As You Were

by Elaine Feeney

  Later that Friday night, without any Martinis, Alex sat beside me and stared at me for the evening, glassy-eyed, and so I finally did it. I told Father to fuck off. Direct language was best. Or I’d swap his voice for Alex’s reassuring timbre, until he took the hint. I wasn’t quite so convinced my own amateur version of cognitive therapy was going to be effective, but I could try. It was over. I couldn’t take it any more. Then finally, I’d think on the boys, their smiles, and their missing teeth. This was the end of it.

  Sleep didn’t come, and I closed my eyes twice during the night, only to feel my throat close in and my head spin. Alex had fallen asleep by midnight on the returned chair, with his head on my bed. Shock made him sleep. Late that night, or by early morning, a phlebotomist with short wiry grey hair whisked in, and pretended not to want to disturb anything, yet she disturbed everything, even turning on the big lights over everyone’s bed.

  ‘You awake, love?’ she whispered with a long drawn-out sigh.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I am,’ I said, hoarsely, accidentally imitating her, but it put us both at ease. Alex started on the bed, yawned and then darted his hand to my wedding ring, without opening his eyes. His hand fiddled with it and it fell off without coaxing.

  I offered her the hinge of my elbow.

  ‘No, no, I’m afraid I’ll have to go in on the back of your hand again, love,’ she said, kindly, poking my hand with her gloved fingers. Its new black bruising covering the older bruises as they wilted on my skin. I no longer recognised my own hands. My wrists were childlike.

  ‘Where’re you living?’ she said, chattily. And without waiting for a reply, ‘My, but God, aren’t you both so very young looking?’ Though Alex was heaped on the bed looking like shit.

  They must all know. I didn’t answer her.

  Go back to sleep, love. Back to sleep, my love. Sorry for the intrusion. Try to sleep now, my love. And you both so young looking. My God.

  Sleep now.

  Chapter 15

  On Saturday morning, Michal Piwaski rolled up his trolley heaped with plates of soggy toast and mugs of tea like a New York hotdog vendor. He seemed unnerved or excited that Alex had stayed the night, chatting flamboyantly about how decent and caring my husband was to sleep beside me. He asked if he had fallen asleep, or had he planned it? And if yes, then we should have asked for a roll-out bed, although, of course, there was no guarantee we’d get one given the crisis the place was in, and don’t get him started about the crisis the whole country was in, and on and on he went. He was persistent, Michal Piwaski. He went into abundant details before he obliged us and gave us both milky tea and soggy toast from his plate.

  ‘How’s your wife?’ Alex asked, unsure about anything given our circumstances and the scan and decisions, and with the new surroundings that were now inflicted on him, for ever. Michal had to think for a moment.

  ‘She’s pregnant, isn’t she?’ Alex asked, flustered.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, she is,’ I said, trying to save him.

  ‘Oh, my wife, yes, Karolina, well, she is doing good, now, good,’ Michal obliged.

  I started to shake.

  ‘You OK?’ Alex said, his head still fallen over on the bed.

  ‘I was dreaming all night.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘I was locked in the boot of a car.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He sat up, and yawned.

  ‘Yeah, I dream this all the time . . .’

  ‘Nightmarish?’

  ‘Yeah, especially the teeth one.’

  Alex ran his finger along his top row.

  ‘But usually locked somewhere, tight. I’m so used of it by now . . .’ I trailed off.

  ‘Really? Shit. You never said.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  Alex thought a moment, seemed to take particular care with the next sentence, and he lifted his head from the bed again. ‘What model’s the car?’

  WTF.

  ‘Fuck knows . . . I’m locked in the boot.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Just wondering . . . some boots open from the inside.’

  I laughed. ‘It’s a dream, Alex. It’s just, when I was a kid and we’d play hide-and-seek.’

  ‘Love it.’

  ‘Game or dream?’

  ‘Game, told you . . . don’t dream . . .’

  ‘Weird. Yeah. I’d hide out in the press in the small hallway, you know the one?’

  Call out. Ready or not. Keep your spot.

  ‘Yeah, I know it, with the green slatted doors?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that one, I’d crouch in there.’

  I was shaking hard now.

  ‘Love, you’re shaking, here, take this, don’t talk about it . . . it’s only a dream.’ And he placed his jumper over me, warm.

  ‘I want to talk . . . I mean, I need to. I want to try . . . I’d crouch down. Tiny.’

  They’re closer. My brothers. Near me now. Closer again. Little eyes peer in through the slats in the press.

  Cold. Hot. Hot. Hot.

  ‘Hearing myself breathe was terrifying. I hated it, the game. Absolutely hated it. I’d try to breathe really deeply but that wouldn’t work. I always had a snotty nose like Nathan.’

  We laughed again.

  ‘I’m sure I could be heard outside.’

  Ready or not. Keep your spot. Or you’ll be caught.

  ‘I’d see my brothers’ eyelashes fluttering and my whole body would pound. First my heart in my ribcage, thumping, but then my head and then my whole body. Even my teeth would chatter.’ I stopped, took a sip of water, crushing the plastic cup, the sides were sharp and they stuck into my palm.

  Here she is.

  Alex’s eyes were fixed on me uncomfortably. It was rare we spoke like this.

  ‘And eventually . . . well . . .’ I hesitated. ‘I’d stay there so long that I’d . . . I’d eventually . . . wet myself.’

  ‘Fuck.’ He stood up from his chair, backed off a little, and then sat near me on the bed. ‘Shit, Sinéad, you never said, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not a big deal. It’s fine.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Did it upset you?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘I can imagine. Actually, no, sorry, I can’t . . . I can’t imagine.’

  Ready or not keep your spot or you’ll be caught.

  ‘You ever win?’

  ‘Always.’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘I’d fling open the doors and punch my brothers in the face and tell them they were cheaters and that they weren’t allowed to stand that long looking in at me without saying they were “hot” and so I’d win by default,’ I said, closing my eyes.

  ‘So you didn’t win. Sinéad, that’s not winning,’ he said. ‘They just let you away with this, that’s really not winning . . . They ever fight you on it?’

  ‘What does it matter, Alex? We were kids. Technically I didn’t win. You’re correct, Alex,’ I said, slowly, carefully. ‘But they were decent, they didn’t . . . They could see my wet pants, they backed down, they didn’t tell on me either.’

  But we played it over and over. And it was always the same. I didn’t dare tell Alex he was the only person who didn’t always let me win, that this was a good thing. I didn’t tell him that I wouldn’t be punching out at anyone any more, but as with Father and shutting him the fuck up, I wasn’t sure this was such a simple thing to stop.

  ‘You feel cornered now?’ Alex asked, as he held my gaze, which was woefully awkward, but as embarrassed as that made me, I didn’t close my eyes or laugh or snort or curse like I usually would, like I always did when someone tried to see inside me. It was a simple question. To which there was only one answer. But I needed to appease him. He worked in simple. Explain. Explanations. Total simplicity.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. I so do. I’m so . . . fucked.’ I didn’t want to hurt him. Or remind him of what a failure I was, what a failure my body was. What a failure I am. I didn’t want him to start telling me about all my brilliant accomplishments that
I knew meant nothing. I grabbed his shirt, pulling hard at the small buttons. ‘Look, you have to get me out of here, you just have to . . .’ I said, suddenly frantic. ‘I can’t take another weekend in here.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I have to, I have to get out. I miss it,’ I said, finally admitting some truths.

  I missed walking through the Galway Market picking up crêpes filled with banana and chocolate, stepping upstairs into Sheridan’s cheese shop, looking over the blue hues of the market vendors’ tarpaulins below, sipping tasters, reds and browns and yellows and whites, before deciding we’d start with Prosecco, move along from there, a Gneiss Domaine de L’Ecu (no more clunky Chardonnay), or a crisp Gavi di Gavi, sharing a cheese board, Ardrahan and some hard-smoked English cheddar, with spongy orange apricot chutney, pick up wild salmon from Stefane at Gannet on the market, or instead, go to Aniar for eels and turnip, sea buckthorn, or Kai for hearty supper, monkfish with sea spaghetti and cockles in broth for me, him usually having something earthy, ox tongue and pumpkin jam, many whiskey sours. Finish in the Bierhaus or the Black Gate. Drunk. Row. Make up.

  And I missed my sons. I missed them. So much of

  them.

  ‘I will, look, I’ll try my very best to get you . . . out,’ he said, ‘but we need to chat to the right people first though, see, you need an ambulance to come . . . home, they told me, they gave me a list . . .’ he said, his eyes closed.

  ‘Do not . . . I’m fine, I don’t want a fucking ambulance, not again. I’m not an invalid. I can’t do another ambulance, either you sort something or I’ll walk. Last time I came out of an ambulance I was starkers.’

  ‘OK, I promise, really soon, I’m sorry, it’s just that I don’t want to . . . you know, put you in . . . danger.’

  I looked over and saw Claire was fixed in an unusually sloppy pose.

  ‘Would you look at herself asleep in the armchair?’ I said, distracted. ‘Look what Hospital does to . . . us.’

  ‘Hegs looks rough, what colour at all is he?’ Alex said.

  ‘Primrose.’

  ‘Ah, he’s more red-of-an-egg-yellow than yellow-­yellow,’ he replied.

  It made me panic.

  ‘It’s yellow, the yolk of an egg is yellow. How come you don’t know this? It’s not red. It’s not red. I’ve never seen a red yolk in an egg.’

  Alex looked stunned.

  ‘How can you raise children if you don’t know the colour of the inside of an egg? A fucking egg? How can you get to mid-life almost without knowing what the fuck the inside of a fucking egg is called?’

  Fuck.

  ‘What’s the white bit?’ My voice caught.

  ‘The white what?’

  ‘The white of the egg? Egg white. What’s the white of the egg called?’

  ‘Please,’ he said, gently, lifting up off the chair, ‘stop. I don’t like eggs. You know I don’t even like eggs. Actually,’ he paused, ‘I think I might have an allergy to them.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I can Google it, if I need to.’

  ‘Google, really? Google? Are you joking?’

  ‘Well, if it’s good enough for you to live your life . . .’ he said. ‘Bet you told Google you were dying –’ he paused – ‘before me?’

  Low. But accurate.

  ‘You don’t chat with Google . . . it’s not a chat. You don’t just chit-chat with a fucking computer.’ I was irritated.

  ‘Did Google tell you that? G’wan . . . did you? Did you Google it? Tell me.’

  Fuck. We both went quiet.

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I actually do really think I’m allergic to them.’

  ‘You don’t have an egg allergy. You had a quiche last month. You’re such a drama queen,’ I said, rapidly.

  My heart still pounded. The smell of paint and baling twine and a feathery bird, the eyes of it peering at me, a pheasant, it was a pheasant, little red and blue head on it. They’d locked the press door and I couldn’t get out.

  ‘What if you won’t know when to search for things, important things?’ I said. ‘You’ll just say it out, even lie about it, you’ll just spit the thing out, and the kids will think it’s the truth because they’ll believe everything you tell them . . . that’s how parenting works.’

  He was picking the quick at the edge of his thumb, making it bleed. ‘I think you need a glass of water, love.’

  ‘I don’t need water. I need you, I need you . . .’ I searched. ‘You need to be . . . capable.’

  ‘I am capable. Ah, here, that’s not fair, Sinéad.’

  ‘Capable. Right. Let’s see. What’s my middle name?’

  ‘What?’ his blue eyes widening.

  ‘My middle name. What is it? What’s my middle name? My star sign? What star sign am I? What star sign is Joshua? G’wan, all the boys? Dates of birth?’

  Rapid inane questions fired at him.

  ‘I wish you’d stop . . . please, please, stop.’

  ‘I can’t find one of the blobfish . . .’ I sobbed. ‘I’m stuck with a fucking loony, and another fucking loony and a dead fucking loony, and one of them put these ridiculous fluffy socks on me. Shane’s dead, you know?’ I yelled now. ‘And we have every loony fucking visitor in from the west for herself here, and I want to get out,’ I yelled again. Margaret Rose bit her lip. ‘And you don’t even know what the inside of a fucking egg is called, and you’re supposed to take over? Take our family. Over. What the fuck? Right, last one. What day was I born on?’ As an angry red blush rose up all over my chest, Alex looked totally bewildered, staring down at me, his face dotted in reddish-grey stubble, deep crow’s feet pencilled about his eyes.

  I was glad when he finally began to cry. I wanted him to cry.

  Chapter 16

  Margaret Rose ran a facecloth under the tap at our communal sink and brought it to Alex, handed it to him, and caught his elbow, shoving it towards me. He placed it on my forehead, then he put his arm around the small of my back and he sobbed into me. I struggled to catch my breath, but I stayed still, like an animal in shock, or hit by a car bumper. I didn’t want him to let go. I was afraid if I let go, he would too. I spat my tears out to the air and to the ward. Jane raised herself bolt upright, yellow mask in place, and leaped from her bed, incontinence pad stuck to her milky calf.

  ‘Darlings,’ she said, ‘you’re all here, how wonderful, how wonderful.’ She began screaming. ‘Well now, everyone is here, and oh, how wonderful. WOnderFUL.’

  ‘Tuesday, TUESDAY,’ Alex said, breathless, and lifting up his head, ‘you were born on a Tuesday, ten-twenty, night-time, Labour ward five.’ He smiled. ‘Tuesday, you’re a Tuesday girl, Fair, Tuesday’s child is fair of mind, here, you were born here, here in this Hospital on a Tuesday.’

  Jane hadn’t stopped. I pushed my thumb into the soft green button and our bell rang out over the door. Flashing lights, but no one would come quickly, of this I was certain, but my certainty was not a victory, I rang again. I was wrong. Molly Zane rushed into the ward dabbing the corner of her mouth with a tissue. Pink bandana – check. Vintage pink matt lips – check.

  ‘Hey, hey. What’s going on? You OK?’ she said, and looked at me. ‘All OK?’ Alex nodded.

  Her eyes found Jane.

  ‘Oh, absolutely WONDERful, you’re here. The pretty one. With the cowboy scarf. How lovely.’

  ‘Ah, Jane, come now. Let me grab that pad off your leg, darl,’ Molly said.

  Jane watched her closely, growing quieter now.

  ‘You’re in a tirrible fix, Jane,’ Molly said, kindly, pressing another buzzer on the side of the bed that also went off outside the door.

  Ted Baker arrived and he ignored Molly and Jane. Appeasing old ladies was not his brief.

  ‘Miss Hegarty?’ Claire nodded. ‘Hi, hello, the nurses are telling me your father is bradycardic.’ He looked rather puzzled and checked his chart and another and tapped Hegs with a long stick with a circular thing attached to its end. ‘Could you per
haps, hmmm, maybe turn out this way, sir?’ he asked, as he rotated Hegs until his legs dangled off the side of the bed.

  ‘I’m really not sure this is entirely necessary . . .’ Claire offered.

  In here, reflexes were everything. Well, next to bowels. Ms Claire was edgy.

  ‘It’s just so very strange . . .’ Ted Baker went on. ‘Now I wonder, sir, if you could maybe get up and try and walk . . . one foot in front of the other, like this.’ He mimed the walk across to me, and back, keeping the glasses in place with a long white index finger. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. His coordination wasn’t magnificent.

  ‘Ah, here, no, no, stop this . . . this really is not necessary. You can hardly do it yourself,’ Claire said, insisting, and linked her father while he attempted to sit back on the bed.

  ‘But there’s really no reason for him to be so, so . . . well . . . lame. Or bradycardic.’ Ted Baker was most puzzled.