From Christmas to Eternity

by Caroline Anderson

  Ridiculously simple tasks, like matching pairs of words, copying words by writing them underneath—that sort of thing. And sometimes he even got it right.

  He was boiling over inside, seething with impatience, scared because the longer it took, the more worried he was that it would never come back and he’d be trapped in a world of silence.

  No. Not silence. Everyone else was talking, but he just couldn’t join in, and he felt more and more remote.

  Lucy didn’t seem to know what to do with him, either. She’d tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t respond so he’d just withdrawn, and she’d given up. He couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t ask for anything, only demand it if he could find the word or failing that point to the loathsome chart.

  He thought he’d go mad.

  Some days he thought he already had.

  It didn’t really hurt. His scalp was a little sore, the whole area tender, but there was no headache, just a curious feeling of nothingness for the first few days.

  At first he was ridiculously tired, but after that he was just plain bored. He couldn’t read, or only with huge effort and he was saving that for his SLT homework. He could understand the television, but there was a limit to how much daytime TV he could cope with, so as a change from that he’d started walking aimlessly around the streets killing time. He had the dog with him, so at least it looked as if he had a purpose, but in reality he didn’t.

  And then feelings began to creep back in.

  Frustration. Anger. Grief, for the loss of so much of himself.

  And need. Need for Lucy. The need to hold her, to be held by her. The need to touch her, to kiss her, to take her to bed and make love to her until they were so close he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

  But he didn’t. He didn’t know how to ask, and she didn’t offer, and anyway, she’d kicked him out before all of this had happened, and they still hadn’t sorted it out.

  Maybe never would, if he couldn’t talk to her. That ate at him like acid, but without words there was nothing he could do apart from bottle his frustration and his feelings.

  So he kept his distance, and she kept hers, and he felt dead inside.

  * * *

  She was worried about him.

  She knew a lot about expressive aphasia from her work as a general practitioner, and it was hard to tell just how much aphasics understood because it was hard to get feedback. At the moment, certainly, she was pretty sure Andy understood just about everything, which was good news. And before the op, only the high-level stuff had been badly compromised—like the research paper he’d talked about, which like so many of them could well have been impenetrable—so there was an excellent chance that he’d get it all back with time, along with his speech.

  Knowing that, she was surprised that he’d shown so little interest in the television or radio. He just sat in silence, staring into space, or went out for walks with Stanley. He often did that—just went out for a walk, the faithful Labrador at his side. She had no idea where they went, or what they did, and she didn’t like not knowing, just in case anything happened to him, but he seemed physically well so what could she do?

  The incision had healed well and she’d taken the sutures out, but apart from that she hadn’t really touched him. He just didn’t seem to want her to, and that hurt.

  She only had herself to blame, of course, because she’d thrown him out, but he was so withdrawn it worried her, so when Julie came on Friday morning she intercepted her while Andy was in the garden prowling round and looking frustrated as he waited for her arrival.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with him,’ she said. ‘He’s just not himself, and I can’t get him to try to talk at all—well, not just to chat. It’s only basic, essential communication, as if he’s afraid to try anything else.’

  ‘He probably is. He’s not a man who’s used to failure, is he? And he probably sees this inability to speak fluently as failure, so he’d rather not set himself up to fail. Try doing it while you’re doing something else together, like washing up or cooking or gardening. What’s he like with the children? They’re usually pretty good ice breakers.’

  ‘Good, but he’s not really speaking to them, he just watches them and looks sad.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ve got a game—it’s great because it’s not patronising. Lots of cards with photos on, and you have to put the things into different categories. It’s got all sorts of levels it can be played at, and you could do it as a family. It’s really good for the kids. It’s in the car, I’ll get it, but I would ask you to look after it because I’ve only got the one set and I’m supposed to be trialling it.’

  ‘OK. Sounds good. I’m sure the kids will love it. Maybe they can do it while I’m cooking?’

  ‘Good idea. You’ve got a brilliant family kitchen. What age is your eldest?’

  ‘Emily? Seven. Coming up for eight.’

  ‘So she’s reading well?’

  ‘Yes. She’s quite good.’

  ‘Great. I’ll suggest it to him. Leave it to me.’

  * * *

  ‘Can’t,’ he said, when Lucy showed an interest in it later.

  ‘It’s funny that that’s one of your best words,’ she said drily. ‘How about “yes” or “why not” or “try”?’

  He just looked at her and walked away, picking up his coat and letting himself out of the house, Stanley at his heels, and she sighed and dressed Lottie up warmly and pushed her to school in the buggy to pick the girls up.

  And found Daisy there, picking up Florence because they had her most weekends. It was the first time she’d seen her since his op, and she suddenly realised how lonely she was feeling.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said, and Daisy smiled at her and hugged her.

  ‘Hi. How’s it going?’ she asked, and Lucy shrugged, squashing the urge to cry. It would have been so easy to give in to it, but she wouldn’t let herself.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Sort of. Physically he seems fine, he’s recovered well and I’ve taken his sutures out, but he’s a bit down in the dumps, I think, and he won’t speak unless he absolutely has to. I think he’s bored and fed up, and I can see that.’

  ‘You ought to get him out a bit, start having a social life again,’ Daisy suggested. ‘Why don’t you come for dinner?’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea. Come to us. We owe you big-time for all the help you gave us over his op, and anyway, you haven’t got a kitchen so it’s a bit of an empty threat.’

  Daisy laughed. ‘True. OK. When? We’re free this weekend—we’re only having Florence tonight as a favour to Jane and Peter, and then they’re having both children tomorrow night because we were supposed to be going out, but it’s been cancelled, so we’re at a loose end if that’s any good?’

  ‘Brilliant. Come at seven thirty. We should have the girls in bed by then.’

  ‘Done. Can I bring anything?’

  ‘Yes. Your sense of humour. It’s a bit lacking at the moment at home.’

  ‘Oh, Lucy.’ Daisy hugged her again, and for the briefest moment she let herself lean on her friend.

  And then Daisy was easing away, and smiling at someone over her shoulder. ‘Well, if it isn’t the man himself. Hi, soldier. How are you?’

  ‘OK,’ he said, and he smiled, but it didn’t really reach his eyes.

  Daisy wasn’t fazed. ‘Neat scar,’ she said, peering at his hair with a grin. ‘Amazing. Did they put anything useful in there while they had the chance?’

  He gave a short huff of what might have been laughter, but he seemed to relax a fraction, and Lucy let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘I’ve invited Ben and Daisy to dinner tomorrow night,’ she told him as they walked home, and he stopped dead and stared at her.

  ‘Can’t,’ he said,
looking pressured and frustrated. ‘Can’t—speak.’

  ‘I’ve told you about “can’t”,’ she said gently, taking his arm and hugging it as he pushed the buggy. ‘You don’t have to speak, you can pour wine. That’ll be useful.’

  He did that humourless, empty little laugh again, and she wondered if it had been such a good idea inviting them, after all. Well, she’d find out tomorrow.

  * * *

  ‘What shall we give them to eat?’ she asked, clearing up the breakfast things as he finished his coffee the next morning, the newspaper untouched beside him.

  He shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know, either. Any suggestions? Meat? Fish? Curry? Roast?’

  ‘Curry,’ he said instantly.

  She glanced across at him, wondering if this was too big a challenge, because he still wasn’t really reading and he might need to look at the recipe. And his hand was still a little shaky, although much better than it had been last week. Could he do it? One way to find out.

  ‘Only if you cook,’ she said innocently. ‘I’m rubbish at it. You always do the curries.’

  He shrugged again. ‘OK.’

  She cracked then, not wanting to push him too far. ‘I’ll help. What kind of curry?’

  He frowned thoughtfully, squawked and flapped his elbows, and she laughed without thinking.

  ‘Chicken curry?’ she tried, and he nodded.

  ‘Chicken. Chicken pas—um. And—’ He broke off, drawing a P on the table. ‘Pil...’

  ‘Pasanda, and pilau rice?’ He nodded, his shoulders dropping as the frustration eased. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘And we can get poppadoms and chapattis—what about a pudding?’ She pushed away from the worktop and fetched a notepad and pen. ‘I’m going to have to go to the supermarket. I know we haven’t got enough mango chutney and I think we’re short of rice.’

  And then she had a brainwave. There was no need for them all to go shopping, and while she was out they could try out that game. She scribbled a list, then straightened up and looked at him.

  ‘How would you feel about me leaving you with the girls and going shopping with Lottie? Is that OK? Are you happy looking after them?’

  ‘We’ll look after Daddy,’ Emily said, cuddling up to him, and he tucked her under his arm, kissed the top of her head and nodded.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Why don’t you try that game Julie left yesterday?’ she suggested casually, and put it on the table. ‘Here—Emily, you read the instructions out.’

  Heart in mouth, she went off to the supermarket, hoping she hadn’t caused havoc at home, and came back to find Megan and Emily kneeling up and leaning over the table, and Andy looking smug.

  ‘Daddy’s really good at it,’ Megan said, sounding disgusted. ‘It’s too hard.’

  ‘No, it’s not, you just have to think,’ Em pointed out, but Andy cut them off by tidying away the game and coming over to help her unpack the shopping.

  She gave him a hug, and he hugged her back, holding on a second or two longer than she’d expected, and she tipped her head back and saw something new and different in his eyes. Something warm and interesting and much more like the old Andy.

  Thank goodness for that. She’d been so afraid she’d pushed him too hard by leaving him with the girls to play the game.

  She smiled, went up on tiptoe and kissed him, lingering for a moment, and then busied herself putting everything away, her body singing. That look in his eyes needed following up. Not now, though. Now, she had a supper party to prepare for, and the house was far from ready. But later...

  ‘Right, you cook, I’ll clean. Em, Megan, will you keep an eye on Lottie, please?’

  * * *

  It was good to see Ben again.

  Surprisingly good, and he found himself smiling as Ben came in armed with two bottles of wine and a box of chocolates, dumped them on the table and shook his hand.

  ‘Hey, Andy, it’s great to see you,’ Ben said, and hugged him briefly, slapping him on the back. ‘You’re looking good. How are you?’

  He grunted and shook his head. ‘OK—talking—not...great.’

  ‘Well, that makes a change,’ Ben said drily. ‘I might get a word in edgeways. May I?’ He lifted his hair out of the way and checked the suture line. ‘Very tidy. Nice job.’ He dropped the lock of hair. ‘They’ve got a good locum covering you, by the way,’ he added, ‘but I think they miss you. It’s all a bit quiet in there without your sharp tongue and razor wit.’

  Andy rolled his eyes, for want of a better expression, and Ben chuckled. ‘Come on, get the wine open. Working on the principle that there was some serious celebrating to do, we walked, so let’s not hold back.’

  Andy laughed, a real laugh that caught him by surprise, and got the corkscrew out. ‘Here—you. Busy.’

  And he turned back to the curry, stirring and tasting it. Ben followed him, dipping the tip of his finger in and sucking it.

  ‘That’s nice. Very nice. Did you cook it?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Can I have the recipe?’

  ‘Not another curry recipe!’ Daisy said, laughing. ‘He’s got loads. It’s the only thing he can cook, so I hope it’s not too hot. I don’t want to have the baby tonight, it’s not due for weeks yet.’

  Andy shook his head. ‘No. Um...’ He found himself tracing the letter on the worktop. ‘Pas...’ he groped, and then Ben bailed him out.

  ‘Pasanda? It is mild, Daisy, and you’ll love it. In fact, it’s probably nicer than mine, dammit.’

  ‘Oh, perish the thought,’ Daisy said, laughing, and then pushed a wine bottle towards him. ‘I thought you’d been given a job? I think Andy’s tongue’s hanging out there, and I could do with a drink if you’ve got anything soft.’

  * * *

  ‘That was a great evening. The curry was gorgeous. Thank you, darling.’

  ‘W-wel—’ Damn, where was the word?

  ‘Welcome?’ she offered, and he nodded.

  ‘Yeah. Welcome. Good idea.’

  She smiled. ‘I thought so. Time for bed?’

  He looked at the kitchen table. She’d cleared it at some point, probably while she’d been making the coffee and he’d been talking to Ben. Or the other way round, more likely. Whatever, the dog couldn’t get to any leftovers, the dishwasher was on and there was nothing to stop them going to bed.

  He felt curiously hesitant, though. Not that he wasn’t tired, but she looked lovely tonight, and he wanted her. Wanted to touch her, to hold her, to kiss away the little streak of chocolate on her lip and then plunder her mouth. He just didn’t know how to say so without sounding clumsy and awkward.

  ‘Come on,’ she said gently, taking him by the hand and leading him towards the stairs.

  ‘Dog?’ he said, but she just shook her head.

  ‘I put him out a few minutes ago. He’s fine.’

  He followed her, letting her lead him into the bedroom and close the door quietly but firmly behind them.

  Then she turned and went up on tiptoes and pressed her mouth softly to his.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, for want of a better word.

  ‘For cooking for us. For having a go, and doing it so well, and not just saying “can’t”.’

  She pulled his shirt out of his trousers and unbuttoned it, slowly and systematically, and when

  she looked up, her eyes were warm and welcoming, and it turned out he didn’t have to say anything, didn’t have to ask.

  His heart pounding slightly, he cupped her face in his hands, bent his head and took her mouth in a long, slow, lingering kiss that left both of them wanting more.

  ‘Luce,’ he murmured, nuzzling her neck, trailing his tongue over the hollow of her throat where he
could feel her pulse picking up, too. He slid his hands up under her top, cupping her breasts, soft and warm, achingly right in his hands. He slipped the catch on her bra and moved it out of the way, letting the weight of them fill his palms, and she moaned softly and slid the shirt off his shoulders.

  He let it drop to the floor behind him, then peeled off her top over her head and unfastened her jeans, sliding them down over her hips, snagging the little lace knickers on the way and pushing her gently back onto the edge of the bed.

  She sat down and obediently picked up her feet, one at a time, so he could strip her jeans away, and then she reached for his belt. It was ages since they’d done this, slowly and deliberately seduced each other, and she found herself smiling.

  ‘What?’ he asked, and she looked up and met his eyes.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just nice.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  She hooked her thumbs in his waistband and pulled his trousers down, then he bent and kicked them off, heeling off his shoes at the same time and kicking them out of the way. Slowly, deliberately, she peeled down the soft, clingy jersey shorts, and he pushed her gently backwards onto the bed, lifted her legs and tucked them under the quilt and slid in beside her, drawing her back into his arms.

  His mouth found hers, and she threaded her fingers through his hair and then froze.

  ‘Oh—did I hurt you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’ She levered herself up on one elbow and leant over him, pressing her lips to his hair, resting her cheek against the side of his head over the healed wound.

  His hands slid up her back, warm and firm, and he eased her away and found her mouth again, and she forgot about his surgery, forgot about everything except lying there in the arms of the man she loved.

  He knew just how to touch her, when to go slow, how to keep her hanging on until she was sobbing with frustration, and then how to set her free, timing it perfectly so they fell apart together, clinging to each other, then coming slowly back to earth with soft stroking touches, tender caresses, light, lingering kisses.

  ‘Nice,’ he said drowsily, and then he rolled to his back, pulled her into the crook of his arm and drifted off to sleep.