by Rhoda Baxter
‘How are you?’ She stood in front of Sally’s monitor and wrote things down.
‘I’m alright, thanks.’
‘Doing anything this weekend? Apart from visiting us obviously.’
‘Not really.’ He put the book down on his lap. ‘I’ve got to go to my mum’s for a family lunch on Sunday.’
‘That’s nice.’ The nurse straightened a crease out of the bedclothes. ‘Sally has such lovely bedding. I love the little blue flowers. Were they her favourite?’
‘Pardon?’ He looked up in confusion. What was this woman going on about?
‘I just wondered, because she has so many sheets with forget-me-nots on them …’
He shook his head. ‘I think her favourite flowers were roses. I don’t know why those sheets have blue on them.’
‘Ah, well they’re very pretty anyway.’ The nurse leaned across and checked Sally’s drip. ‘I reckon that drip’s going to need changing in about an hour.’ She made a note. She stood back and looked down at Sally’s prone figure. ‘I’ll come back and sort that out for you in a bit Sally, okay?’ she said, as though speaking to a child. ‘You said something earlier to me. Are you going to repeat it for Peter?’
Breathing. In and out. In and out.
Peter perked up. ‘What did she say?’
‘I’m not sure.’ The nurse sighed. ‘It sounded like “far”. Or could’ve been “car”.’
It wasn’t much help, but it was nice to know. Sally had been whispering things for a few weeks now. Not loudly or clearly enough for anyone to hear. But it was movement. Something beyond a simple cough and a twitch. A sign that his Sally was in there. Somewhere.
When the nurse left, Peter stood up and leaned closer. ‘Darling, can you hear me? Sally?’
Nothing.
‘If you can hear me, cough.’
Nothing.
Peter sighed and sat back down. ‘Oh Sally.’ He rubbed his face. His eyes rested on the bunch of flowers and for a moment, he had a flashback to the woman in the lift. ‘There was a woman,’ he said, still staring numbly at the flowers. ‘In the lift. She said they were beautiful flowers. I said I bring them in in case you can smell them. Can you smell them, Sally?’
Nothing.
‘I wish …’ There were so many things he wished. He wished he’d never found that blasted lottery ticket. He wished he’d handled it differently. He wished he hadn’t lost control of the car. But all the wishing in the world wouldn’t change what happened. He lost control of the car. He swerved off the road. He pitched the car over the bank by the road. He’d survived with only a few broken bones and a leg that hurt in the mornings. He’d let her down.
He rubbed his face, digging his knuckles into his forehead. ‘Who am I kidding? You can’t hear me. It’s all just random twitches. You’re not there at all. It’s just … your body.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to get myself a coffee. I’ll be right back.’
He didn’t like being angry when he was in Sally’s room. If she could hear him, it would only make her sad.
Grace stood next to her friend Harry and surveyed the common room on level three. To her it looked perfectly serviceable. ‘I think it looks okay, I’m not sure what all the fuss is about?’ she said.
Harry gave her a sidelong glance. ‘Sometimes, we get so used to seeing something, we stop noticing it altogether.’ He picked a vase of plastic flowers out of an alcove and rubbed a finger on the leaves. ‘Ugh. These can go for a start.’ He replaced them.
‘Aren’t you going to put them in the bin, then?’ said Grace.
‘Nah. Best to leave everything as it is until the weekend. We’ll start with a good clear out first. Then we’ll clear it section by section.’ Harry strode across the room, warming to his theme. ‘We’ll start over there.’
Grace tuned him out as he planned things. Harry liked to think out loud. She had known him for a while now. He visited daily too. His father had been in several times as his condition waxed and waned. Harry and Grace had got to know each other through bumping into each other so often that they’d started to chat.
She looked around the room and thought of what Margaret had said about doing something to get herself shaken out of her rut. Like what? Going out with her work colleagues wasn’t an option. She worked as an R&D biochemist in a small start-up company. Most of her colleagues were new graduates whose idea of fun involved clubbing and drinking and going on the pull. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out on the pull.
‘Penny for them?’ Harry came up beside her and made her jump.
‘Oh, just thinking about something Margaret said.’ She told him the gist of the conversation.
‘She’s got a point, my darling,’ said Harry. ‘You’re too young and too pretty to be wasting your life coming here and hanging out with crumblies.’
She didn’t much like being called ‘my darling’, but she took it from Harry. Partly because he called everyone ‘my darling’ and partly because she couldn’t stop him anyway.
‘But Margaret hasn’t got anyone else. She needs me.’
Harry gave her a knowing look. ‘Are you sure it’s not the other way around?’
Grace opened her mouth to argue, then thought of her silent, empty house and what was left of her life now that her mother’s death had robbed her not only of a parent, but of a major purpose. If it weren’t for work and Margaret, she would see no one. She looked away.
‘It’s hard to move on,’ said Harry. He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘But you need to, Grace. You don’t want to end up haunting this place like a lost soul because you can’t face real life any more.’
Grace said nothing. She moved over to a table and straightened out the magazines on it.
‘You need to do something big and bold and out of character,’ said Harry, waving his hands expansively. He was getting into it now. ‘Something that will lift you out of the doldrums.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for that sort of thing yet.’
Harry gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Oh okay then. We’ll just have to start small. Maybe with redecorating this room and making it a fun place for the patients and families to hang out, eh?’
Grace smiled. ‘That sounds like a plan. What do you need me to sort out before Saturday?’
Harry pulled a notebook out of his back pocket. ‘I have a list.’
Grace laughed. ‘You always do.’
Sally tried to sniff. She had a nose, she knew she did. She breathed in. Nothing. There was no smell in the nothingness.
Peter had said something about flowers. Smelling flowers. He’d said roses. Did she like roses? She was sure it wasn’t that. What did she like? In the comforting darkness, Sally thought of forget-me-nots. She liked forget-me-nots. Little sprays of blue. So, why did she tell Peter she liked roses? And then, out of the nothingness, a memory surfaced.
‘Look, Daddy, roses, aren’t they beautiful?’ Sally looked up. She was small. Her little fist clutched her father’s forefinger. There were people about. A market. ‘Mummy would love some roses Daddy. Shall we get her some?’
Her father smiled down at her. He had a charming smile. Vivid green eyes and brown hair. Sally had inherited them both. ‘I’m not sure we can afford them, Princess.’
‘I’m sure we can Daddy. I’m sure we can.’ She pulled him towards the buckets set out at small child level on the floor.
‘How much are they?’ Her father asked the seller. When he heard the response, his face fell. Even from that angle, Sally could tell. He crouched down until he was level with her. ‘I’m sorry Princess, we can’t afford those.’
She wanted them. She wanted her mummy to have the pretty flowers. She wanted to see the smile spread across her face when she came in from her cleaning job. Daddy would get her a cup of tea and she,
Sally, would present her with a beautiful bunch of roses. And now that couldn’t happen. Daddy had ruined it all. Hot tears gathered. ‘You always say that!’ She stamped her foot and tried to pull away from his hand. ‘You never do anything nice for me and Mummy.’
Her father pulled her closer to him and hugged her. ‘I know, sweetheart, I know. I’ve let you down.’ He held her, stroking her hair. ‘Tell you what, we’ll find some different flowers for Mummy on the way home, okay?’
Eventually, Sally nodded. She wiped a little palm across her eyes and drew away from her Daddy. As he stood up, she thought his face was wet.
Later, when Mummy came home, Sally was bursting to tell her what they’d found. She hurtled into Glenda as soon as she came in the door.
‘Hello darling,’ said Daddy, following his daughter out of the kitchen. He kissed his wife. ‘Sally, let Mummy get her coat off.’ He bent forward. ‘I’ll get Mummy into the living room, you go get the surprise.’
Sally zoomed off into the kitchen. The posy of forget-me-nots was in a small glass, with one of Sally’s hair ribbons tied round it. It was in the middle of the table, Sally had to drag a chair across so that she could reach. Daddy came in and made a cup of tea. He set a tray, with tea and a small cake they’d bought. ‘Okay Sal? Ready?’
Sally nodded and went into the living room where her mother was sitting in an armchair, rubbing her temples. ‘Happy Birthday Mummy.’ She presented her with the posy.
‘Oh Sally, they’re beautiful. Did you pick them? How lovely.’
‘We got them from the park. We would have got a gooder bunch, but the man came and shouted and we had to run away. It was such fun.’
Her mother glanced up at her father. ‘Really? From the park? What an adventure.’
‘Happy Birthday darling.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get you the special things you deserve. But …’
Her mother gathered him and Sally to her. ‘I have all I need, right here.’ She kissed them both. Sally snuggled up on her lap. She looked up and caught the expression on her father’s face. Even at that age, she could see the despair in his features. But she couldn’t understand why it frightened her.
Chapter Four
Peter woke up when a nurse shook him gently by the shoulder. ‘Peter, it’s nearly 9.30. Would you like us to make up a camp bed for you?’
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He had been watching Sally. He couldn’t believe he’d nodded off. What if Sally had whispered something? He’d have missed it. ‘No. I’ll be off in a minute.’ The book had fallen on the floor. He retrieved it. Sally lay in exactly the same position as before, her chest rising and falling peacefully. ‘Did she say anything while I was asleep?’
There were CCTV cameras in all the rooms and Sally was hooked up to so many monitors that something would have gone off.
The nurse shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ She put her head to one side in a concerned manner. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to me to set up the bed for you?’
Peter covered up a yawn and stretched. ‘No. You will call me though, won’t you? If she says or does anything.’
‘Of course.’ She turned back to look at Sally for a moment, before giving Peter a smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m sorry to have woken you.’
‘No, no. That’s fine. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. It defeats the object of my being here.’
‘I’m sure Sally was grateful for the company,’ said the nurse.
Peter thought that was a ridiculous thing to say, but didn’t respond. What was the point? People needed to say something.
He pulled on his coat and tucked the book back into his pocket. ‘Bye, bye darling. I’ll come see you again tomorrow.’ He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. ‘Maybe tomorrow you’ll talk to me.’ Another kiss. He turned back at the door to look at her lying there like a rag doll. ‘Night.’ He left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
Someone was walking past and he almost walked into them when he started towards the lift. ‘Oh.’ It was the woman from earlier. They walked along the corridor, both heading for the same place, but not wanting to talk to each other. Peter looked at the ground as he walked. Well, this was awkward.
When the lift arrived, he let her go in first. She cleared her throat. ‘I was just at a meeting with the fundraising committee. We’re redecorating the common room on this floor this weekend. Would you like to help?’
Peter blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Fundraising? Whatever for? This is a private hospice, surely the extortionate fees cover everything.’ Oh bugger. That made him sound tight. The place was expensive. He didn’t mind. He wanted his Sally to have the best care and comfort available.
She smiled. She was tall and had smooth skin the colour of latte. Her features were a delicate mix of Asian and Caucasian – high cheekbones, big eyes, wide mouth, sharp chin. It was her hair that caught his attention. It gleamed.
It occurred to him that she was quite beautiful, if a little grave. He wondered where that thought had come from.
‘Actually, it’s a social enterprise,’ she said. ‘The fee paying part of the hospital subsidises the West Wing.’
‘West wing?’ He was aware that there was another wing to the place. He had assumed it was more of the same.
‘Hedgehog House. Children’s Palliative and Respite care. It’s funded by the charity. The hospice donates all profits.’
Peter ran the words past his internal dictionary. Children. Palliative. Respite. ‘Oh.’ More of the same, yes, but sadder, somehow. ‘I hadn’t realised.’
‘I didn’t either when I started coming here. I used to wheel Mum out into the garden sometimes when the weather was nice, just so that she got to see the sun. We used to meet the families then.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘I’m Grace, by the way,’ she said
‘Peter.’
The lift door opened and they stepped out into the lobby. They walked out to the door together, Grace giving the security guard a wave as they passed.
‘So, what about it?’ she said as they reached the doors. ‘Will you help?’
Peter hesitated. He didn’t want to help. He wanted to be left alone. He was busy. He had a business to run. His wife was in a coma. Life was a ridiculous circus of work meetings, medical meetings and long, pointless evenings sitting next to Sally’s bed, waiting for her to wake up. It was exhausting. He didn’t have anything left to give anyone. ‘I don’t …’
Her disappointment showed on her face. It was as though she had a personal investment in making him join the cause. ‘I understand,’ she said. Her face resumed its stoical expression. ‘Well, it was nice to talk to you Peter. I hope … things get better.’
He felt like a selfish wanker, but he’d done the right thing. He was walking such a tightrope between coping and going mad with worry that he had to be careful. Too much stress and things could go very wrong. Sally was an orphan. She had no one else to depend on. He had to be there and be fit to look after her when she came round. He couldn’t make commitments he couldn’t keep.
He watched Grace walk, her plait swinging, across the car park. Yes. He had done the right thing. He sighed and went to his own car. So why did he feel like such a git?
Grace threw her keys into the little pot on the shelf that was there specifically for that purpose. It had once held the whole family’s keys, but now there were just hers. She hung her coat up and thought for the umpteenth time that she really should get round to throwing away her mother’s scarves that hung on the other pegs in the downstairs loo. It was on her list of things to tackle. She’d get round to it at some point.
It didn’t take her long to defrost a meal that she’d batch cooked at the weekend. It was so much nicer to have meals already done when she got home. W
hen the microwave pinged, the soup was too hot. She left it to cool and put a sliced bagel in to toast. Watching the toaster, she thought about her encounter with Peter. Hah. So much for doing something bold and out of character. Well, she’d tried that and look how that turned out. Take that, Harry!
Walking around the common room had made her look at the familiar room in a different way. Suddenly, things that she’d never noticed before jumped out at her. The carpet showed tracks where feet and wheelchairs had rolled over it every day. The comfy chairs in front of the TV were worn from many different bottoms and knees and heads. The wallpaper and curtains were faded where the sun caught them. All this had always been there for her to see, yet she’d never noticed. It was as though she’d be walking through the area with blinkers on.
The sudden feeling that this wasn’t just about a common room hit her. This could just as well apply to her life. She’d been a carer for so long, first helping her mother with looking after her father, and then by herself, looking after her mother. When she’d finally allowed herself to put her mother into a hospice, she’d felt so bad that she’d spent every spare minute visiting. Somewhere in amongst all that she’d forgotten how to be young. Now it was almost too late to learn again.
The toaster popped. She gathered her food and sat at the table. As she ate her soup and bagel, she let her attention roam around the kitchen. This was another place that she’d got so used to that she’d stopped really seeing it. The walls were exactly as her mother had left them. The same cookbooks on the same shelves, sitting next to the same twee little tins.
Grace twisted around in her chair and surveyed the whole room. It could do with a repaint. Maybe a declutter. She thought about the terribly difficult to use knives and the wooden spoons so old they were starting to dissolve at the ends. She could do with a new set of cutlery too. She smiled to herself. She could go on a shopping spree. Now that sounded like so much more fun than dusting around knick-knacks that meant nothing to her anymore.
She finished her soup, washed up the bowl and spoon and left them drying next to her mug on the draining board. Her mother would have made her dry them up and put them away. It suddenly occurred to her that she only ever used one set of crockery. The same mug, bowl and spoon, the same one plate. She shook her head. How had she let this happen?