Glitches

by Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone

  When he got engaged to my sister, he arranged a business trip to my local town. He wanted to talk to me alone, he said, explain a few things; my sister knew all about it. So we met in a bar and had a couple of drinks.

  He told me that for four long years he’d been chasing the dragon but now he was clean and wanted to live a new life, have a family, with my sister. She was the pinnacle of all his dreams. He wanted to tell me about his drug-taking past because he wanted me to understand what she meant to him. He wanted me to know all about him, but, he had added, he thought it best not to mention it to my parents. Why cloud their feelings about the marriage unnecessarily?

  Part of the way through our conversation, he got up to go to the gents. As he crawled out over the bench, I noticed the last button of his shirt was undone. Something about the glimpse of cool, white flesh beneath, something about the vulnerability of this lapse in etiquette, alongside his unceasing praise of my sister, gave him my sympathies.

  Thinking this through took me to half time when a sudden flash of the news caught my eye. Further unrest in Iraq; an all too familiar headline. I swirled my cold tea in the mug, wondering if my sister could be happy with Ron. When I looked back at the television, they were showing the aftermath of another bomb that had caused civilian casualties. It was situated around a checkpoint, still guarded by a policeman in a blue-checked uniform.

  ‘These checkpoints are useless,’ one Iraqi man was saying. ‘The city has become a maze of concrete walls and isolated neighbourhoods, dividing Shia and Sunni. You risk death to pass between. Even policemen. Look at them. They are militiamen.’

  The camera followed the man’s out-stretched hand to the group of policemen, focusing in on one man and his Kalashnikov. Near the handle of the gun that hung close by his waist, I noticed the last button of his uniform was undone. I could see the folds of his loose heavy flesh falling over the buckle of his belt.

  As the image on the screen flicked back to the studio, a wave of utter defeat pinned me to my chair. How could I decide who to sympathize with? I closed my eyes. I wished someone else could have been sitting there playing the family representative. I took a sip of tea; I’d forgotten it was cold.

  At the end of the match, I got up to use the toilet. As I walked past the windows, the overcast sky allowed light to reflect from the glass like a mirror and I saw a brief flash of my own pale stomach. The last button of my shirt was undone.

  Divine Precedent

  I can’t say it began with the painting, but I find it pleasing to think that for all these years the reproduction of the Lactation of St Bernard has hung on my study wall.

  Dated around 1480, artist unknown, the painting is of the Flemish school. Behind the scene of the Virgin Mary, Baby Jesus and St Bernard, is a typically ornate vista - a river, hills, trees, a turreted building I take to be a monastery - which, regardless of the undulating terrain, reminds me of the pleasant country that stretches beyond the college. All is contemplation and the pleasures of the mind, until, that is, you look a little closer: below the chaste beauty of the Virgin’s face, surrounded by lace and folds of orange cloth, is her left breast, the nipple of which she presses between her fingers. Her gaze maintains a benevolent composure that diverts the viewer from two faint lines stretching between her nipple and the Saint’s parched, wrinkled lips. His eyes, on the contrary, are frozen, as would be mine, at nipple height, drinking in the pure milk of kindness whilst his tongue, we imagine, tastes the sweetness on his lips.

  It is unsurprising therefore, that it is this painting I think of as I recline on my pillows, staring into the wary eyes of my nursemaid, Claire, whose ample bosom makes Mary’s seem no more than the budding of adolescence. Indeed, Claire’s swellings are no doubt the true inspiration for my blessed dotage, brought about by a perverted swelling of my own and I am not referring to my erection. Due to my swelling of malignant cells I’m unlikely ever to enjoy an erection again. Still, I get as close as I can and Claire is wonderfully compliant. I always knew she would be.

  When Claire first became my nursemaid, she was returning from maternity leave. That first day I remember staring at her breasts, still fat from nursing her daughter: thick ropes of blue vein pulsed like arrows across her chest towards her nipples. Pressed within her cleavage was a gold crucifix on a chain. How I longed to be hung on that particular cross. Mesmerised, I watched Claire move about my bed, checking my readings with a soft smile. I could persuade you I saw wings on her back, light radiating from behind her head, but what I really saw, what I see still, is a woman seasoned for manipulation. When she went on to talk of her older child, disabled from birth, and how her husband had left her when she fell pregnant with their second child, I had to cough to hide my grin; here was a vulnerable Catholic girl ripe for the picking.

  At first I did nothing more than complain of discomfort down below - I soon learnt all the health-professional’s euphemisms. I would cry out in pain, or scratch at myself until a second bed bath was my reward. All this was fun, in its way, but I wanted more. Claire, I knew, had so much more to give. She knew it too. It was her thoughtfulness that suggested quite how much more of herself she could give.

  The cancer doesn’t allow me much movement anymore and Claire, knowing how much I love to keep abreast of things, thought a laptop might be just the thing to put me back in touch with my research. She even suggested that I might want to look up alternative therapies. I was touched but only metaphorically and so, as soon as she had left me to it, in my frustration, I typed four words into Google: breasts alternative therapy cancer. The results were life changing.

  Researchers at Lund University in Sweden were making extraordinary claims about a compound called human alpha-lactalbumin, found in breast milk. The compound seemed to kill cancer cells. In the human gut it turns into a substance whose acronym, unbelievably, is HAMLET.

  The miracle of the lactation of St Bernard has, over time, taken variant paths, though the central part of the miracle, the Virgin’s lactation, remains unchanged. Some say during an infection St Bernard was praying to a statue of the Virgin when it began to bleed milk from its breast to heal him. Others say he was praying to the Virgin, asking her to show proof of her status as the mother of mankind, whereupon he was fed from her breast. Others still say the feeding happened whilst he slept in prayer and was a direct way of giving him the wisdom of God. I have always preferred the story that has St Bernard suckling at the Virgin’s breast.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Claire asked on her next round.

  ‘It was wonderful,’ I replied. ‘I feel restored.’

  ‘Any tips? They say juicing works wonders.’ She moved closer to check my catheter. It was full. She unclipped it and put a new one in place.

  ‘I think juicing would be difficult for me. I wouldn’t be able to do it myself and, as you know, I have no family. I can’t exactly ask the college to supply it.’ I laughed, allowing the air to catch in my throat and set off a fit of coughing.

  Claire fetched me a glass of water.

  ‘Better now?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You know,’ I said, swallowing the words, ‘I’ve never seen pictures of your children.’

  Claire coloured. ‘Oh.’ She placed the half empty glass on my side table.

  ‘Do you have any?’

  ‘Well,’ Claire paused, smiled, ‘yes. I do.’ She leaned forwards and opened the locket around her neck.

  It was hard to look away from her cleavage, but the situation required it.

  ‘This is Emily,’ she said pointing to a round face on the left, thin hair caught in a pink clip, ‘and this is Dave.’ Dave’s disability was obvious: I couldn’t say what was wrong with him, but his face was flat, his gaze unfocused and his lips parted in a leer.

  ‘Beautiful,’ I said.

  Claire’s face reddened again, this time sending blotches down her n
eck and over her chest. I imagined she didn’t often hear such a response to both children.

  ‘They are,’ she said.

  ‘How do you cope looking after them? Does Dave need extra care?’

  She went on to describe how difficult it was to find the right people to care for Dave, how expensive things were. I listened attentively. ‘Days out are so hard,’ she said. ‘Dave never really gets to do different things and I can’t really manage on my own, not now we have Emily.’

  When she’d gone, I did two things: emailed a fellow at College whose daughter was in a similar shape to Dave, as far as I could remember - something I’d taken no previous interest in - and asked if he could give her carer the afternoon off one Saturday to help a family I knew go to the Zoo - he was touched that I actually had a heart after all and happy to comply; then I emailed the college porters asking them to print out various documents about the breast milk research and have them sent to the ward.

  Later that afternoon, Claire was back with a package for me. I chose this moment to tell her about the Saturday afternoon I’d arranged for her. She wanted to reject my benevolence, I could see she felt beholden, but the chance to take her family out was too tempting. The blotches appeared on her face, neck and chest again as she accepted my offer.

  ‘How can I ever repay you?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Claire. It will please me just to know you are enjoying yourself for once.’ The blotches went purple.

  She turned to leave the room, when I stopped her and said casually, ‘Would you mind opening the package for me? Sometimes I’m all fingers and thumbs.’

  She opened the package. Unfortunately, the porters had given the papers a cover sheet with a note reminding me to get well soon. Two-faced bastards. She handed me the papers and left.

  Undeterred I arranged for a mixed bouquet of roses and lilies to be delivered to Claire on the ward for the following morning. The card read, ‘To my guardian angel.’ I was really beginning to enjoy myself.

  The flowers were beautiful but again Claire was embarrassed and insisted on them being put in my room. I had anticipated this, however, and had placed the boldest and most relevant research on the side table, knowing she’d have to remove it to put down the vase of flowers. When she picked up the papers, she asked if they were important.

  ‘No, no, just some therapies I was looking in to, but I don’t think they will work for me. You can throw them out.’ Her forehead creased in concern.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, yes, just idle imaginings of a dying man.’

  She piled the papers on my bed, set up the flowers, commented on how lovely they were and left the room, papers in hand. Finally I was getting somewhere.

  Claire didn’t mention the papers and I said nothing more about them, only remarking upon what a wonderful nurse she was and how I wished I could do more to thank her. She went on her Saturday trip out and came back on the Monday full of tales about how wonderful it was and how much Dave enjoyed the penguins. She’d even brought in her camera.

  I smiled politely and said, ‘Wonderful. I so wanted you all to have fun.’

  ‘But you must let me do something for you in return, Professor,’ she said. ‘What can I do to thank you?’

  ‘Your job, my dear, your job. Just keep these old bones going as long as they can.’

  Her usually animated face froze a little, no red or purple blotches this time, but a blanching that drew greater attention to the veins across her breast. I could see that my research had been read. I started to cough.

  ‘Oh, dear, let me get you a glass of water. How is the pain? Do you think we need to change your dose of painkiller?’ she said, one hand on my brow the other at my wrist. She is wonderfully efficient.

  ‘Really,’ I said, coughing as I caught my breath, ‘I’m fine.’

  Later that day she brought me a freshly squeezed juice full of carrot, lettuce and celery. I choked, and using a trick from my school days, made myself vomit.

  I emailed that fellow again and asked if further trips could be arranged, all at my expense of course. He replied telling me to hang the expense, as long as I paid for the outing I could have the carer for free, so I bought tickets online for the Aquarium. This time, mottled blotches scarred Claire’s chest.

  ‘Professor,’ she said, ‘it’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you are doing for us, but I really must ask you to stop. I shouldn’t be accepting all of this.’

  ‘But, my dear, it makes me so happy to be able to return just a little of everything you give to me. Allow an old man his indulgences. Besides, everything is arranged, you would be wasting my money if you were to decide not to go.’

  So she went and came back with more photographs and this time, as I squinted over the small screen, I pretended to have a fainting fit, not unlike a mini stroke and feigned a lapse from consciousness. Peering through my eyelashes I watched her complexion turn ghostly. She sat upright on the chair by my bed, her eyes full of remorse. I let my eyelids flicker.

  ‘Ah, there you are, back with us, Professor, eh?’

  I smiled.

  ‘Like I said, Claire, my guardian angel.’ I tried to sit up but she pressed me back down onto the pillows.

  ‘Just you rest. I have something I want to talk to you about.’

  Here it comes, I thought.

  ‘Those papers...’

  ‘Which papers, my dear?’ I was really enjoying myself now.

  ‘The ones you wanted me to throw away.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I read them.’

  ‘I see,” I said. ‘You didn’t throw them away?’

  ‘Not until I’d read them.’

  ‘You know, there is very little medical evidence...’

  ‘No you don’t,’ Claire said, ‘I know you are going to try to persuade me out of it, but you can’t, I’ve made up my mind. How could I not try to help you when you’ve been so kind and done so much for me?’

  ‘But, I’m not sure what you mean, Claire, you do so much for me already.’

  ‘Not enough.” She paused, her eyes downcast. She swallowed hard. ‘I think you should drink my milk.’

  ‘Claire,’ I said, but again she interrupted.

  ‘I’ve got plenty and why not? If it helps little babies why couldn’t it help you?’ I was so nearly there, then, ‘I’ve expressed a bottle for you and I intend to make it into a shake, like that man does.’

  I coughed and winced. She looked at me, concerned.

  ‘Isn’t that difficult for you?’ I asked.

  ‘I can fit it in. I sometimes add to the milk bank here.’

  I could see there would be no other option; I would have to ask.

  ‘But, surely, it would save you time, wouldn’t it, if you could just make it part of your round and feed me direct?’ I asked.

  It was her turn to wince. Her eyes stretched so wide I could almost see the sockets.

  ‘I’m not sure, Professor, I’m...’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘of course, that’s too much, I understand. It does seem strange, you’re right.’

  She looked relieved. ‘So, I’ll -’

  ‘I’m sure the research exaggerated the need for fresh milk.’

  Her face fell. I sighed, trying to sound resigned.

  ‘Such an offer is sacrifice enough. It’s an old man’s caprice to see you as my guardian angel. Though you fit the model so perfectly and it would be nothing short of St Bernard’s miracle.’ Still smiling stoically, I told her the whole story of the painting in my rooms, though my version had Bernard suckling at the Virgin’s breast. ‘It’s folly, I know,’ I said, ‘even a little blasphemous to compare you to Our Lady, but,’ her face was frozen in shock and defeat, ‘I’ve always thought we were called to fol
low such greatness.’ And of course - thank heaven for her belief in Our Lady - she gave in.

  Now, every day after lunch, I get to bury my head in her glorious breasts, nudging the crucifix aside, sucking my way back to the womb as this cancer unmakes me. Sometimes Claire cries as she feeds. She tries to hide it, but the whole thing disgusts her. This, of course, only enhances her appeal.

  As I look up at her now, her face hardened rather than composed, I thank heaven for St Bernard’s divine precedent. I lie back and await the inevitable, hoping only that our mismatched embrace will be discovered before Claire sings me to my final rest. In fact, that could be the door handle I hear turning this very minute. Imagine the tabloid photographs - they’d sit so well framed on my study wall.

  Delicious Candy

  Everyone tells themselves what they want to hear. Not that there aren’t voices of doubt, but you reassure yourself by watching the troubles of others and telling yourself the reason you don’t have that particular trouble is because you are doing something right - you never sleep on a disagreement with your husband, you are making your child say please and thank you, you are insisting they share their toys, or you are walking everywhere and never getting in a car, or you don’t get angry quickly so don’t end up having public shouting matches on residential streets. There is no longer such a dominant method of child-rearing or a socially tight-knit community, at least not in a big town, and so every day you are questioning your own behaviour and patting yourself on the back or wishing you could be a little more like that person who bought a sandwich and tea for the homeless man on the corner. You see someone spitting on the street and either you quietly curse their parents or you remind yourself that spitting is normal where they come from, whilst at the same time side-stepping the slobber, your brain replaying the well known fact about increases in TB. You step over the same ground. You tell yourself you are the normal one. You go home and occasionally you cry until your face is puffy and your voice is hoarse.