by Rebecca Done
‘You don’t know that,’ Sarah says.
‘I do know that! I live with him every day!’
Someone from the next table glances over at us and I think to myself, God – can I not just have one night out in a restaurant without causing a scene?
‘Sorry, Moll,’ Sarah says. ‘We’re not trying to upset you.’
‘We just don’t want you to sacrifice all the things you’ve dreamed of all your life,’ Phoebe adds.
I think about what she means, about all the things I once dreamed of, that everyone dreams of. Travelling the world with Alex. Learning a language, perhaps moving abroad. Having children, getting a couple of dogs maybe to complete the picture. Making the cottage our own, a cosy family home.
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ I say then. ‘Everything you think I’m going through – what Alex goes through every day is far, far worse. He’s the brave one, not me. Imagine waking up one day and everyone else is talking a slightly different language, so you’re always two steps removed from everything that’s happening. You can’t find the right words or think quickly enough to keep up with anything. The whole world feels like noise rushing past your ears, but not just for a moment – it lasts all day. And to make it worse, everyone keeps telling you you’ve said something wrong or you’ve done something weird and you’re so different to how you were before. But you’re still you, and you feel like you’re just the same as you always were – it’s everyone else who’s different. And every single day you’re exhausted and you can’t do any of the things you used to or remember anything or tolerate a conversation for any more than about ten seconds and you just can’t get a grip on what’s happening –’ I take a breath and shake my head, try to prevent the tears from falling.
‘I know,’ Sarah whispers, ‘I know.’
‘The sacrifices I’ve had to make, the dreams I’ve given up … they’re nothing compared to what Alex has lost.’
The three of us fall silent, and then we just sit there for a few moments, listening miserably to everybody else chattering, laughing, relaxing, having fun.
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want tonight to be about this. I wanted to come here and forget everything.’
‘Sorry,’ Phoebe whispers.
‘No, like – let’s stop talking about dreams and disappointments and bloody desperation,’ I say. ‘Can we just forget it all for one night? Please?’
They stare at me in quiet unease, because of course we live in a world where everything can be fixed, where there is a solution for absolutely everything. And when I first broke the news that there wasn’t a solution for what happened to Alex – that this was a problem that couldn’t be fixed – their natural reaction was to try and think of other ways, any other way, that they could make the situation better. Because they’re my friends, and they love me.
I wake the next morning in the sanctuary of my childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling as my brain stirs to the sound of sparrows twittering through the open window. Mum has hung feeders in her trees and shrubs, nailed a nesting box to the north-facing side of the cherry-tree trunk.
My first instinct is to check my phone for messages from Darren. He texted last night to say he and Alex had spent the entire evening absorbed in football-based online gaming, followed by takeaway pizza – but still, I am always fearful when I go away that the first thing I will see when I open my eyes is a series of urgent text messages declaring disaster in Norfolk. Maybe it’s because we were apart on the night of the accident, and I was woken by the landline ringing and my mobile buzzing and the stomach-curdling sound of Graeme’s distorted voice saying, Molly, there’s been an accident and it’s bad, it’s really, really bad, over and over.
A knock on my bedroom door brings me back to today, and Dad’s head sneaks round the side of it. I smile sleepily. ‘You’re up early.’
‘Church fayre,’ he says with a beam. ‘But I couldn’t go without making you pancakes. Your favourite.’
Dad has quite a specific, by which I mean limited, repertoire when it comes to cooking. He’s the master of all the toasts – cheese on toast, beans on toast and French toast (he’s dabbled in scrambled eggs on toast but always gets overenthusiastic with the whisk and they go all watery). But his pancakes are excellent too – he smothers them with maple syrup and butter for me, just the way that Alex used to.
‘You star,’ I murmur as he brings a tray over to me. I shuffle upright against the headboard as he places it on my lap and removes a steaming mug of hot chocolate from it (or, as he calls it in his impeccable French accent, chocolat chaud), setting it down on the chest of drawers next to the bed.
‘Budge up,’ he says, and I shift over to make room. He looks smart in a chequered shirt and beige trousers, all ready for the fayre. He smells comforting, of coal tar soap and his favourite herby aftershave.
‘So, how’s my little girl?’
‘Much better for these – thanks, Dad.’ I smile, cutting into the delectable mess on my plate and shovelling in a sugary, buttery forkful. Being waited on feels like such a novelty.
‘Good night? Phoebe popped round the other day, did Mum tell you?’
‘Ha. Phoebe did. Said she bumped into Mum.’
‘Well, she stopped by. We had a nice long chat.’
‘And devil’s food cake?’ Phoebe’s favourite.
Dad smiles guiltily. ‘Well, we thought she might not come otherwise.’
I smile knowingly. ‘So you invited her.’
‘Mum did.’
‘Well, that’s nice. I miss her.’
‘She was telling us all about her new chap.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I say through another sugary mouthful of pancake.
‘Your mother’s convinced he’ll propose before the year’s out, of course.’
I smile. ‘You think?’
‘Well, who knows. It’ll be a big wedding anyway. Might be at the church.’
‘Dad! She’s only just met the guy.’ I slide him a look. ‘You just want to marry everyone off.’
‘Then children, probably.’
I set down my fork. ‘Okay, Dad.’
Bless him, on being rumbled Dad just decides to say all the things on his mental List Of Concerns before I can chuck him out of the room. ‘Our architect chap drew up these lovely designs for an annexe and we think it would be perfect for Alex and Phoebe said she could talk to Sarah about getting you your old job back and then you could think about starting the family you always wanted.’
I wait patiently, the pancakes pooling in the syrup and butter on my plate. ‘Have you finished?’ I ask him gently.
He clears his throat and nods, slightly self-conscious, because my dad by nature is not an emotional outburst kind of a guy. ‘Yes.’
‘Look, I’ve already had this conversation with Mum, and with Sarah and Phoebe –’
‘So you don’t want to have it again with me,’ he says apologetically.
‘Well, I can tell you what I haven’t told them – not in so many words – because I think you can handle it. Can you?’
‘I hope so,’ he says, looking back at me, unblinking.
‘The truth is, Dad, I wanted a family with my Alex. Not this new version of Alex that isn’t really Alex at all. I’m so terrified that if we had children, I’d always be thinking – always – about how it could have been, what a different experience we might have had.’
I see him swallow. He speaks slowly, choosing his words carefully. ‘And how do you think it would be, with the new Alex?’
‘Well, let’s see. He’s more selfish now – it would feel like having one more child, so it wouldn’t feel shared. I’d have to do most things myself. There’d be question marks over everything – like if the baby was crying, would he just carry on sitting there with the remote control, ignoring it? Would he fall asleep or wander off while he’s meant to be looking after them?’
‘Well, this was where your mum was coming from, Moll,’ he says, covering my hand with his. ‘We
could be on hand to help …’
‘Fine, Dad, but if you’re not? You can’t be there twenty-four-seven. Dad, I don’t like to tell you everything because I know you’ll worry, but sometimes Alex loses his temper around Isla and George, and he’ll complain about them in the car all the way home, that they’re a pain, always whining, always wanting what they can’t have. And I think to myself, Is that how you’d be with our children? And that thought scares me, Dad, because he doesn’t love me how he used to and I’d be wilfully making him a father to kids he might not …’ I pause, because I don’t want to say Alex wouldn’t love our children. I know he would, in his own way, just as he loves me in his own way – but would it be enough?
‘I see,’ Dad says, scratching his chin, and suddenly I feel guilty because these innermost thoughts of mine are news to him and I don’t want to upset him, I really don’t. ‘Well, look – there must be a medical professional who can advise you on matters like this?’
‘They already have,’ I tell him. ‘And, ultimately, it’s our choice, Dad, no one else’s. Look, Mum just thinks it’s about having someone to help change nappies or blend baby food or babysit once in a while, but it’s not really about all that stuff. It’s about how I feel.’
‘And how you feel is …’
‘Unsure. Since the accident, I feel unsure about everything.’
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I catch myself imagining the cries of a small child in the bedroom next to ours; envisaging how life might be today if we had fallen pregnant when we were trying, before. How would I be coping, now? Would I be pleased we’d had children when we did, or wished we never had? Was seeing the negative test result so many times in fact a blessing? But as with so many of my what-ifs these days, there is no way of knowing for sure.
‘Anyway, Dad, if I was looking after a baby, how would I earn any money?’
‘That’s where me and your mum come in – we could look after the little one during the day. Or help Alex do it.’
I look sadly down at my pancakes, cool now in their little puddle of syrup and butter. ‘Every day? I could never ask that of you.’
‘Well, you don’t have to, because we’re offering. Besides, maybe Alex will get back to work soon.’
I smile sadly. ‘Unlikely, Dad. It’s not that easy.’
‘Why not?’ Dad’s a big believer in traditional roles, and Alex not working is hard for him to understand, when on the face of it he very often functions just as he always did.
I shrug. ‘Lots of reasons. He’s scared of looking stupid, for one.’ Not to mention the interview process – I’ve tried persuading him before to scrub up, even suggested cutting his hair, but he collapsed in hysterics at the idea of me with the clippers (I have no idea what was so funny). He laughed so hard I started laughing too and then neither of us could stop, to the point we forgot why we’d even started laughing in the first place. Welcome back, Alex. But then he broke off quite abruptly to ask me why I’d rearranged all the tins in the kitchen cupboard, and I lost him again.
‘I suppose what I wanted to say is that there’s always a way,’ Dad says now. ‘You just have to keep looking until you find it.’
‘Not always,’ I tell him, taking a swig from my hot chocolate.
‘Always,’ he replies firmly, then pauses. ‘Why don’t you come to the fayre today? You could talk to Peter …’
I remain quiet, because much as I don’t think Peter can help me I don’t want to offend Dad, who really does turn to God if he ever has a problem.
Through the open window, a summer-scented breeze kisses my skin. As if on cue, I hear children screaming outside, whirling calls of delight as they dash around back gardens.
‘Well, please know that your bed is always here,’ Dad says eventually, opting not to press me any more. ‘We keep your room just the same. Always will.’
‘Don’t, Dad,’ I mumble. ‘It’s not as if I’ve died.’
His forehead crinkles with a faint smile. ‘Oh, that reminds me. Mum asked you to have a quick look through your wardrobe before you go. We’re putting a collection together for the overseas aid run and she wanted to know if there was anything you wouldn’t wear again.’
‘Okay.’
‘Pop along to the fayre later if you can. I’d best be off.’
‘Love you, Dad. Thanks for breakfast.’
‘You’re always welcome, my darling.’
My wardrobe is still crammed with all the stuff there wasn’t space for when I moved into Alex’s flat six years ago. I idly slide the hangers across, mentally assigning most of the contents to Dad’s aid collection, but when I reach the far end of the rail my heart begins to thump.
Squashed behind a similar coat, the arm hidden so Mum might not even have realized it was in there, is Alex’s jacket, the one he lent me on the very first night I met him. The one I jokingly said I’d keep so he’d have to see me again. I bury my face in it, convinced I can still detect his scent, the very faintest traces of his old aftershave on the fabric. It is the smell of possibility, of excitement. Of the future. I picture the smile in his eyes as he told me of course I could keep it, that he’d call me in the morning, to get home safe. And I remember that call in the morning, the one I’d been waiting since the early hours to receive, the sound of his voice and knowing, just knowing I’d found the man of my dreams. And now I start to sob, wetting the fabric of the jacket with my tears.
I stay like that for maybe ten or fifteen minutes, mourning everything we’ve lost afresh, until Mum calls me from downstairs and I am forced to say goodbye to the past once again.
I push back the jacket until it’s right out of sight, to keep it safe.
A few hours later I head back to the station to catch my train, having made my excuses to Mum and Dad about the fayre. I think they know I’m not ready to talk to Peter yet, and I’m happy to let them believe I just need some time to come round.
I am staring up at the departures board in the station, trying to see if my platform’s been called yet, when my phone buzzes from deep inside my pocket. It’s Graeme.
‘Hey.’
‘Word on the street is you’re in London Town.’
Wow – the grapevine’s more active here than it is at home. ‘Only just. I’m at the station.’
‘So am I. Sort of. Well, I’m down the road. Fancy coffee?’
‘Um …’ I waver. ‘Not sure. I should get back to Alex.’
‘Molly – coffee, not a European mini-break. You can spare half an hour, surely? Get the next one?’
I smile. ‘Sorry, yes. Of course I can.’
‘Excellent. There’s a coffee shop upstairs.’
‘I’ll get them in.’
‘Thanks. I’ll pay you back.’
Looking casual in a T-shirt and jeans, Graeme resembles the Alex of old so much I almost double-take. It’s a strange sort of torture really, seeing his twin all the time, being constantly reminded of the man I lost.
‘Hi,’ I say, pushing his coffee towards him as he sits down opposite me.
‘Now this is a test of how well you know me.’
‘I went for the weirdest one.’
He takes a sip. ‘Macchiato. Not bad. If you’d have gone for decaff I’d have been very annoyed.’
‘Late night?’
‘Interesting night,’ he mumbles.
‘Is that anything to do with why you’re miles away from where you live first thing on a Sunday morning?’
‘Perhaps,’ he says, poker-faced. ‘How was your evening?’
‘Not too bad. Considering.’
‘Considering what?’
‘Considering I don’t drink very often these days and it was a late one.’
‘Who’s with Alex?’ he asks, but casually, so it doesn’t sound accusatory.
‘Darren stayed over last night. Apparently they had a great time.’
Graeme smiles. ‘Involving – hold on, I can get this – online gaming and …’ He looks up at the ceiling fo
r a moment. ‘… extra-hot deep pan with extra jalapeños.’
I laugh. ‘Bang on.’
‘And we always say he’s unpredictable. We should cut him some slack, right?’
I smile. ‘Maybe.’
He sips from his coffee. ‘How’s he been this week?’
‘Not bad. Some golf. And he’s been trying to help a bit around the house.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, he did some food shopping on Tuesday.’ I hesitate.
‘Let me guess. Abandoned in the middle of the kitchen floor?’
I smile and nod. ‘And he tried to do some washing on Thursday …’
‘Oh yeah? How is the Dirt-Buster 3000? I’ve been meaning to ask.’
‘Shut up, Graeme! It’s not called that.’ He took the piss out of me in the electrical shop the other weekend for choosing a model with a slightly cheesy name. ‘Anyway, I asked Alex to put some washing in the machine while I was out.’
‘Ah. He took it literally.’
‘Yep. No soap, no turning it on.’
‘Never mind,’ Graeme says, suddenly becoming more serious. ‘It’s the thought that counts, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, sipping from my latte, ‘it is. We even managed some DIY on Monday night. Stripped some old wallpaper, took off some architraves.’ Alex lost interest fairly quickly, but lack of focus has always been a stumbling block for him. For a long time after he came home from hospital I had to remind him to set a timer for things like washing, and brushing his teeth, because he’d do tasks like that only for seconds, not minutes, before forgetting why he was there and wandering off.
‘I told you, I’ve got someone who can do that. I just need to get my guy to call his guy.’
‘There’s no rush,’ I assure him, because there isn’t – not in the grand scheme of things.
‘So go on,’ he says then. ‘Give me all the gory details of your heavy night. How bad did it get – sambucas? Karaoke?’ His face slackens slightly. ‘Don’t tell me there were kebabs.’