The Last Wave

by Gillian Best

  Funny, of course, that I had no recollection of what that time actually was. One swim around the time that my granddaughter was born unbeknownst to me down in London, that girl with a name that had shocked and delighted me. Her name that I took as proof that my own daughter didn’t hate me.

  Every swim ended with my tongue too swollen to speak properly, my skin covered in sores and my body cold and aching in a way I had come to crave as it reminded me I was strong.

  The last swim, which I had not known at the time would be the last, was completed a year before the cancer diagnosis. I remembered so clearly driving to my doctor for what I expected to be an uneventful appointment, wondering if I had it in me to do one more.

  I saw motion from the corner of my eye and flipped myself upright to see John moving toward the water’s edge. I swam in quickly and when it was shallow enough I stood and walked, my hand stretching out to him.

  He reached forward and fully dressed waded in up to his knees. It was one of only a handful of times he and I had been in the water together. We stood there, I shivered and he wrapped his arms around me as I soaked through his suit, and we looked at the sea.

  ‘I can’t swim,’ he said.

  I looked up at his face and saw his cheeky smile.

  ‘That’s because you never let me teach you.’

  He took a couple of tentative steps further into the water. ‘Now,’ he said.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Teach me now,’ he said.

  He gripped my hand tightly as he kept moving forward, unaware or uninterested in the fact that he was fully dressed. We walked a bit further out and though his teeth were chattering he refused to turn back.

  ‘Is it always this cold?’

  I nodded.

  ‘How on earth do you manage it?’

  I burst out laughing and so did he. It was such an absurd thing to have said after all these years.

  ‘Come on then,’ I said. ‘You can at least float.’

  I held my arms out. ‘Lie back, I’ll hold you.’

  He no longer got the better of himself. His strict need for proper behaviour had utterly vanished.

  He lay back and I held him as he half floated, half sunk due to the lack of fat on his wrinkly old body. I remembered how he had looked when he was younger: he had been slim and wiry, his skin approached a Scottish whiteness but his muscles had been there, and what I had liked most of course were his hips, the way they jutted out slightly highlighted the muscles in his torso.

  John didn’t float well, but for a few moments I thought he understood something.

  We went back to the shore and sat in Henry’s car as he turned up the heat to warm our freezing, dripping bodies. We grinned like teenagers and Henry was good enough to not mention the water was ruining the seats. The salt dried on my skin and the smell of the sea filled the car, that kelpy, fishy scent that was so familiar it sometimes came to me in my sleep.

  I elected to not go back to the doctor that afternoon as John slept, and so shortly before five o’clock the ringing phone roused me from my light sleep on the sofa. The doctor was, understandably, upset that I had missed our last-minute appointment.

  ‘Tell me what you need to tell me,’ I said. ‘Being there in person won’t make a bit of difference, will it?’

  ‘It’s that we prefer to say these things in person,’ she said.

  I pictured her in her white lab coat, at her desk with her degrees on the wall behind her, focused on business as ever.

  ‘I won’t file a complaint,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not it.’

  ‘Doctor,’ I said. ‘What is it that you need to tell me?’

  There was a pause and I wondered if she was uncomfortable having to say what I expected her to say.

  ‘Martha, the bloods came back. I’m sorry to say, you have cancer.’

  ‘In the breast?’

  ‘No, it’s in your blood now.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘We’ll start you on a course of chemotherapy immediately and radiotherapy. In eight weeks, we’ll check your bloods again.’

  ‘Tell me what is most likely,’ I said, looking at the pictures of my granddaughter on the mantle. ‘Tell me what you expect to happen.’

  Her tone was matter of fact, which I appreciated. ‘It’s quite advanced. There is a chance that chemotherapy can extend your life.’

  ‘By how long?’

  ‘Three months, maybe four.’

  ‘And without?’

  ‘Without what?’

  ‘Without treatment.’

  ‘Eight months, if you’re lucky. I’ve had patients who have lived as long as ten.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘The nurse will phone you to set up an appointment, so we can make sure you’re well enough to begin treatment.’

  ‘Tell her not to bother. I won’t be starting any treatment.’

  Before she had a chance to try and convince me otherwise, I hung up the phone. I settled back into the sofa and thought of John’s face that afternoon as he was looking up at me. He had been so happy.

  As the afternoon sun set behind the garden wall, I hoped I would go first so I didn’t have to lose anymore of John than I already had.

  The Last Wet

  The rain had been howling for days, lashing against the windows and blurring the tiny porthole I had on the world, though because I couldn’t see the sea from my bed it hardly mattered. All I wanted was a sea view but that was not to be, so I let my eyes close and listened, hoping for a message through the rain from the salt water. If the water had sent word I didn’t catch it, the constant drumbeat of the rain drops drowned out the potential of any message getting through and I was forced to resign myself to the fact that I was marooned on dry land now for the rest of my days.

  I tried to think of other, happier things. Fragments bobbed like driftwood through my mind: the sound of the stormy waves against the pebbles mimicking broken glass, the way Harriet shrieked with delight the first time I took her into the sea, lying in the fishing nets of Charlie’s boat on the way back from Cap Gris Nez with John looking up at the stars, the horrible taste of chicken broth in a mouth swollen by salt, the smell of petrol from the boat’s motor, the heavy quiet that could only be found underwater, and the feeling of having returned to my natural place when I dove under the water and started to swim.

  How long had I been held captive in this bed? My ascent to dry land had happened gradually: over a series of months, I had gone from the sea into the house, until finally I had reached my final location, the bed. This transition was punctuated with small bouts of acute remission where I was able to regain some territory from the cancer, but never enough to make a lasting comeback.

  ‘Martha?’ John said as he came into our room.

  My ears pricked up – he had used the right name.

  ‘Pass me the water please,’ I said. He held it as I struggled to lift my head, helping me ease my head forward, my mouth stumbling for the straw.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, leaning back onto the pillows.

  He returned the glass to the side table and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his hands, searching through his thoughts for the reason he had come upstairs.

  ‘Did you call for me?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked around, hoping, I imagined, to see whatever it was he had come for. He had managed to dress himself that morning though he’d got a bit turned around, the buttons on his shirt were done up incorrectly, he was wearing the same socks he’d worn the day before and his flies were undone, but he was dressed and that was enough. His hair stood up on end and I worried that he hadn’t washed recently because the black filth under his nails was visible but it was the least of our problems.

  John stood up and took a few shaky steps forward, paused, turned around, looked at me and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Molly,’ he said. ‘You weren’t at school today.’

  How quickly thin
gs changed.

  ‘I’m Martha,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’

  I tried to let it pass.

  ‘Your wife.’

  ‘I’m not married, sweetheart.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘How silly of me.’ I didn’t have the energy to correct him.

  ‘You’re always playing games with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘What are sisters for?’

  ‘Are we going to see Grandmother for the summer holidays?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We always do,’ he said.

  ‘Not this year.’

  ‘Father must be busy,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, that must be it.’

  ‘Will I go and see what Mother has made for tea?’

  ‘No, I don’t feel much like eating.’

  He shook his head. ‘Molly, you need to get your strength up.’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘No, I’ll go and make you a Bovril, will I?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘A cup of Bovril would be lovely.’

  ‘We’ll have you on your feet in no time.’

  He stared at me for quite some time and I hoped my face was coming into focus for him, but he left the room without saying anything else. What would I have done if I had had the strength? Continued to correct him? Force-fed him memories? Would I have shouted at him? Got angry with whatever it was that was indiscriminately eating him up piece by piece? Probably, even though I knew that forcing him to become his old self was not possible.

  I shut my eyes and remembered being in the boat with him coming back on a clear night. We lay in the fishing nets, which were as comfortable to me then as any bed in a fancy hotel, and John had asked Charlie to cut the motor for a few minutes so we could enjoy the moment. I was covered in sheep grease and very much worse for wear and John wrapped his arm around me, not at all bothered about the nice suit and tie he had insisted on wearing. Funny, I couldn’t remember ever asking him why he always dressed like that, whatever the occasion. It was just who he was. Formal, buttoned up. The wind off the water snaked around us and I nuzzled into the crook in his arm.

  Sometime later, I awoke to the sound of clattering in the kitchen. Immediately I worried that he might inadvertently set something on fire, the gas hob that had once been the source of so many dinners had turned into a death trap. I wondered how much time had passed and out of habit turned to my right to check for the small clock that had always been at my bedside. It wasn’t there of course because I’d asked John or Henry to move it – the incessantly ticking had grated my last nerve and in my increasingly delicate state all I wanted was comfort. Besides, time didn’t matter so much any more.

  I heard the front door open and the tone of John’s pottering changed instantly. I smiled. The time was three o’clock because Henry was here.

  Henry was a good man, if slightly too pushy for my tastes, but he’d proven himself to be exactly the sort of man you’d want living next door.

  Straining to hear I focused on his voice, knowing that the majority of John’s communication with him was done through a series of glares, grunts and grimaces. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but John held off on his usual torrent of shouting, which I took as a good sign.

  A few minutes later, Henry knocked on the door and stepped into the room.

  ‘You’re lucky you don’t have anywhere to go,’ he said. ‘Biblical rains out there. In fact, I might see if I can get any interest going in building an ark.’

  I smiled. ‘Hello Henry.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Fine enough.’

  He pulled the duvet up around my shoulders and adjusted the pillows.

  ‘Really, I’m fine.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  I looked at the door and he caught my meaning, closing it before pulling the armchair in the corner up to the bedside.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked.

  ‘You spend more time with him than I do.’

  ‘I’m bedridden. I only see what he does up here.’

  ‘Kitchen’s in an utter state.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I replied.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do before I’m off.’

  ‘You’re too good to us.’

  He ignored me and looked at the window.

  ‘How are things, then?’ I said.

  ‘Same as ever. Trying to get into the garden, but what with the weather, it might be spring before I do.’ He reached out and put his hand on my arm. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Which way is the wind blowing?’

  ‘Is that some kind of riddle?’

  ‘Inland or offshore?’

  He paused. ‘Inland I think.’

  ‘Open the window.’

  ‘It’s blowing a gale.’

  ‘Henry.’

  ‘Alright,’ he said, and went to the window. ‘You’re sure? What if you get cold?’

  ‘Open it.’

  That’s the only good thing about dying, people humour you because every request could be your last. The wind gusted into the room with such force that it slammed the door shut, and blew the photographs on the dresser over. Henry closed it quickly but I begged him to open it again.

  He did and I breathed in deeply. It was faint but it was the smell of my life. The temperature in the room dropped quickly and I started to shiver so Henry closed the window.

  ‘I never thought it would be my last swim,’ I said.

  ‘You might have another one in you yet.’

  I pointed to the chamber pot. ‘I can’t get to the toilet. I don’t think I can make it to France.’

  ‘Never say never.’

  ‘Henry,’ I said.

  He shrugged. I knew he would not accept it until the last possible moment and even then, I wondered if he might be tempted to go to extraordinary lengths to keep me alive.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What have you eaten today? Tomato soup?’

  I chuckled: John had been refusing to eat anything but tomato soup recently.

  ‘No, no soup.’

  ‘Can I bring you anything?’

  ‘No. Just go and make sure he’s alright. He’s going to burn the house down one day with that hob.’

  ‘You’re sure? Tea? Toast?’

  I shuddered. Even the thought of food was too much. I pulled the duvet up to my chin and let my eyes close, able to overlook the usual formalities.

  I drifted in and out of sleep for a while and when I was able to open my eyes again the room had grown dark, and I felt different. Over the years, the training had taught me how to listen to my body. I’d learned what it needed and wanted: cramps meant insufficient potassium, getting cold too easily meant a lack of iron. I could tell the difference between a sprain and a strain better than my doctor, but this was something different. Though I knew it would be painful, I had not imagined this.

  They had given me pain medication of course, though I had tried to avoid taking it because it made everything fuzzy and I needed to hold onto my memories as clearly as possible because I was remembering for two. My elbows hurt, feeling as though they were bruised and beaten deep inside, my ankles and shoulders throbbed and my back ached profoundly.

  ‘John,’ I called.

  I listened for the sound of him moving but the house was still.

  ‘John!’ I shouted, but nothing. Maybe he had gone out, taken the dog for a short constitutional, or maybe he’d finally wandered off.

  ‘John,’ I pleaded with the dark room.

  My medication was on the far edge of the table and it took all my strength to prop myself up and reach for it, but I was shaky and my hand bumped the glass of water, spilling it all over the floor. If I’d had the energy, I would have wept.

  I considered trying to dry-swallow the tablets, but knew that would only make matters worse when they inevitably got stuck going down. I had a choice: live with the pain until such time that J
ohn got home, which could be anything from ten minutes to several hours, or go downstairs and get a glass of water. Eyes closed, I tried to get past the pain.

  Using my aching elbow I propped myself up and dragged my legs over the side of the bed. When my feet touched the floor it was one mile, when I pushed myself up to standing that was another. I paused when I was on my feet, waiting for the dizziness to pass, because I could not afford to faint. I took a deep breath and shuffled forward, careful to not take my feet off the floor any more than necessary. Every muscle, tendon and joint felt as if it was breaking and burning.

  After what seemed like ages, I made it to the door and pushed it open. The corridor was cold and dark and I wondered if John had switched off the heating everywhere else in the house so that I could have a warm room. It was a lovely gesture but it made me wish I had thought to get my dressing gown. I could have gone back for it but retracing my steps would take energy I didn’t have to spare.

  My hand felt for the wall and I used it to guide me toward the top of the stairs where I called his name again and got the same empty reply. I fumbled for the light switch and put the overheads on so I could at least see where I was going as I eased myself down the stairs. Each stair felt like much longer than a mile in the sea, possibly because I was supporting myself completely, missing the water’s generous embrace holding me up as I made my way through it. I moved with extreme caution: the thought of the pain I would experience if I were to fall slowed me down.

  Shaking, I clutched the blister pack of tablets in one hand and gripped the bannister with the other. When I got to the bottom I leaned against the wall and wished, prayed and hoped that John would come home. I caught my breath and watched the door, waiting and counting, trying to take my focus back to the water where everything was always okay in the end.

  When I made it into the kitchen John’s state of mind was obvious: the sink was overflowing with dishes, pots and pans and endless bowls of tomato soup, half eaten crusts of bread and tea. Every mug, cup and bowl we had was on the counter. Had Henry seen this? He must have, it was unavoidable. If I’d had the strength I would have phoned him up and demanded to know why he hadn’t said anything.