Only

by Caroline Baum

  CHAPTER 20

  Damaged goods

  Two things compound my increasing sense of apocalypse: the snow becomes heavier and starts to settle. It will eventually go on record as Britain’s heaviest in two decades, causing nationwide chaos and shutdowns. When Eurostar is forced to cancel trains, the company spokesman quoted in The Times blames the French for ‘the wrong kind of snow’.

  The white-out muffles the senses and blankets us in deadening silence. If I venture out, the ground is slippery, a perfect illustration of the uncertainty of the situation. Staying home feels stifling, but this is not weather to venture out in for anything other than necessity. As if this feeling of confinement were not bad enough, my mother and I huddle together to watch television, hoping its glow might provide the same comfort as a fire, only to hear news full of dire headlines about a financial collapse sweeping the world. I am grateful that my father is not sufficiently conscious to take in the predictions of a crash, which would provoke more alarm and anguish. On high alert for catastrophe, Maman adds the crisis to her list of woes and feelings of impending doom. For her, it’s all personal.

  Seeking reassurance about my father, I call my doctor friend Niki in Australia. But she does not set my mind at rest. ‘Sounds like you’ve been sold damaged goods. You need to take him back,’ she says as if referring to a faulty toaster.

  I rely on her characteristic bluntness when I need the unadulterated truth. Even so I am a bit taken aback. I want her to tell me that his aberrant behaviour is quite normal for elderly people recovering from an anaesthetic, but she doesn’t.

  I ring the hospital again and ask them what my options are.

  ‘You could bring him into emergency but we’re pretty busy, it being Easter,’ they tell me, and I wonder how on earth we could persuade my father to go back there. ‘Or you could call an ambulance, but the waiting time is long,’ says the hospital. I decide that’s too dramatic and to wait for the out-of-hours doctor.

  My weariness from sleep deprivation, combined with the stress of being permanently hypervigilant, begins to make me feel lightheaded and dizzy. My mother is so on edge she can’t sit still, but she finds the sight of my father so upsetting she leaves the room whenever he appears.

  It is as if all the years of resentment have eroded her capacity for simple tenderness. When my father wanders into her room to lie down on her bed instead of his own, she becomes agitated and asks him to leave. I think it would be kinder to let him lie there and fall asleep but she’s having none of it, and insists on preserving her boundaries of privacy. When my father reappears later wearing her dressing gown, she overreacts instead of dismissing his mistake with a joke. She tells him sharply to take it off and give it back. Forlorn, like a bewildered child who does not understand what he has done wrong, he slumps on to her bed and says, ‘I am being murdered with misery.’ Exasperated, she walks out of the room. When she returns, there is a wet patch staining the carpet. She wonders aloud, indignantly, accusingly, whether it is urine and makes clucking sounds I associate with a hen. I am utterly exasperated. Who the hell cares? I don’t want to investigate the nature of the damp dark patch so I just dab at it with a moistened cloth and dry it off with a hairdryer.

  I am too on edge to concentrate on a book so I spend the time flicking through food magazines, fantasising about normality and cooking for friends back home. Daily calls from David only reinforce how far apart we are. I am homesick and hungry for any details that remind me of the life I have twelve thousand miles away.

  A couple of hours pass peacefully while my father sleeps, and then he reappears, this time shaking with rage and stuttering incoherently.

  ‘Jac, Jac, Jacqueline … come here immediately … listen to me, stop what you are doing and OBEY!’ he screams and it looks as if he is going to fall to the floor in an epileptic seizure.

  ‘Harry,’ she says, assuming a falsely calm tone guaranteed to infuriate my father and provoke further aggression. I can hear years of baiting in her voice.

  ‘Where, where, where is the key, the hotel room key, key, key, key, key to the car, car, car … ? he stammers, his hands trembling with distress and fury.

  ‘My keys are in my handbag, your keys have been put away to keep them safe until you are well enough to go out,’ says my mother sounding like the matron in a British black-and-white film set in a boarding school.

  ‘If you like, HB, I can take you out now,’ I intervene, attempting to be the peacemaker.

  ‘Yes, I need to go out IMMEDIATELY. I will catch the bus,’ he announces, making for the front door.

  Here we go again.

  ‘It doesn’t run on Sundays,’ says my mother, a triumphant edge to her voice.

  ‘Don’t argue with me!’ yells my father. ‘I will call a taxi.’

  ‘I’ll come down with you and call one for you from the front desk.’ I pretend to go along with his hotel delusion and give my mother a meaningful glance that I hope will shut her up.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ asks my mother, all sarcasm.

  ‘Peterborough Road,’ replies my father in that mechanical Rainman voice again.

  ‘But this is Peterborough Road,’ says my mother, baffled.

  ‘YOUR MOTHER IS NOT RIGHT IN THE HEAD!’ screams my father, turning to me.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk. You don’t even know where you are,’ my mother retorts.

  ‘I know perfectly well we are in Paris and we have to leave NOW, NOW. NOW, you IMBECILE. Out of my way!’ yells my father.

  As a child, I feared my father, even when he was in a good mood. His hugs were too tight and nearly suffocated me. His pale pork-sausage fingers crushed mine when he held my hand to cross the road. His footsteps shook the landing of our home, his snores rattled its doors. It was like sharing the house with a giant. On Sundays he played recordings of classical music at deafening volume, conducting with my mother’s knitting needles, bending them out of shape with the force of his strokes.

  Some of his tantrums were so spectacular they became known by their location—Méribel, Vouliagmeni—like significant historical battles. After these hurricanes, he rarely apologised but might come home two or three nights later with long-stemmed roses the colour of fresh blood for my mother and plant a conciliatory kiss on her cheek.

  Now I steer him out of the front door, dressed for the cold weather, and guide him to the lift. I have no idea what we are going to do when we get downstairs, but I know I have to get him out of the apartment and play along. I will just have to improvise and rely on the front-desk staff to cooperate with whatever scheme I can come up with. At least my father regards me as some kind of ally instead of the enemy, which is clearly how he views my mother.

  We get down to the front desk, where my father politely asks the security man on duty to call him a taxi. I am standing behind my father and signal to the man to ignore my father’s request. He knows about the previous night’s escapade, and cottons on to the fact that something is not quite right. Pretending to cooperate, he appears to dial a number and request a cab, and reports back to my father that because it’s Easter Sunday and snowing, there’s a delay. I shoot him a covertly grateful look and follow my father towards the gates into the street, where he intends to hail a taxi. Does he still think he’s in a Paris hotel, even though everyone speaks English and cars are driving on the left?

  A car pulls in just as we are leaving and my father goes up to the driver, a resident in our building, and asks her if she’s a taxi. I apologise and tell her quietly that my father is not well. Frustrated at every turn, he retreats to the warmth of the foyer to consider his next move. He looks beaten and close to tears.

  It takes me twenty minutes, but with some gentle kisses on the cheek I persuade him to come back upstairs and wait for a taxi there. He takes my hand, suddenly biddable, and lets me lead him home, sad and confused. It’s the shuffling of his feet that floods me with pity. It is such an old man sound.

  Fortunately, a f
ew moments after we get inside, the doorbell rings and the out-of-hours doctor introduces himself. He is German, which is unexpected and slightly troubling: given my father’s history, could his nationality trigger a hostile outburst? It’s a risk we will have to take.

  Wrong-footing my apprehension, my father could not be more pleasant. The moment I introduce the doctor and he hears his slight accent, my father switches to speaking to him in his native tongue. He asks where he studied as if he were conducting a job interview, and seems lucid and rational. My mother and I exchange glances of exasperated disbelief. We need the doctor to see the ranting lunatic we’ve been living with for the past two days, not the sober convalescent gentleman now before us. How can my father be cunning enough to put on an act when only moments before he was totally delusional and raving? The whole thing is so spooky it makes me doubt my own sanity.

  ‘Can you tell me where we are now, Sir?’ asks the doctor.

  ‘In Munich,’ replies my father in German.

  Aha.

  ‘And what are you doing in Munich, Sir?’

  ‘Attending a conference.’

  ‘And where are you staying in Munich?’

  ‘At the Four Seasons Hotel.’

  ‘Are you travelling with anyone, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, my wife and my daughter from Australia,’ says my father, acknowledging our presence with a regally condescending tilt of the head.

  ‘And where do you live when you are not in Munich?’

  ‘In Paris.’

  ‘What is your address in Paris?’

  ‘65 Peterborough Road.’

  My mother sighs heavily and rolls her eyes, shaking her head at this nonsense.

  The doctor nods as if these answers make perfect sense. He takes my father’s temperature and blood pressure and asks him for a urine sample. My father refuses. ‘Can I go now?’ he asks us testily, reverting to English. Shaking the doctor’s hand, he thanks him for coming as if this were a perfectly pleasant waste of time, and leaves the room.

  The doctor tells us that my father may well have an infection that is causing him to behave erratically. When we describe the violent outbursts and night-time attempts to escape, he prescribes a sedative that he says will give us some respite, but he urges us to take my father back to the hospital as soon as his team is back on board. He apologises for not being more definite or helpful.

  Braving the treacherous black ice on the street, I go out to get the drugs that will calm my father’s anxiety while nothing will calm my own. We have to get through another twenty-four hours before we can call my father’s specialist gerontologist and ask him what the hell is going on.

  Mercifully, the tranquillisers do the job. My father sleeps through the night and so do we. He’s pretty dopey for the rest of the next day, which gives us some breathing space and lowers the tension in the flat, as we are not forced to be permanently vigilant. My mother and I take it in turns to go out. It’s a relief to escape the state of siege, however briefly. Even a quick sortie to the supermarket provides respite for Maman, who finds cruising the aisles relaxing and goes there every day instead of doing a weekly bulk shop. It’s the French way, a habit of going to your favourite local shops daily and engaging in conversations about produce, seasonality and flavour; even though that is not the London way of life, she maintains the habit as an act of cultural defiance as a true Parisienne.

  We decide not to administer the sedative on Monday night so that the hospital can see my father in the state we’ve endured for the past few days. We go to bed anticipating a disruption and, sure enough, my mother is woken in the middle of the night by my father, again dressed in mismatched garments that belong to her, clawing with his bare hands at the door chain and bolt, which he has managed to unscrew from the wall. She is furious and remonstrates with him, which only escalates the tension. Meanwhile I discreetly slip into the kitchen, grab hold of all the sharp knives and hide them. Then, for the umpteenth time, I put the kettle on. What would this hellish scenario be like without the comfort of tea?

  I can hear my parents rowing in the hallway and decide not to intervene. My mother walks off in a huff, leaving my father at the door like a wild animal scratching at its cage. I go out to him.

  ‘Come on, HB, I’m really, really sorry about all this but it’s night-time and we just don’t think it’s safe for you to go out in the cold right now. Let’s wait until morning and we can sort this out,’ I say as soothingly as possible. Once again, I take his hand, and kiss his cheek. Touchingly, when I do so, he makes kissing sounds in response. We drink our tea together, and I lead him back to bed, meek and compliant.

  It seems like only minutes later I am being summoned to his room.

  ‘CAROLINE!’ he calls out in a tone that warns me there’s trouble brewing.

  ‘Coming!’ I shout as I run down the stairs.

  ‘You need to pack our bags; we are leaving for Paris IMMEDIATELY. Make sure you pack all my toiletries and my shoes,’ he says in a voice that brooks no contradiction.

  ‘Certainly, HB. I’ll do it straightaway. Are we catching the Eurostar? Shall I order a taxi to take us to the station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I run to my mother, who has barricaded herself into her room and is determined to avoid contact with my father, and brief her on my proposed scenario: I will pretend to pack some bags which we will have to take with us. I will order a taxi to Chelsea Hospital under the pretext that we are going to St Pancras. She shrugs a typically Gallic shrug that could mean either yes or no, but agrees to go along with the scheme. I pull together some lightweight canvas luggage and throw a few things at random into the bags. But my father is not easily fooled.

  ‘You have not packed my mouthwash or my aftershave,’ he barks.

  I do so, and tell him everything is ready. He packs and repacks his briefcase, obsessively checking and rechecking that he has his documents. The taxi arrives. As my father steps into the cab, I whisper ‘Chelsea Hospital’ to the driver and pray we get there without incident.

  When we turn onto the Fulham Road my father says ‘CUNT!’ loudly. I’ve never heard him say this word before. He’s noticed that we are not on the route to St Pancras. His ability to recognise his surroundings, including his own home, has been so poor in the past few days that I had not expected him to take in this kind of detail. But this morning he does.

  ‘It’s alright. We’re taking a diversion because of roadworks, HB,’ I say, ashamed of my ability to lie so smoothly.

  We reach the hospital, where I tell him we have to pop in and get a document signed to allow him to go overseas so soon after an operation. He offers no resistance to sitting in Emergency while I surreptitiously attempt to get him admitted. This takes longer than expected and my father becomes restless and impatient. I warn the staff that he may abscond and has an explosive temper. Every muscle in my body aches with tension. Eventually we are taken into the ward to wait for a doctor to examine him. My father protests, but only mildly.

  After a seven-hour wait, my father grows increasingly restless, refuses to lie down and paces the ward threatening to leave. Our anxiety levels are so high we can barely speak. Other patients shoot hostile looks at my father, apprehensive that his abusive tone and disruptive behaviour will disturb their fragile state. I feel embarrassed and offer them furtive apologies.

  Eventually, a tall handsome Indian called Dr Sharma strides into the ward and introduces himself with a firm handshake as the registrar. He has the most impeccably ironed blue-and-white striped shirt on, and looks ridiculously dashing in this dull setting. I imagine the nurses are all in love with him. He radiates confidence and purpose, and is extremely well spoken. My father, snob that he is, takes an instant shine to him when Dr Sharma says he studied at Cambridge. He asks my father a few questions. Exasperatingly, for the first time in days, my father appears to know where he is. As he did with the German doctor, he becomes polite and lucid. Dr Sharma then asks him to follow his finger as he moves it a
bove and across my father’s face.

  He pulls the green plastic curtain around my father’s bed and asks my mother and I to step outside it.

  ‘We did a brain scan this afternoon and I am afraid the news is bad. Mr Baum has vascular dementia. I’m terribly sorry.’

  My mother stiffens. I can see her whole body going rigid with dread as if she has been turned to stone.

  ‘What does that mean exactly?’ she says, suddenly sounding particularly French.

  ‘It means that at some point he has experienced some small strokes, probably when he was undergoing his operation; these are like small explosions that have gone off in his brain and affected his cognition.’

  ‘Is there a cure?’ asks my mother.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ says Dr Sharma. ‘However, his condition may improve and we would like to keep him under observation so we can rule out infection, of which there is currently no sign, but just in case, we’ll need to keep him in order to determine what the best care for him will be.’

  ‘And how long will that take?’ My mother’s voice quivers with distress.

  The doctor explains that it will take several days to assess my father and, with a small smile of condolence, excuses himself to attend to other patients. He pops his head around the curtain to speak to my father: ‘Mr Baum, we are going to need to keep you here overnight, I’m afraid, but you’ll be in very good hands and I’ll visit tomorrow to see how you’re doing.’

  My father nods without protest. I know I need to get my mother home quickly before the shock sets in, or she will crumble in front of my father. We bid him a hasty farewell and take the bus home, barely speaking, each of us caught up in trying to make sense of what we have just heard. Damaged goods indeed.

  CHAPTER 21

  Cars

  ‘Of course we’ll have to sell the car.’

  We are riding home on the bus from one of our daily visits to the hospital. Faced with the enormity of my father’s diagnosis and its implications, my mother is struggling to gain purchase on priorities and practicalities. Her whole landscape has been reconfigured and she can’t find a place to start navigating it.