by C J Morrow
‘Robin likes it.’
‘Always struck me as odd. He could drive. You both had cars. Yet he wanted you to ferry him about.’
‘It was fine. I didn’t mind. I have a bigger car.’ I stop, correct myself. ‘Had. I had a bigger car.’
‘We’ll sort that.’
‘Doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now.’
‘You matter. Our baby matters.’
He probably says more but I doze off and when I stir because I’m uncomfortable, Stephen coaxes me back to my hospital room and into bed.
My appointment with the psychiatrist is at 3.15pm. The psychiatry department is at the far end of the hospital, too far to walk. I’m sitting in a wheelchair in the waiting room. The porter who brought me has parked me next to the extra wide chairs. No one sits in them, even the fat man who is perspiring despite the chilly aircon. I look at the other patients wondering if they are as mad as me, then mentally rebuke myself for judging others. Everyone looks miserable; two men, quite young, flick through their phones.
3.15 comes and goes. The waiting room seems to get fuller but no one leaves for their appointment. On the wall, a sign says something about various clinics running at the same time and people may not appear to be seen in turn. A nice get out.
At 4.20 my name is called. I start to wheel myself behind the nurse who called me, but it’s a struggle, she glances back, sees me and comes back to push me. I feel like a giant baby.
It’s Dr Bev again. She’s washed her hair. As per hospital protocol, we check who we are and why we’re here. Dr Bev offers me a smile and asks how I am. I say I’m fine. She’s wearing a name badge today, she might have been wearing it yesterday, but I never noticed. I scan her name, breaking it down into syllables, San-ustra-ma-lam. I practise it in my head while she speaks. Only as she finishes do I realise I haven’t heard a word she’s saying.
‘Um.’
‘O-k-a-y.’ There it is again, that long okay giving her time to think. She tries again. ‘How do you feel about your husband’s death?’
This I can answer. ‘Sad. Sorry. Guilty.’ I hadn’t meant to say guilty, it just fell out, but she picks up on it.
‘Guilty?’
‘Yeah. He was driving. It should have been me.’
We have a lengthy discussion then about guilt, blame, what might have been, what could have happened. She doesn’t ask me if I still think he’s alive, she doesn’t ask me if I believe he is haunting me and I don’t mention it either. She tells me grief and bereavement play tricks on the mind, she goes on to give examples. There’s a box of tissues on the table and I use several.
After thirty-seven minutes, we finish. I can be exact about the time because there is a large clock on the wall which we both glance at periodically. Its loud tick fills the room during gaps in our conversation, its echo eerie.
I don’t know if I feel any better afterwards, I can’t really tell. I have to wait for someone to take me back to my room. After thirty minutes, I realise this could be a long wait; fortunately, I have the phone Stephen gave me in my pocket. I ring him first. He’s already in the hospital, waiting for me in my room; he comes straight down to collect me.
‘How did it go?’ he asks as he wheels me along the endless hospital corridors.
‘Okay. I think. She never asked me if I believed in ghosts.’ I hear my nervous laugh rebound off the walls.
Stephen echoes my laugh – hollow.
‘I have another appointment tomorrow.’
‘Does that mean you can’t go home yet?’
‘Yes. But she did say that if I’m still making progress, whatever that means, then I can go home and only see her as an outpatient. If it’s necessary.’
‘That’s good.’ Stephen tries to sound encouraging; we’re all trying.
When we reach my room, and despite it being covered, my evening meal is congealing on the overbed table. We both take a long look at it.
‘There’s a café downstairs.’
‘And a McDonald’s,’ I add, grinning.
‘I’m sure you shouldn’t have that, but what the hell.’ He wheels me straight towards the lift.
I feel small and insignificant as I sit among people dressed in normal clothes instead of hospital uniforms. I suppose some are patients, but most are visitors. Stephen parks me at a table while he queues up for our food.
‘I know I shouldn’t say this,’ I say, taking my second bite of Filet-o-fish, ‘but this is so good, even these salty fries are yummy.’ I think of Robin and how he would disapprove.
‘Everything in moderation,’ Stephen says, tucking into a double cheeseburger.
‘That doesn’t look moderate.’
‘Won’t be making a habit of it.’
‘No.’
‘I supersized our meals.’ He grins at me and there’s the cheeky, clever kid I used to know, all grown up. I wonder if he still sees the kid in me.
‘What?’ I pretend horror at the same time as helping myself to another handful of fries.
Back up in my room and feeling full to the point of bursting, I’m grateful to see that the congealed meal has gone.
Stephen helps me out of the wheelchair and into my chair; sitting for so long has made my legs wobbly.
‘I’ll need a walk before bed,’ I say, making no attempt to get up.
Stephen sits down opposite me, he picks up the magazine Sally brought and we flick through it together. We’re easy company, no need for heavy conversation, silence is simple and comfortable.
‘I still can’t believe he’s gone.’ I kill the mood.
‘No. It’s a shock.’
‘I need to see him.’
Stephen blinks at me, I can see thoughts flicking through his mind.
‘I’ll take you,’ he says, eventually.
‘Thank you. I need to go soon. As soon as possible. The psychiatrist says it will help me.’
Stephen nods, he gives me a thin smile, but his eyes are solemn.
‘Okay. As soon as you’re out of here we’ll arrange it. And the funeral.’
Oh God, I hadn’t thought about the funeral. How will I be able to cope with that. Who will come?
‘Mum won’t come,’ I voice my thought out loud.
‘She will. She’ll come for you if not for him.’
‘Mmm. Maybe. I need to track down his mum, she’s in Brazil.’
‘I’ll help with that.’
‘Thank you.’
When Mum and Dad arrive Stephen leaves. He kisses me on the cheek, reminds me I can ring him at any time and goes.
Mum looks pale, Dad looks tired.
‘How did it go?’ Mum asks. She doesn’t need to even explain what she means.
‘Okay. No, probably better than okay, but I have to go back tomorrow.’
‘Oh. So you’re not going home yet?’
‘No. Should be soon though.’
We sit in silence but it’s not the comfortable silence I enjoyed with Stephen. Mum, evidently thinking hard, starts to speak.
‘When you do get out of here, do you still want to go to your house?’
I hadn’t thought about it; I’d been pleasantly distracted by Stephen.
‘I don’t know, Mum. What do you think I should do?’ From the look on her face I know she’s given it a lot of thought.
‘Come and stay with us. We’d like that, wouldn’t we Brian?’
‘Yes.’ Dad doesn’t sound as enthusiastic as Mum but he’ll be at work most of the time.
‘I will need to go to mine to collect things, but we’ll see how it goes.’
‘You’ll want to see Robin too, I suppose.’ Mum sounds resigned.
‘Yes. The psychiatrist thinks it will help.’
‘Right.’ Dad looks miserable, he assumes the burden will fall on him.
‘It’s okay, Stephen will take me.’
‘Probably for the best.’ Dad brightens after hearing that.
After another ten minutes, during which we all yawn, Mum and Dad l
eave. I think I’m as relieved as they are. This is horrible for me but it’s just as awful for them. Worse, with Mads gone.
Once I’m in bed I find, despite feeling exhausted, I don’t fall asleep immediately. My mind is whirling, there’s so much to do; Robin’s funeral will be a trial, as will sorting out all his belongings. One thing I’m feeling both relieved and guilty about is how accepting I am of Robin’s death, now I’m over the shock. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone but a tiny part of me is almost thankful; no messy divorce, no explanations, no recriminations. What a bad person I must be.
Even though my memory is hazy and my recall of incidents and reasons cloudy, I know, deep down inside, that something happened between us in that car. We were arguing. I just don’t remember why.
I’ve been thinking about Stephen’s assertion that Robin groomed me. I dismissed it as nonsense when he said it, but the seed has been sown and it’s making me look at our relationship. I feel disloyal for even thinking like this, but now I start to look there are so many times in the past when Robin needed to be in control. Of me.
The black coat at my little sister’s funeral was one such occasion. And, just why did he always want me to drive? Stephen has churned up questions in my mind that, maybe, were always there.
Even at the start of our relationship he called the tune; it was Robin who coaxed – that is the word – me to apply for a job at Belton’s instead of applying to university. Even though I’d always wanted to go to university, he persuaded me it was a waste of time – and I never questioned it. He’d told me, several times, that it’s down to him that I got such a good, early start there, and had done so well. My hard work, talent and ability always seemed irrelevant to him.
The more I think about it, the more I realise that Robin has always been in charge. He opened the post, managed our bank accounts – despite me being the chartered accountant. He decided when we should move and where we should live, just as he decided where we went on holiday. And I just accepted it.
Have I been a fool all these years?
I’m dismissed by Dr Bev at our appointment the next day; she says I can go home, though I need to come back as an outpatient next week. When I get back to the waiting room, this time a porter is on hand to wheel me back. The ward sister is waiting for me in my room.
‘You can go home,’ she says, her bright smile spreading across her face.
‘Yes, but how did you know?’ It’s barely ten minutes since I was told.
‘The NHS is efficient sometimes.’ Her laugh is genuine. ‘You can go now, if you like. I’m sure you’d like to get home and sleep in your own bed tonight.’
I don’t like to tell her that sleeping in my own bed, on my own, is the last thing I want to do.
‘Who shall I ring to help you?’ It seems, whether I like it or not, I am going home today.
‘It’s okay. I have a phone.’
‘Great. I’ll let you get on with it, while I do your discharge paperwork.’
After she’s gone I ring Mum but she doesn’t answer and I leave a message. Then I remember Stephen telling me to ring at any time.
It doesn’t take him long to pack my few belongings and stuff them into the leather holdall he’s brought with him. Then he goes off to find the ward sister but comes back without her.
‘She’s doing your stuff but it might be a while.’ He rolls his eyes.
‘Typical.’ I slump back down into my chair. ‘She was virtually pushing me out of the door and now she’s not ready.’
When Mum rings me back I tell her what’s going on. She sounds relieved that she doesn’t have to come for me. I don’t like to think of the pressure I’m putting Mum and Dad under. The sooner I can get back to my own home the better – even though I am dreading it.
We wait for another hour during which Stephen checks at the nurses’ station several times, until one of the nurses reminds him that sick patients take priority over discharged ones.
‘That was me told,’ he says, recalling the words. ‘It felt like a bit of slap in the face.’ He contorts his face in pain. I laugh. He always makes me laugh.
Eventually I’m discharged with my copy of a letter for my GP, another outpatient appointment – this time to see the doctor I’ve been under since my accident – and strict instructions to take painkillers if I need them but only paracetamol as I’m pregnant.
‘Oh.’ We’re outside and a chilly wind catches me by surprise. Stephen helps me out of the hospital wheelchair we’ve borrowed and ushers me to his nearby car; he’s parked in the mother and baby spaces.
‘That’s naughty,’ I admonish.
‘Mother.’ He points at my face. ‘Baby.’ He points at my middle.
Mother and baby; that’s something else I must get used to. It still seems unreal. Surreal.
Mum’s waiting for me when we pull up outside her house. She’s standing on the doorstep, her arms wrapped around her body, keeping herself warm. She must have been watching out of the window and seen us come down the road.
Stephen grabs the bag he’s lent me and helps me to Mum and Dad’s front door.
‘I’ll leave you to get settled.’ He kisses me lightly on the forehead. Stephen has a smell about him, it’s not aftershave or anything like that, it’s him and I realise that I love it. He’s so very different from Robin.
Mum takes my bag and leaves it on the bottom of the stairs as we go through to the kitchen. She’s made a pot of tea and there’s a cake on the table.
‘That looks lovely.’ It’s chocolate sponge with buttercream filling and frosting. ‘My favourite.’
‘I know. That’s why I baked it. We’ve not had many nice occasions for cake recently.’ Mum smiles but her face looks weary. She steps forward and gives me a hug. ‘It’s good to have you home.’ She hangs onto me for a long time and I inhale the familiar scent that is my mum.
‘Is Dad home from work yet?’
‘Yes. Been and gone out again. He’ll be home again soon.’
‘Have you already had tea?’ Much as I relish the prospect of the cake, I really want something savoury.
‘Yes. Haven’t you?’
When Mum realises I’ve missed my evening meal in the confusion of being discharged she produces the leftover lasagne that she and Dad had. Even reheated it’s delicious.
‘I made it with you in mind,’ Mum tells me when I say how much I love her lasagne. When you didn’t come home sooner I assumed you’d eaten.’
‘Never mind, I’m enjoying it now.’ I even have a second helping, then follow it up with a large slice of cake. I lean back in my chair and pat my stomach. It’s sticking out. ‘Food baby.’ I laugh, more to myself than Mum.
‘I suppose we should take your stuff upstairs.’ Mum’s voice sounds weary again.
‘Yeah.’ I stand, clutching onto my stick and the dining chair for support. I don’t think I want to go upstairs. I don’t think I can face Mads’s room. After I left and Mads moved into my old room, Mum turned Mads’s old room into her sewing room. She has her sewing machine, cutting table and mannequin in there; there’s no room for a bed.
Upstairs, my bag in her hand, Mum leads the way. I follow clomping along with my walking stick.
Mum has tidied a lot of Mads’s stuff away, but there’s still a lot of her personality in the room. The bedding she chose, the blinds instead of curtains, her music system, her books, they’re all still here.
I lean on my stick and stand in the doorway; I can hear my heart beating. Mum stands in front of me, she’s still carrying my bag but her shoulders are hunched high, almost to her ears. Neither of us speaks as we stare into Mads’s room, her life.
I can’t sleep in this room. It’s not mine. It’s wrong. It’s too soon. This is the bed where Mads overdosed. This is where Mum and Dad found her.
I can’t sleep here.
‘I’ve changed the bed,’ Mum’s voice croaks. She gulps and sniffs. She’s crying silently.
So am I.
As we co
ntinue our soundless sobs I know I should say something; I have to let her off.
‘I can’t…’ I start.
‘No,’ she finishes as I turn around and start back towards the stairs. I can see Mum once I’m on the stairs, she hasn’t moved, she’s still holding my bag, but her shoulders are shaking and she’s starting to howl.
I drag myself back, exhaustion is getting the better of me now, and I wrap my arms around my mum. Together we slide onto Mads’s bed and wait for our grief to subside; not that it will ever go away. We’re both lost in our own thoughts and memories of Mads, we’re together, yet alone.
The rapping on the front door brings us back to the present. I jump up, or rather, I attempt to jump up. Mum beats me to it. She pulls a tissue from her pocket and offers it to me. I take it, knowing that she’ll have another tucked somewhere else. She does, there’s one up her sleeve, she whips it out like a conjuror performing a trick.
We blow our noses and sniff in unison as the knocking on the door starts again.
Mum gets to the door first. She’s greeted by Stephen and Sally’s expectant, yet hesitant faces. Once inside, they read the situation easily; red eyes are hard to hide.
Sally takes Mum into the kitchen; the kettle is filled and soon boiling. Stephen puts an arm around my shoulders and I lean into him.
‘Tough time?’
‘Yeah.’ I sigh.
‘Can’t stay here?’
‘Not in Mads’s room. Can’t go to my house either.’
‘No.’
‘No.’ I echo.
‘Mum’s changed the bed in my room. Hoovered and dusted it too.’
‘Mmm.’ I don’t know what to say.
‘You sleep at ours at night, then come round here during the day. Takes the pressure off you all. You, your mum and dad.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll sleep in our spare room. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Okay.’ Despite us having an affair, despite my carrying his baby; it seems wrong for us to sleep together. Yet. Now. Here. It makes me wonder where our baby was conceived; I hope it wasn’t in the back of a car.
We go into the lounge and we sit on the sofa and I put the TV on because it’s easier than talking or thinking. We watch a quiz I’ve never seen, before because Robin hated quiz shows. Stephen explains the game to me and we talk about it as though it really matters, as though there’s nothing more important for us to discuss. Oh, the sanctuary of the banal.