by Claire Allan
“Oh Rose,” I said, going to her and taking her hand. “We have a fab shop here. It’s beautiful and popular and a very nice place to visit indeed. And we work very well together – and that makes for a lovely atmosphere.”
She nodded. And I nodded. And we sat there lost in our own thoughts for a while. I was hoping that, compared to the break-up of my marriage and all the confusion that my growing friendship with James was causing, choosing a wedding dress for my mother would be a walk in the park. But I didn’t really believe that.
My mother arrived with a smile on her face and a spring in her step at her allotted time – not a minute before and not a minute after. She breezed through the door and air-kissed me, acting as if everything was just perfectly okay and as if there wasn’t an ounce of tension between us. Then again, I suppose there wasn’t really any tension – there was just a vague nothingness – a little bit of awkwardness perhaps as we both tried to think of something appropriate to say in the circumstances. Of course it was Rose who came to the rescue, jumping in with a cheerful “Hello, Violet,” and offering her a cup of tea or a glass of something sparkly. My mother’s face lit up at the mention of a little something sparkly and Rose said she would go and get a glass and a bottle and offered me one just in case I might need it too. I admit I was tempted, but also very afraid of the possibility of a wine-in, wit-out scenario so I decided to stick with some fresh orange juice. Sipping it, I tried to calm the uneasy feeling in my stomach and remind myself that emotional baggage (of which there was a lot) aside, she was a customer and I wanted to do the best job I could. And the fact that she was a customer aside, she was my mother and I wanted to make her proud of me and let her know that I was good at my job – that I could do this well.
“Right,” I said, leading her into the dressing room. “Are we good to go or are you waiting for anyone else to join you?”
“No,” she, said, shaking her head. “I thought it would be nice, just us. You know, Mum and daughter. And Charles, well, he doesn’t have any family as such . . . so, you know . . . It would be nice if Ivy was here – but she didn’t get in touch so I’m assuming she still has a few issues.”
I blushed, shrugging my shoulders – not wanting to let down my guard and let her know that Ivy wasn’t the only one with issues or that her arrival had heralded an almighty row and set everyone just that little bit off kilter.
Forcing a smile on my face, I asked her about Charles – inwardly praying she’d never expect me to call him daddy, or that he wasn’t some twenty-seven-year-old gigolo after her for her money and nothing else.
“He’s a good man,” she said coyly. “You’d like him. Or at least I think you’d like him. I suppose it’s a bit crazy of me to assume I know what you’d like. But he’s a good, solid, dependable man. And he loves me. And I love him too.”
She spoke quietly, blushing slightly as she did, glancing at me every now and again, her head bowed, her eyelashes fluttering just that little bit. It was as if she was embarrassed – as if she was afraid I wouldn’t like him on principle. But it wasn’t as if he had taken my mother away – she had done that herself before anyone had even heard of Charles.
Still, I felt a little sorry for her – shopping for wedding dresses with no family but me for company – a complete and utter basket-case of a daughter with ambiguous feelings for the blushing bride.
“That’s good, Mum,” I said. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
“I am, love,” she said, and a part of me bristled.
She didn’t call me ‘love’ – it sounded strange. It sounded too familiar and I know that is a strange thing to say, given that she is my mother, but when she had left a part of us had broken that had never been fixed. ‘Love’ – that’s what Daddy called me, what Rose called me – what Mark had called me.
“I waited a long time to find him – to find someone who makes me feel like this. I know I sound really soppy, but I imagine you are used to hearing all manner of soppy declarations working here. And of course from the lovely husband of yours – how is he anyway?”
She was my mother. She was standing beside me confiding in me about the man she was going to marry and asking me about the man I had married and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her it was all completely messed up – that he had left, he had cheated – he wanted back, but I didn’t know what I wanted, except that I wanted to kiss James. And perhaps do more with James. But I didn’t want to tell anyone that – and certainly not the smiley, shy woman in front of me who was trying so hard to bond with me.
“He’s fine, just fine,” I said, brightly, grateful that Rose wasn’t in the room because she wouldn’t have been able to keep quiet.
And I turned my back on my mother and told her I had a few things which I thought might suit.
“I hope you don’t mind me picking a few things out,” I said. “I’m not sure what you are going for but I have a few ideas. Now, not all these are traditional wedding dresses but bear with me. I think they could be really special.”
She smiled and sipped, perhaps a little too quickly, from her glass which let me know she was nervous too. I was grateful at that point for Rose coming in, smiling at us and sitting down beside my mother while I went to collect the dresses I had set aside.
I had a few traditional numbers – classic lines which would flatter her neat figure. Dresses cut on the bias, with soft lace boleros, soft floral corsages – shapes and patterns which flattered the more mature figure but which would make her still feel very much the bride. Not quite knowing what her style was any more, I picked out a trouser suit in a soft ivory which I thought would look lovely on her – and a few styles in a pale oyster colour which would offer an alternative to the traditional bridal look. I hung them in front of her – biting my lip and watching her face for any sign of a reaction. I felt every inch as if I was an eight-year-old handing over a school report hoping that it would make her proud.
Slowly she looked from dress to dress before standing up and walking over to touch them, to examine the detail more closely. Every one of them would look stunning on her, I thought, watching a smile start to creep over her face. It was strange how familiar her features were – the little curl in her hair which I knew would be impossible to tame, the slight dimple in her right cheek which wasn’t matched on the other side. I felt as if I was looking at a part of me – and it was strange because suddenly the part of me which had hated her for leaving us was happy for her that she had found her own happy ending. If she could – then I could. Just because life hadn’t worked out the way she planned, didn’t mean it had worked out wrong.
She turned to me, with tears in her eyes, and smiled. “Can I try them on?” she asked. “Will you help me try them on?”
Chapter twenty-four
Erin
I had fallen into a strange twilight zone. Faces came and faces went. People spoke to me – some of which I took in, some of which I didn’t. I spent as much time as I could just staringat Paddy, taking in his face, his features, drinking them in.
“You need to go home and get some sleep,” the nurses urged, as I curled up in a chair in his room and stuffed a pillow under my head to try and sleep.
“I’m okay here.”
“You’re no good to him sick and tired. You’ll be unwell yourself.”
“I can’t go home. I need to be with him.”
“He’s getting the best care.”
I looked at him, deathly pale, bruising on his arms, on his face. He looked as if he was already gone. As if he had given up on me and had left. He had spoken to me a few times – mostly incoherent ramblings.
This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not what we had bargained for. The chemo we knew about. We knew it would make him throw up. We knew it would make his hair thin and maybe fall out. We knew that he might get ulcers. That he would be tired. But all those consequences were wrapped up in a nice big bow of ‘this will make you all better’. No one mentioned it could make you worse, that
it could damage your blood cells – that it could make you anaemic, weak beyond words, needing more treatment, seeing your skin bruise for no good reason. No one mentioned it could for all intents and purposes leave you lying in a semi-comatose state, unable to be roused by your girlfriend who would be utterly and completely convinced that you were dead.
It had taken a while for the message to get through to me that he was still alive. I know I became mildly hysterical – which surprised me. I’m usually calm in a crisis, but it was Jules who stayed calm and me who had flipped out. I have vague memories of it – memories of screaming at her that we had been eating calorie-laden Chinese food and having a giggle while he had been dying up the stairs. And I had screamed about everyone leaving me – and of how the wedding was a bad idea and oh Jesus, the magazine, and then begging him to be alive even though the paramedics had told me he was still breathing and had a pulse.
Even when I had calmed down – when I finally believed them that he was still with us, I didn’t want to leave him, so I curled up on a chair and held his hand – afraid that I might bruise it – and watched him sleep, exhausted by the lack of decent God-fearing blood cells in his body while they talked of treatments and transfusions and stopping the chemo and whether or not that was a good thing. And a part of me – a big angry, tired, irrational part of me wanted to shout at the top of my lungs: “It was only a bloody lump in his testicle. It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”
Instead, I sat like a good little non-hysterical fiancée at the side of his bed and tried to listen and make sense of it all. Every now and again, when the nurses left his beside, I would whisper in his ear that it would be really very nice if he were to wake up. And then I would whisper that I loved him and I would tell him I would kill him for scaring me when he woke up. And regardless of who came to see him, who sat in that room with us and told me I needed to get some rest, I would just shake my head and say I was absolutely and completely not going anywhere.
So I sat there, except for pee breaks and occasionally brushing my teeth with toothpaste bought from the hospital shop, for two whole days. He wasn’t unconscious the whole time – he would wake and we would talk, briefly. He was confused and every conversation followed the same pattern – where I tried to explain what happened. He would nod, say he understood, then ask if it was his day for chemo, ramble a bit about something surreal and obviously from his dreams and then drift back off again.
Thatwas natural, they said. The chemo would have weakened him, they said. But I kept thinking of how he hadn’t really seemed any different recently. Yes, he was tired – but chemo left you tired. And weak. And I’d never heard of this old carry-on before – this lying there with your blood all frigged. Sure chemo was supposed to help. This didn’t seem awfully helpful to me.
“You do need to sleep,” Jules said when she called round. “You’re starting to look as bad as he does.” She glanced at the bed where Paddy was sleeping.
“Thanks, sis,” I said, but I knew she was talking the truth. My hair was about ready to walk off my head. My skin had broken out and I looked beyond pale – and with a rich auburn hair-hue that was not a good look to sport. My clothes felt sticky on my body – but I felt as if my place were right there, right then.
“His mum is here, his dad too. They will sit with him. He won’t be alone.”
“But he’s sick, Jules.”
“And you’ll make yourself sick too and two sick people would be too much to handle. Seriously. You’ll be no good to him if you’re out of it yourself.”
I shook my head but found myself dreaming of my bed – of laying out straight, and of standing under a hot shower. “Okay,” I muttered, defeated, and she smiled.
“Okay, honey. You’ll be back here soon and he should be in much better form then. And you’ll be in better form yourself – onwards and upwards!”
I nodded and followed her out of the room, looking back at Paddy and drinking in every inch of him.
“Good girl,” Jules said, taking my hand and suddenly every muscle in my body felt heavy and tired. The wave of exhaustion that hit me made me dizzy and sick.
“Yes, I need to go home,” I said.
After I had a few painful words with his parents, Jules led me away into the sunlight where the brightness and noise of the outside world made me crave the quietness of my bed even more.
Too tired to cry and too tired to think any more about what had happened over the last few days, I dozed off in the car as my sister drove me home and when she led me upstairs and tucked me into bed, the bed where Paddy had being lying when I thought he was dead, I did my absolute very best not to think about what had happened in the room. As I drifted off into unconsciousness, I was grateful to block it all out.
I woke to see my boss peering at me, which was exceptionally surreal and made me jump about six feet off the bed. Looking at her through blurred eyes, trying to figure out where the hell I was and what the hell was happening, I tried to form a cohesive sentence. Strange little images of hospital rooms and concerned faces flashed through my mind and I wondered for a second, as I tried to focus, if I was indeed in hospital again – as a patient this time – and my boss was coming to visit me.
“Sorry – sorry– I didn’t mean to wake you!” Grace said softly. “Your sister said you had been sleeping a while and to check if you were awake – I was just going to leave when you stirred.”
I wondered there for a second about how exactly I had stirred. Had I snorted awake, wiped the drool from my mouth and looked at her with a slightly gormless expression on my face? Had my eyes sprung open and had I looked alarmed? There were certain things I could cope with, that I expected, but having my boss wake me in my own bedroom – that was certainly not one of them.
“Are you okay?” I asked her, which sounded strange as it came out of my mouth, but seemed more likely to allow me to keep my job than asking ‘What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?’
“Of course, I just wanted to see you were okay. We’ve been worried about you, and Paddy of course. Sinéad wanted me to ask if there was anything at all we could do to help.”
Straightening myself up and rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus.
“I’m fine. We’re fine. He’s getting the treatment and slowly coming round and we’re told he will get there, please God . . .”
I heard myself talk but it sounded so robotic – as if I was trying to reassure myself as much as anyone else. I didn’t actually know if I believed a word I was saying. After all, they had said it was ‘just’ testicular cancer – that is, was the Holy Grail of cancers and that he would most likely be fine. And that the chemo, well, it wouldn’t be too harsh and that he was responding well and would be fine. And every week when his bloods were done, they were doing okay and he was doing okay and we were all in a big happy okay bubble. And then he collapsed. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say he nearly died, I was definitely reeling from a curve-ball kind of a situation and wondering what on earth they had got wrong or couldn’t predict.
“That’s good,” Grace said, “that all sounds positive. What a fright you must have had.”
I nodded. “Yes, it was terrible.”
“Well, take as much time as you need from work. Sinéad said please not to worry. We’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Grace, I appreciate it,” I said. “Why don’t you go down, get that sister of mine to make you a cup of tea and I’ll just freshen up and be down.”
“Okay,” she said.
I sat in my room as I came to full consciousness and realised that my breath smelt really bad and my hair was like a bird’s nest.
Standing under the hot water in the shower, after a quick teeth-brush and while on my third shampoo and rinse, it dawned on me that in precisely two days’ time a magazine was going to hit the shelves in which I talked about a past love and talked about the wedding we were planning. In that moment, as the suds ran down my back, the whole thing just felt so completely inappropriate. How coc
ky had I been to think it would be plain sailing – that our story would, without a doubt – have a happy ending? Jesus . . . it could all go wrong. The last few days had shown me that and there we would be like two big mad eejits grinning from a magazine cover about our hopes for the future and our determination to beat what was thrown at us when the simple truth was we didn’t have any say in it. Being positive wasn’t going to beat this. Putting our faith in things working out wouldn’t guarantee they would – in fact, it was almost as if we had tempted fate. Look at us all smiley and happy and thinking we’ll be grand! Would there be time, I wondered, to pull the article? The mag would be heading to the printers, but we might just be able to catch it.
After rinsing frantically, I grabbed a towel and quickly dried off. I threw on a T-shirt and some jogging pants and padded downstairs to where Grace was sitting in my living room, drinking coffee and eating biscuits while Jules grilled her on the finer points of magazine-writing – as if she didn’t quite believe all the stories I had told her about the profession over the years. I sat on the sofa and waited for Jules to shut up.
“But really,” Jules was asking, “are there many freebies? The freebies must be cool.”
Grace laughed. “There aren’t as many as there used to be – but they can be good. I can’t remember the last time I actually bought any make-up.”
“I am jealous – beyond jealous. Erin, do you get free make-up? You never said! Would you want to share it with me any time soon?”
I nodded. “Raid my drawers – take what you want.”
“Oooh er, missus!” Jules fake-laughed before pounding up the stairs, leaving me with Grace – with whom I was going to have an awkward conversation.
“Can we pull the article?” I asked, deciding that jumping right in was the best possible course of action.
Grace looked confused, her eyebrow raised slightly. “Pull the article?” she asked as if checking she had heard me right.