, apparently. There was a dirty mark on her pale pink top. I focused on that as she told me again that Robin was dead, that I had been told several times previously. She said I’d blocked it out.
Now we are sitting here, just the two of us. Dr Bev and me. Stephen has gone. He looked sad, he looked sorry. And so he should.
I’ve decided that the mark on Dr Bev’s top is either chocolate or gravy. I survey her face, her whole body as she says things I don’t want to hear. She is thin, very tall, her hair a dirty-blond and it might have started the day, or the day before, or even the evening before, curly. Now it’s lank, with kinks. She continually wipes it to one side. She’s tired, she suppresses a yawn more than once. I feel sorry for her; I know how she feels.
Once, I had to deal with a bankrupt case. I’d been lumbered with the account by one of the partners – he didn’t want to deal with grim accounts any more. The bankruptee, a woman in her late forties, immaculately groomed and obviously used to the finer things in life, couldn’t believe that she had run out of funds. She swore blind that no one had told her, that as her accountants it was our fault, our responsibility. I showed her the proof – the seven letters we’d sent her drawing her attention to her situation, our copy of the letter sent to her from HMRC telling her she owed tens of thousands in unpaid tax. She sat blinking at me, her mouth opening to speak then closing before the words escaped. She looked like a fish.
It took several meetings and many tissues before she finally accepted the truth. I felt stressed every time I saw her name on my appointment list. I dreaded our interchanges; sometimes they developed into arguments. Eventually she saw the light.
So, I know how Dr Bev feels. But this time, I am right and she is wrong, so it’s not the same as my bankruptcy case.
We’ve been talking for over an hour now and she still can’t get me to believe her. That’s because she is wrong. She makes occasional notes that I cannot read.
‘If he’s dead,’ I say, leaning in towards her sallow face. ‘How
come he’s been visiting me every day. Even today.’
She scrutinises my face, weighing me up. I see her take a sly glance at her watch, her eyes darting away when she sees that I have noticed.
‘Have you seen him?’
I stop in my tracks.
Have. I. Seen. Him?
‘No.’ My voice is a little whisper.
She doesn’t say anything, just waits for my own answer to sink into my brain.
‘No, he usually sits on the side of the bed that I can’t turn to. Before that I couldn’t open my eyes. That’s why I haven’t seen him.’ Dismiss that if you can.
‘That’s very convenient. Don’t you think?’
‘What?’
‘He sits where you cannot see him.’
‘I’ve only been able to open my eyes a few days. It’s not that…’ My voice trails away, not that what? I don’t even know how to finish that sentence.
She doesn’t respond, just stares at me. I don’t know whether this is a psychiatrist’s tactic or because she is tired.
‘But I hear his voice quite clearly and he has plenty to say.’
‘Yes.’ She nods. I don’t like the way she nods, I fight the urge to slap her stupid face. ‘Has anyone else seen him?’
‘Yes, some of the nursing staff must have seen him. Sue, Jeff, Emma. He often chats to them if they come in when he’s here.’ I fold my arms. Get out of that one, Dr Bev.
‘No one else has seen him. He died as a result of his injuries at the scene of the accident.’
That’s not right.
‘Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe there’s been some big mistake and it was someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘O-k-a-y.’
I hate the way she drags that word out. She flicks through her notes, her scruffy, illegible handwriting annoys me.
‘Let’s just suppose that he is dead.’
‘He’s not.’
‘For the sake of what I’m saying, let’s just suppose that there was no mistake and your husband…’ She flicks through her notes for his name.
‘Robin,’ I snap.