by Imogen Clark
As the day wears on, though, and his pain increases and his energy levels diminish then so does his mood so that by teatime he’s often morose and monosyllabic.
I decide that breakfast will be the best moment for the conversation. He seems quite upbeat today. He even whistles to himself as he moves slowly around the kitchen. I’m so reluctant to spoil it but this has to be done.
‘Sim?’ I start.
‘Yep. Do we have any more Shreddies or did Lils break them all into tiny pieces and crush them into the carpet again?’ He turns to smile at me and a little part of my heart breaks. How could I ever have said those awful things to Beth? I cannot contemplate any kind of life that doesn’t have him in it.
‘We need to talk about the wedding.’
‘We do. It’s next month, isn’t it?’
‘In four weeks, yes.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I think we should postpone it.’
I don’t offer any explanation. My reasoning must surely be self-explanatory.
He doesn’t turn around but I can tell from how stiff his spine becomes that he doesn’t like the idea.
‘Oh?’ he says.
There is a pause that I feel obliged to fill.
‘It’s just that I want it to be a perfect day and . . .’
‘So you’re saying it can’t be perfect because I’m broken. Are you worried that my sticks will spoil the photos?’
There’s such a nastiness to his tone. It’s not him speaking, I know. It’s the months of pain and rehab and the frustration and fear all rolled into one. But it’s still me on the receiving end.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say as lightly as I can and hoping that I don’t sound patronising. ‘It’s not that. It’s just that it’ll be a long day and it might be hard for you . . .’
‘Oh, yes. Poor old Simeon. He can’t actually manage to stay on his feet for more than an hour without falling asleep. I can see how that might be a tad inconvenient at a wedding. His own wedding, in fact.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ I say. I try to put my hand on his chest but he shrugs me off.
‘I can’t believe you, Ca,’ he continues. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this. In fact, it’s the only thing that’s been getting me out of bed in the morning and now you want to cancel it.’
I don’t believe that he has been looking forward to it. He hasn’t mentioned it once and he must have known that it was never going to be as we planned.
‘Not cancel,’ I say. ‘Postpone, that’s all. Just until the autumn when things are a little bit easier.’
He’s quiet for a moment and I think he’s running through the pros and cons in his head but then he says, ‘You never wanted to get married in the first place. You must be relieved. I conveniently nearly die and that gives you a great way to wriggle out of what you didn’t want to get into anyway.’
‘That’s not true!’ I say indignantly.
‘Isn’t it?’ he asks, his expression dark as thunder clouds.
I open my mouth to object but what would be the point. I need to wait for him to calm down, for the idea to process a little so that we can discuss it properly. But, of course, he’s partly right. When he proposed on Christmas Day, I didn’t jump at it like he might have expected. I had my doubts and of course he saw that, but I’d been happy with our life the way it was. If I’m totally honest, I only really agreed to go ahead because it was what he wanted.
But since then I’ve had chance to think about it and now I can truthfully say that I do want to marry him. He’s won me round with his quirky sense of humour and his ridiculous sticky-up hair and his loyal, fierce love for me and Lily. Or at least he had until the accident. And then we’ve gone full circle, back to the dreadful doubts that I talked to Beth about.
‘You probably want to move out too,’ he says and for a moment I panic that he can see straight into my head and read my every thought.
‘Of course I don’t,’ I say, probably too defensively. ‘You’re over-reacting. I just think that it would be better if we re-fixed for later in the year. Lily might be walking by then too. She could be our flower girl.’
This is actually one of my genuine regrets of a summer wedding. I would love to see our little princess dancing up the aisle with us, throwing flower petals all over everyone.
Poor Simeon can no longer storm off anywhere but I can tell from his body language that every part of him is doing precisely that, except his legs.
‘You do what you like, Cara. I couldn’t care less.’
‘But, Sim . . .’ I say but he just puts his hand up between us, his palm to my face. It feels like the highest wall in the world.
19
Simeon doesn’t get out of bed the next day. When Lily and I arrive downstairs, her tousle-haired and sweet-smelling and me sleep-deprived, instead of encountering him cheerily trying to negotiate the kettle and his walking sticks, there is a Simeon-shaped lump under the duvet. To begin with I think he must be still asleep and tiptoe round the bed but I can tell from his breathing that he’s awake.
‘Morning,’ I say in my best sing-song voice.
Nothing.
‘Morning, Daddy,’ I say in my best baby-girl voice.
Still nothing.
Then I start to worry. I sit Lily in the middle of the bed way from the edge and touch Simeon gently on his shoulder.
‘Sim? Are you okay? Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m fine,’ comes his muffled voice.
I shrug. I can’t make him come out if he doesn’t want to.
‘I’m making a cuppa. Do you want one?’
‘No.’
Okay, I think, if he’s going to sulk then that’s up to him. I put Lily in her high chair and make up her bottle whilst the kettle boils. I could ask him if he wants a drink again but why should I? He’s more than capable of making his own, albeit slowly.
He is still under the covers when we pass by the sitting room on our way to go and get dressed. I just leave him to it.
I spend the morning in my workshop on the top floor of the house with Lily playing happily in her playpen alongside me but when I go downstairs to make some lunch he still isn’t up. Now I’m starting to worry. I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hand gently across what I imagine to be his head.
‘Come on, Sim,’ I say. ‘What’s this all about?’
Actually, I have a pretty good idea so rather than waiting for him to explain his doldrums I leap straight in.
‘I’m sorry about the wedding but I really think it’s for the best. And we can rearrange it as soon as you’re feeling more yourself.’
Carefully I start to peel back the duvet. I half expect him to snatch it back like a child but instead he lets me move it away from his head and shoulders. He is just staring at nothing. He looks as if his world has come to an end.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask him gently. ‘This isn’t like you.’
Nothing.
I’m getting worried now.
‘Please talk to me, Simeon. Is there something wrong? Do I need to call an ambulance?’
‘No,’ he says. His voice is oddly flat but I can tell that he’s not ill.
‘What is it then?’ I ask again. I’m on the verge of becoming irritated with him now. I have enough to deal with without negotiating his moods on top.
‘I don’t know why you stay,’ he says bluntly. He still won’t look at me. ‘You’re a beautiful, talented young woman with your whole life ahead of you. Why would you want to be saddled with someone like me? I can’t walk. I can’t remember stuff from one day to the next. I can’t read or follow a TV show. I can’t even get washed without help. I’m nothing but a burden. I think we should split up. I’m going to ring Mum and Dad today and see if I can go and live with them.’
At once I can tell that this isn’t just the run-of-the-mill self-pity that we’ve had on and off over the months since the accident. Something in him has shifted. He makes no effort to sit up or even look at me as he speaks
and his voice sounds as if he might dissolve into tears at any moment. I change tack. I ditch my gentle tone and adopt something far more forthright to support my words.
‘Simeon Blake. That is the biggest load of bollocks I’ve ever heard.’
‘Is it?’ he asks. He sounds totally defeated.
‘Is this about the wedding?’ I ask.
He doesn’t reply.
‘Just because I think we should postpone the wedding doesn’t mean that I don’t want to marry you,’ I say. ‘I just think we should concentrate on getting you better first.’
‘But what if I don’t get better?’ he asks. ‘What if this is as good as it’s going to get?’
‘The doctors say . . .’
‘The doctors know jack shit.’ The sudden anger in his voice is so fierce that it makes me flinch. ‘It’s been months now and there’s no real improvement. I’m stuck here, day in day out. I can’t work. I can’t even climb my own bloody stairs. It’s completely crap and I’m sick of it. Well, I can’t do it anymore. I give up. This is how my life is now and I want to do it on my own. It’s too painful having you and Lily around, reminding me what I’ve lost.’
My eyes glaze over with tears but I blink them back. I don’t want to make this about my pain.
‘How long have you been feeling like this?’ I ask.
He shrugs and looks down at the duvet so he doesn’t have to meet my eye.
‘That’s not the real you talking,’ I continue. ‘It’s the drugs, PTSD, your emotional state. Of course it’s going to alter how you look at everything. But it will pass. You’ll find your joie de vivre again. I know you will. We just have to give it time.’
I don’t know what to say to him but I’m pretty certain that this is the wrong thing. He just shakes his head.
‘What’s the point?’ he asks. ‘What’s the point of any of it?’
Then he turns his head to the wall and the conversation is over.
20
I am out of my depth here. I can see Simeon sinking but I can’t seem to pull him back up. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. I’m desperate to do something, anything, that will change what is inevitably going to happen but all I can do is sit and wait for the impact. And I can’t bear it. It’s occurred to me that this has happened since I had that over-honest conversation with Beth and my guilt that this is all somehow my fault creeps into every thought I have. It feels like I am the catalyst of this latest plunge into still darker waters. I should have kept my thoughts tightly sealed away where they belong and then all of this could have been prevented.
I decide to talk to the closest thing that I have to a mother, Angie, Mrs P. We have the conversation in our bedroom where there is no danger of being overheard because Simeon can’t climb the stairs and so is effectively trapped downstairs. This in itself feels like a terrible betrayal.
‘It’s like he’s given up, Angie,’ I whisper. ‘He’s so deep in the dark that he can’t see the light anymore. I don’t know what to do to help him and I’m not sure he’d let me even if I did.’
Angie smiles at me, her expression a mixture of sympathy and knowing. Seeing it makes me feel slightly less desperate.
‘It’s not his fault and it’s not yours either,’ she reassures me. ‘This is just part of the process. What we need to do is catch it before he sinks any lower.’
‘But how?’ I ask. ‘I’ve tried everything I can think of and he says he won’t even consider anti-depressants because then he’ll just have to wean himself off those on top of everything else. I’ve tried to tell him that there’s no shame in them but he’s being so stubborn. Nothing I say seems to get through to him.’
She looks thoughtful for a moment.
‘Maybe that’s part of the problem,’ she says.
‘How do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Perhaps it’s all too intense, just the two of you here day after day. And he’s not going to share his darkest thoughts with you, is he? He’ll be trying to shield you from all that. But he has to do something with it all and so he’s internalising it.’
I think about this. She might be right. Apart from his parents, who visit when they can, he has refused to let anyone else come to see him. Some internal pride won’t let him show himself to the world as he is now, so his friends and colleagues have been pushed away. That leaves just me dealing with it all.
And now he seems to have reached a crisis.
‘So, what do you suggest?’ I ask her.
‘Is there anyone else who he might be prepared to open up to?’
I go through our meagre list of friends and draw a blank.
‘What about his friend from university,’ she suggests. ‘Mark, was it? The one who is going to be his best man.’
At the sound of Mark’s name my body jolts. I actually jerk forward, an involuntary physical response to the mention of him. I can almost feel my blood run hot in my veins. Over my dead body is that man ever setting foot in my house again. If it hadn’t been for him and his ridiculous pseudo-macho ideas none of this would ever had happened. It is entirely his fault that the man I love is lying in a bed in our sitting room unable to carry out the simplest of tasks and that I am no longer a few weeks away from the most important day of my life (although even I had to admit that this last part was a little disingenuous given my initial response to Simeon’s proposal).
But this isn’t about me and my anger. This is about what Simeon needs. What Angie says makes perfect sense. He must need someone to talk to and that can’t be me because of the guilt that I know he’s harbouring, albeit misplaced, over the effect that his injuries are having on my life. Whatever my feelings towards Mark, I have to put them to one side for the greater good.
Angie must see my dilemma. Her eyes narrow a little as she asks me, ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘You mean other than the fact that this whole tragic mess is his fault?’ I say.
She sighs and shakes her head at me sadly.
‘Oh, Cara,’ she says. ‘It looks to me as if Simeon isn’t the only one with irrational issues that they’re failing to deal with. This was an accident. A horrible accident. It’s nobody’s fault.’
I harrumph at her but I know that she’s right about getting Mark here to talk to Sim.
‘He can’t stay here, though,’ I say, defending the last part of my anger like the Black Knight in Monty Python’s Holy Grail. ‘I’ll ask Beth.’
‘Good girl,’ replies Angie simply.
‘Of course I’ll put him up,’ says Beth when I ask her. ‘He’s great company.’ Then, as she must have seen my expression change, she adds, ‘You really have to get over this, Ca. It wasn’t Mark’s fault.’
‘How do you know?’ I snap at her. ‘Were you there? There is no way that Sim would have been drunk on a bike if it hadn’t been for that man egging him on.’
She looks as if she’s about to say something but then changes her mind and I, for once, have the sense to drop it before the pair of us fall out.
‘But I can see that it would be good for Sim to have someone to talk to about how he’s feeling. Have you got Mark’s number from before? Can you arrange it? If I ask Sim, he’ll only say that he doesn’t want him to come and see him as he is. It’s better if we just sort it out without telling him. That way, Sim will have to talk to him.’
Beth says she has the number and so it’s arranged that Mark will come and stay with her in a few weeks’ time as he has a free weekend. It only occurs to me later that he must have kept his diary clear that weekend because he would have been Simeon’s best man.
21
It doesn’t matter what I do. I can’t seem to pull Simeon round from the depths of his depression. I try everything I can think of – being extra nice to him, cooking his favourite foods, renting his favourite films so that we can snuggle up in his bed and watch them together. None of it works. I know that this is no way to deal with clinical depression but I think in my heart I’m hoping that we haven’t reached
that point yet and that if I’m clever I can head it off at the pass before we do.
But it’s starting to feel as if I can’t.
We do talk but it feels like he is never entirely with me and if I mention our future plans he closes down entirely. I am out of my depth and I know it.
But on the positive side, his physical condition is improving. His balance is returning and his short-term memory is definitely much better. Then we have some really good news. The physios finally give him the green light for the stairs and so we can get rid of the bed in the sitting room.
The first time I see the room again without the bed dominating the space it looks massive, like a room cleared for a party.
‘Who knew this room was so big?’ I laugh, delighted to have at least some normality restored.
‘Yeah,’ says Simeon. ‘It’s nice to have some space back,’ but he says this like he’s commenting on whether there’s milk in the fridge.
We’ve been focusing on this day as being a real turning point in his recovery since he first came home from hospital but now that it’s finally here, he seems to be shooting for something else. It’s like the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow which, when you finally get there, is always in the next field along.
I twirl in the middle of the space with my arms out and Lily, who is walking now, tries to copy me but topples over sitting down hard on her nappy. We both laugh with delight at this new game and then she starts again, twirling and toppling, over and over. Simeon smiles at her fondly but there’s a sadness at the corners of his mouth and in his eyes which never seems to leave him these days. I wonder if I’ll ever see him smile properly again.
As per the plan, I don’t tell him that Mark is coming. I worry that if I tell him he will forbid the visit. However, I do ask Beth to warn Mark about how Simeon is.
‘Tell him that he mustn’t look shocked when he sees him,’ I urge. ‘If Sim sees any hint of pity in his eyes then it will be game over before we’ve even started.’
Beth nods. She understands.