by Rebecca Done
He enthused about little Buddy all the way home, but the best part was when he took my hand and squeezed it the whole time he was talking. Unbelievable for a man who gets animated only occasionally and affectionate hardly at all.
That night it felt as if the old Alex was walking by my side.
I’m still sitting in the garden when I feel someone standing behind me.
‘Nearly tripped over you then,’ Graeme says, presumably a reference to my jungle of a garden.
To look at, Graeme is simply another version of my husband. He’s blond, like Alex, though his hair is short – as Alex’s used to be. (I once told Alex he had better hair than Graeme. Now, the exact opposite would be true.) They share virtually identical smiles, green eyes, expressions. Nothing much in the seven years I’ve known them both has changed that – just the passage of time, perhaps, to scatter a few tiny laughter lines here and there.
‘The intention was to come out and tidy the place up a bit.’
‘Ah, intentions,’ Graeme says mock-wistfully. I feel him plop down next to me.
My eyes remain shut. ‘Good game?’
‘Bit windy. I beat Luke though, so – every cloud.’
I smile. Luke is an old work colleague of Alex’s. I’m always grateful that Graeme gets Alex to socialize as much as possible whenever he’s here. His friends, bless them, never the biggest of golfing fans before, have adopted the hobby on Alex’s behalf, a gesture for which I am eternally grateful. It’s not exactly cheap.
It’s not been easy for him, maintaining friendships. Strangely enough, he finds shallow conversations easier to handle, which is why he so often makes small talk with strangers. Strangers didn’t know him before – there are no comparisons, no subtext to the conversation, no predefined shorthand in their speech. And because they don’t know him, they don’t want to discuss things in depth, ask how he’s feeling, have meaningful conversations rather than simply bat comments back and forth.
Alex’s oldest friends, Charlie and Darren, have dealt with the accident exceptionally well, but so many more of his friendships have fallen away as they realize he’s no longer the person he was before. Not just in things like sense of humour, shared interests or taste in music, but in how easily he can handle a conversation, pay attention, tolerate them. He finds group situations tough, and sometimes, especially when he’s tired, he makes it clear that he’s not interested in talking. Hardly surprising, then, that many of his friendships have collapsed – they didn’t want this new, bizarre version of Alex who could offer them nothing in return for their patience.
‘Molly, am I right in thinking you’re out here counting to ten?’
I smile again. ‘That obvious?’
‘What’s he said?’
‘Nothing really. I just annoy him, that’s all. He’s not in the mood to do anything today.’
‘My fault. He’s tired. I think I did his head in yesterday with all my bleaching and scrubbing.’
Finally I open my eyes and look across at him for the first time. He smiles hello.
‘Thanks so much for cleaning everything up,’ I say. ‘I meant to say that last night. And the rest of our stuff. The place was a pigsty. I really appreciate it.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. Hardly the kind of thing you need to come home to on a Friday night, right?’
Or when you’re a guest. ‘Did Alex help?’
‘In his own way.’
‘Ah. You mean, he stood and chattered while you cleared it all up.’
‘Well, you know. I think it pleases him to watch me work. Revenge for all that dossing about I did when we were younger.’
‘When you were … younger?’ I tease him.
‘It’s too early in the morning for lols, Molly,’ Graeme says drily as we watch a pair of white butterflies flirting amongst the grass stems.
‘Only joking.’
Since selling his flat in Norfolk four years ago and heading to London, Graeme has not had a steady job, a home address valid for more than a few months, or any sort of permanence attached to anything (including relationships). He does have a huge circle of friends, an apparent gift for blagging free holidays to Ibiza and many, many so-called ‘connections’. If you need someone for anything, Graeme will ‘know a guy’. He’s dabbled in investments, gambling, nightclub promoting and door work, the latter of which he’s been doing with semi-regularity for the past year or so. Some would say that after his dad died he went off the rails; I know it to have happened much earlier in life than that.
Chalk and cheese, people used to say about Graeme and Alex – but what they really meant was that Alex was good and Graeme was bad. Alex was always the one doing his homework, obeying instructions, listening to people; while Graeme was invariably the brother who stayed out late, got into trouble at school and was regularly grounded by an ever-despairing Kevin.
I assumed, somewhat naively, that after Alex’s accident Graeme might move back to Norfolk for good, but he never suggested it and I never felt it reasonable to ask. On reflection I think it’s probably a good thing there’s some distance between him and Alex, who gets so frustrated now when he thinks people are smothering him, in his face, getting in his business. Graeme has never been one to mince his words – even before the accident, he would nag Alex to be more confident, take more risks, be more spontaneous, to essentially be more like him – but instead of smiling and humouring him as he used to, Alex tends to bite back, hard.
‘Anyway,’ Graeme says now, passing me a takeaway cup, ‘I brought coffee.’
I smile broadly. ‘Thank you. You can come again.’
‘Good to know. So how’s everything going at Spark?’
A sip of coffee sends a sorely needed dart of energy through me. ‘Oh, fine. I’m on the verge of being fired, but what’s new?’ My flippancy is entirely fabricated, but only because I don’t want to think about work today – or, come to that, Seb. Overpaid and underworked, he’s probably enjoying some sort of bottomless brunch at a home counties hotel right now, adjusting his aviators and sucking in his stomach whenever an attractive woman walks past, despite the fact that he’s married with kids. He’s had the idea for a while that he’s some sort of Z-list celebrity, and from what I can work out he hasn’t a care in the world most days.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ Graeme says.
‘Careful,’ I say weakly, a poor joke I barely have the energy to crack.
‘Still too early.’
‘Sorry. You were saying?’
Behind us, from the fence at the boundary of the garden, the call of a blackbird drifts through the warm air.
‘I think I should move back to Norfolk. Maybe move in with you guys for a bit.’
I lower my coffee cup. ‘What?’
‘I’m serious. Work’s wrapped up for now … I have some time.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘You’ve been fired, haven’t you?’
‘Ah, that’s the beauty of not having a contract, Molly. Nobody can fire you from anything.’
‘Oh God, you walked out, didn’t you? Are you homeless?’
‘Molly!’ Graeme smiles. ‘This is a nice thing I’m offering to do here. Don’t look so … stricken.’
‘You are,’ I conclude. ‘You’re homeless.’ The last time Alex and I went to stay with Graeme in London was a couple of months ago, when he was subletting a spacious ground-floor flat from an acquaintance in Ealing. That arrangement had been due to end the following weekend, and I’ve assumed he’s been sofa-surfing since then.
‘Molly, I’m never homeless. I’m actually living with a friend at the moment. Mike. Plus, you know … I have cash in the bank.’
I look across at him, the heat of the sun against my face. ‘No, you don’t.’
He sighs. ‘Look, I am genuinely offering to move in with you for a while, help take the load off. You can focus on work, and I’d make sure Alex does more during the day than watch TV. He’s always moaning about being bored, right?’
�
��Y-es,’ I say uneasily. ‘But –’
‘I could free up time for you to have to yourself, you could start going to the gym again, see more of your friends, do stuff for you …’
My first, rather ungenerous thought is, Where was this unfettered offer of help three years ago, Graeme? Because the past three years – when we were trying to deal with the shock, the trauma, the medical appointments, the not knowing how well Alex would recover if at all, the constant how-long-is-a-piece-of-string response to every question we had, the arguments, the furious rages, the horror as the realization finally sank in that Alex would never be the same again – those were the times when I needed someone by my side. To some extent, he’s offering to come in as the dust is beginning to settle, and what is left now is less practicality, more renewed heartbreak as I contemplate spending the rest of my life with a man I definitely didn’t marry.
Because he’s not Alex any more. He looks like Alex, he talks like Alex and some of the time, he is Alex. But most of the time, he bears little resemblance to the man I used to know.
‘In sickness and in health’ yes – but this doesn’t feel like sickness. At the start it did, with the hospital, and the coma, and the doctors, and the incremental daily victories (yes – he moved a toe! Yes – he blinked at me! Yes – he said my name! Yes – he went to the toilet unaided!), but the past year has felt like something else entirely – a long haul of barely perceptible changes and the relentless reality of knowing that this is it. For ever.
Despite what I thought, it turns out I wasn’t prepared for that.
I have to ask. ‘Where’s all this coming from, Graeme?’
‘Look, I just … last night I realized when I got to yours how hard it must be for you, Moll. Alex was in a filthy mood, the house was …’
‘… filthy,’ I supply quickly, so he doesn’t have to find a euphemism.
‘You’re the only one working,’ he continues, ‘and now that’s hanging in the balance. So, I guess it’s time for me to step in and do what I should have done three years ago.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ I ask him quietly, since he’s brought it up. ‘Out of interest?’
He frowns, sips his coffee, stares into the waving grass stems around his legs. ‘I guess I wanted to bury my head in the sand a bit, Moll. I’ve always been like that. If I have a problem, I tend to go for distraction therapy, rather than facing it head-on. It’s not an excuse, I know, but …’
‘It’s okay, Graeme,’ I tell him. ‘Nobody’s perfect. The whole thing was traumatic for everyone. And especially you – I can’t imagine what it must have been like to …’ I trail off, overcome for a moment by an image of Graeme bending over Alex’s motionless body, screaming his name, quickly becoming smothered in his twin brother’s blood.
‘Look, Moll,’ he says, ‘I don’t want you to feel obliged, or anything. Because of the house. I mean, just so we’re clear.’
The cottage was originally left entirely to Alex in Kevin’s will. We offered to sell on more than one occasion and give Graeme half of the money – but for a number of reasons, Graeme always refused. Fortunately, just before his accident, Alex added Graeme’s name to the title deeds – so at least he has a share of the place, if only on paper.
Graeme’s never made me feel as if he has any claim on the cottage, but if he needed somewhere to live, perhaps urgently, I’d have no grounds for turning him down, even if I wanted to.
Which, of course, I wouldn’t. He’s Alex’s twin brother after all. I have considered more recently if I should offer to pay him some sort of rent, but my finances being as they are, I don’t want to make promises I have no hope of keeping.
‘Well,’ Graeme says, sounding momentarily uncomfortable, ‘how about it?’
I survey the fields surrounding the cottage, brushed gold by the morning sunshine. ‘Have you thought this through? Living here, in this house, with Alex – all day every day?’
‘Yes, and I’ve been thinking – I can help try and get him back into work. I can sit down with him, look at applications, make calls for him. And I know people – I could get him something casual. Labouring on a site, bar work or something.’
There was no hope of Alex having the concentration span, patience or attention to detail necessary to go back to his old job in graphic design after the accident. It became painfully obvious very quickly that he would find it far too hard to translate a creative brief on to paper or a screen; nor does he find it easy to think in 3D. It’s a lot harder for him these days to even understand that work would have to be presented in a certain way.
But he has attempted three other jobs since the accident – all of which he went on to lose. The first was office assistance work, a mere year later (fired for insubordination). The second, washing dishes in a cafe (sacked for failing to turn up – either on time, or at all). The third, voluntary work in a charity shop (he walked out after getting into a war of words with an elderly customer).
I did feel sorry for him. For a man who finds it exhausting just to make it to midday, the prospect of finding and embarking upon new work is utterly overwhelming. No wonder he couldn’t see it through. And those experiences have all bruised him – because he thinks he looks like an idiot when he makes a mistake, that people are laughing at him. It’s going to be a task nothing short of monumental to persuade him to try again, unless we can find a boss who really understands.
I remind Graeme that ‘casual’ is the last thing Alex needs – that in fact he requires rigid structure, short hours and a boss who has the patience of a saint.
‘Anyway, I’m not even sure how he’d take it, Graeme,’ I conclude. ‘You moving in with us. He might think you were trying to control him, baby him.’
‘He always says that. It doesn’t mean he’s right. Plus, you need the help.’
Above our heads, a plane soars. I watch it go, its vapour trail carving a fierce white scar into the smooth blue of the sky.
‘Look,’ I say eventually, setting down my cooling coffee and knitting my knuckles together, ‘I’m not sure I do. Actually, I just want someone to bring Alex back. And that’s never going to happen …’ Suddenly overwhelmed, I cover my face with my hands, breathe desperately into them for a moment or two.
Because what Graeme doesn’t realize is that my exhaustion isn’t really physical. I mean it is, to some extent – but what’s more tiring is the second-guessing, the constant corrections, the never-ending worry. The thinking about money – how to balance that bill with that expense. The trying-to-be-positive. That’s the draining bit.
‘Exactly, Moll,’ he says eventually, softly. ‘He’s never coming back, so we can only deal with right now. And right now, you need some help. I mean, look at this sodding house. It’s falling apart. It’s a health hazard. Half of the electrical sockets aren’t even working.’
‘I know, I know, but …’
‘Why are you so proud? Why won’t you let me help you?’
‘It’s not pride, Graeme. It’s just that I’m not sure how much you can really help. All the practical hurdles are passed now.’ And the emotional ones are even harder.
The improvements Alex has made since the early days have been profound, but what I still can’t come to terms with is that permanent peripheral void you can’t quite put your finger on – the lack of connection that’s hard to define, the small and stupid things you miss. Like companionable Sunday-morning lie-ins; the shared jokes that no one else understands; popping out for dinner without having to faintly panic the whole time you’re there, one eye on the clock like you’re on a disastrous first date; feeling him play with my hair as we watch TV or fall slowly to sleep in bed.
‘I don’t agree,’ Graeme argues. ‘I really think I might be able to make a difference.’
I say nothing further, because there’s no other way for me to protest without sounding very ungrateful. And to some extent, property ownership aside, I don’t have total say over everything to do with my husband’s life. Graeme is Al
ex’s twin brother – he had known him for a full twenty-six years before he met me. When someone has a life-changing accident, cultural boundaries around family become somewhat flexible. Our marriage doesn’t just involve me and Alex any more. It involves me, Alex and all the other people who love him.
What’s really going on with Graeme crosses my mind again: his job, his living situation. Alex used to worry about him heading down the same dysfunctional path as his alcoholic father, genetically destined to pick up where he left off.
‘If you need somewhere,’ I say carefully, ‘then of course you can move in, for as long as you want. Be honest with me.’
‘No,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘I don’t need to move in, Molly. I was offering because I thought it might help. But you know best.’
I look up at him, unsure suddenly if this is a prompt for me to deny I know best, to question myself out loud.
‘Just think about it,’ he says, when I fail to reply. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
He pauses for just a moment to squeeze my shoulder before he disappears inside, leaving me doubting myself all over again as a wife, sister-in-law, friend.
5
Molly – present day
Monday morning a week or so later, and I am deep breathing again outside on Spark’s single rickety fire escape. Seb called me out in front of everyone for yawning in our staff meeting, to which I smiled and said something suitably self-deprecating. But the minute the meeting was over I ran out here, leaning over the rusty metal railing, and started heaving air like an OAP attempting a jog round the block.
‘Molly?’ Dave sticks his head out of the fire escape door.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Be back in a minute.’
He comes out and stands next to me. ‘Ignore him,’ he says softly. ‘You wouldn’t have been yawning in the first place if he hadn’t been droning on like he was. What a dullard. You saved us all from premature death by boredom. The guy’s got about as much charisma as a potato.’
I glance across at Dave and smile gratefully. He looks comfortably unkempt as always, stubble outgrown, salt-and-pepper curls tickling his neck, denim shirt crumpled.