by Rhoda Baxter
Photos of her at various ages hung on the wall along the stairs. Her parents had already been old when she arrived. Her mother in her forties, her father just past fifty. To them, she had been a late given gift. They had tried to document every bit of their happiness that they could. She had taken it for granted that everyone’s parents kept every single school photo and a folder full of every appearance in the nativity play, school poetry competition, whatever. They were a family. Wasn’t that what families did?
Normally, she would have gone straight to her room, had a shower and gone to bed. Today, she paused. The door to her parents’ room was shut. She rarely went in here, apart from to clean it when it came up on her cleaning routine. She opened the door and turned on the light. She had cleared her father’s wardrobe out after his funeral, so that her mother didn’t have to do it, but there were still photos and bits and bobs of his around the rooms. There was a photo of him as a young man, skinny and fresh off the boat from Sri Lanka. A photo of him, much older, standing next to his pretty English wife, both laughing. Grace picked up the photo of the three of them, her parents beaming, despite the shadows under their eyes, and herself; a tiny bundle in her mother’s arms. She sank down onto the bed.
She missed them. It was natural. Those last years had been such an endless treadmill of meals, medications, appointments, tantrums and frustrations, but she’d got used to that. So used to it, that she’d almost forgotten what it had been like before, when her parents were able. How sad to have lost all those trips to museums, bedtime stories, games of chase, where Daddy could never catch her because he was too wheezy after a few steps. Grace smiled. She missed them, but she didn’t have to preserve them in their old age. It wasn’t fair to any of them.
She was about to replace the photo back on the dressing table, where it had always lived, when she decided against it. Instead, she took it with her. She would put it somewhere in her room and remember them as they were then.
Later, in bed, she could just make out the shape of the photo on her bedside table. It made her feel better, somehow, as though a tiny parcel of weight had lifted. Grace smiled and closed her eyes.
Sally remembered a party. The room had been decorated in rich reds and creams. There were chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. She had to persuade a man to give her a ticket and had to pay a fortune to buy the dress, even second-hand. Charity shop? Hah. Rip-off merchants more like. The prices they charged for something they’d been given for free! Sally had haggled, but that bitch that ran the shop had stood firm. Charitable? Bollocks.
She checked the dress was clinging to her in all the right places and gave a little wiggle to make sure it swished properly. Excellent. Designer wear at high street prices. She supposed she couldn’t really complain. It was an investment. If tonight paid off, she could afford the real thing. She swept into the room and was marginally pissed off when heads did not turn instantly in her direction.
She grabbed a glass of orange juice off the tray as the waiter went past. Sipping it delicately, she scanned the room. The trouble with rich men was that most of them didn’t make it big until they were middle-aged. She could do the sugar daddy thing again, she supposed, but really, if she had to sleep with a man, it would be a massive help if he was attractive. She spotted Maurice Kemp, the securities guy. Too old. Jeremy Traynor, whole food retail – nearly bald. Seth Bridley … not bad looking. Decent value too, but suspiciously quiet. Rumour had it, he was gay but not out. Sally didn’t understand why he didn’t just come out and be done with it. Seth was talking to a tall, blond man in glasses. Sally narrowed her eyes. If Seth was flirting with this guy, he was certainly not responding. He seemed to be listening and smiling though.
Sally slinked a little closer. The man laughed at something Seth said. His face creased lightly at the eyes. His attention was on Seth, giving Sally ample time to study him. He was tall and handsome in a clean-cut sort of a way. Short blond hair, blue-grey eyes, chiselled jaw. It was the smile that was interesting. Smile lines that deep must mean that he did it a lot. She drained her glass, set it down and waited until there was another waiter bearing a tray near the man. She stood where the man could see and hear her, then pretended to try and fail to catch the attention of the waiter. A flicker on the eyes told her he’d spotted her. She ignored him for a moment before making eye contact.
‘Hi.’ She gave him her best smile. ‘I’m dying for a drink, but I can’t seem to catch the waiter’s attention. Could you …’ She looked up at him, pleading.
‘Oh, of course.’ He turned, raised a hand, and waved to the waiter. ‘Here you go.’ He handed a glass of champagne to Sally.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said.
‘No problem.’ There was that smile again. She found herself smiling back. It came naturally. She liked this man.
‘I’m Sally, Sally Cummings.’ She held out her hand. Hopefully the manner in which she said it, would encourage him to introduce himself in the same way.
He shook it. ‘I’m Peter Wesley.’
‘And what do you do Peter Wesley?’ Her mind churned through her internal who’s who file. Wesley. Something to do with IT. Not hugely wealthy, but had potential. Besides, she thought, taking in the broad shoulders and lack of paunch, he’s nice to look at. A quick glance at his left hand to double check he was single. Married men were lucrative, but she was twenty-five now. She needed to find someone before she had to start worrying about the aging process. Yes. He would do nicely.
‘I’m an IT consultant. I do mostly knowledge management.’ His gaze skimmed over her, resting fractionally on her hair when she flicked it over her shoulder. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m an estate agent,’ she said. By this time, Peter’s former companion had wandered off. They were standing together in a crowd. Perfect.
‘How funny,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a house to buy at the moment.’
‘Fate.’
He seemed amused.
She gave him her most dazzling smile. ‘So, tell me, what sort of thing are you looking for?’
He explained what he was after. She translated in her head – a house big enough to leave his options open, but not so big that it suggested a family. Good money, but nothing ostentatious. He seemed to be looking at moving along the ladder from a bachelor pad to something more grown up. This all sounded very promising.
‘I believe I can help you with that,’ she said. ‘I can think of a couple of places on our books that might interest you. Here, let me give you my card.’ She pulled a card out her clutch bag and scribbled her phone number on the back. ‘I’ve put my personal mobile on the back. You know … in case …’ She lowered her eyes.
‘Yes,’ he said. He took the card. She looked back up in time to see the flicker in his eyes when their hands touched.
Someone else touched his arm and Sally left him alone. He would be in touch. She could tell. She knew just the houses to show him. The first would be exactly what he thought he wanted. The second would be different, but she would sell him the dream. The third would be perfect for the new dream. By the time they’d seen the third house, she would have him.
The next morning Peter woke up to the sound of a car crunching up the gravel drive. A car door slammed. He groaned and pushed himself out of bed. He had just got to the landing, pulling his dressing gown over his pyjamas when his mother let herself in through the front door. ‘Peter, darling. It’s only me,’ she shouted. She looked up and spotted him. ‘Hello darling. Did we wake you?’
As Peter limped down the stairs, the door opened again to admit his father. ‘You did, but that’s okay. I said I’d sit with Sally all day today.’
His parents exchanged a glance. His father carried some carrier bags into the kitchen while his mother removed her coat and scarf, still watching Peter.
He ignored them and went into the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’ve brought you some cottage pie, which can go in the freezer, and some bolognaise sauce for today. You’ll have to make yourself some pasta to go with it. I was going to make some this morning but I didn’t have time.’ Diane Wesley was a small, tidy woman. She moved around Peter’s kitchen with the assurance of someone who knew exactly where everything was. Peter noticed that she’d moved a few things from the places Sally had allocated for them. Sally was going to be really pissed off when she came back.
Diane unpacked a load of Tupperware containers from the bags. The kettle boiled. Peter started making drinks.
‘Oh Peter. You haven’t eaten half the meals I left for you.’
Peter ran a hand through his hair. ‘Uh … I got home late the past few nights and I wasn’t hungry.’
‘I know you come in late. That’s why I leave these meals for you. Darling, you have to eat.’ She came over and put a hand over his. ‘Look at you. You’re so thin. And you need a haircut.’
He moved his hand away. He’d had this lecture before. ‘I can look after myself. Don’t worry.’
His father made a noise. Peter looked up. ‘What?’
His father was frowning. ‘Don’t talk to your mother like that,’ he said. ‘And we’re not so sure you can look after yourself.’
‘Frank …’ There was warning in his mother’s tone.
‘No love. We can’t keep pretending that things are going fine. We’re worried about you, Peter. We think you need to see a doctor.’
His mother gasped. ‘Frank!’
Peter scowled. ‘A doctor? I see doctors every day. Why do you think I need another one?’
Frank shot a quick glance at Diane, before he said, ‘We think you might be depressed. Just a bit. We could be wrong.’
‘Yeah? Well, let me see. I was in a car crash on my wedding day. I have a scar the size of Berkshire from my car keys cutting into my leg. I live in a house with more rooms than I know what to do with. I spend my days either working or in a hospital room because my wife, the person I was supposed to be sharing the rest of my life with, is in a fucking coma.’ He slammed the kettle back onto its base. ‘Excuse me if I’m not bursting into song!’
‘It’s hardly surprising, given what you’ve been through,’ said Frank. ‘There’s no shame in admitting …’
‘I’m not depressed.’
‘You’re showing all the signs—’
‘Frank,’ his mother cut in. ‘See, he’s not ready. Stop pestering him.’
‘No, wait. What signs?’ Peter glared at his father. His mother said nothing.
‘Dad?’
‘You’ve been really distant. We expected to you be sad and angry, but we didn’t expect you to stop noticing the world around you. You spend all your time at work or with Sally …’ His father ticked things off his fingers, as though running through a list. He had come prepared for an argument.
‘Your sister had a baby, you haven’t even been to see him,’ his mother added. ‘This isn’t like you, Peter.’
‘Val’s baby?’ He’d sent a card and a present. He intended to go and visit. Soon. Sometime soon.
‘Jacob. He’s six months old.’ His mother fetched her handbag and dug around. Pulling out her phone, she tapped through and turned it to face him. There was a photo of his nephews with a chubby, smiling baby nestled between them. ‘There. That’s him.’
Six months? No, it couldn’t have been. He’d got the text only a few weeks … he frowned. Maybe it had been more than a few weeks. But six months? Christ. Where had the time gone? He reached out for the phone and studied the picture. ‘The boys look so big.’
‘Yes. Having a baby brother meant they grew up a lot. Terry’s a bit jealous about not being the baby of the family any more, but he loves his baby brother.’ His mother’s eyes glowed with grandmotherly pride.
He looked back at the photo. His nephews who had got bigger without him noticing and a baby he’d never met. Maybe his father had a point. He looked up and caught his father’s eye. Understanding dawned, unwelcome. He had been so busy feeling sorry for himself and worrying about Sally that he’d forgotten the rest of the world carried on.
Peter opened his mouth to speak, but his mother held up a hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say, and I do understand. It’s been a really horrible year. You’ve had unrelenting stress and worry. But darling, you need to think of yourself too. If you carry on like this, you’re going to find that if Sally dies, you won’t have anyone to support you.’
A moment of silence followed. His parents watched him, cautiously, as though they were bracing themselves. His mother was standing next his father. Peter could see her hand gripping Frank’s shoulder. He looked up to her face, and felt as though he were seeing her for the first time in ages. She looked tired and ragged with worry. Her eyes were trained on his face, as though waiting to see if her words would make him crumble. His father seemed outwardly calm, but Peter could see the tension in his shoulders and in the pinched brows. It had taken a lot for his parents to say that to him. They must have worried for ages.
‘Oh, just leave me alone.’ He abandoned his coffee and stalked out of the room.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To have a shower and shave. Or would you rather I didn’t go near a razor?’ He heard the intake of breath behind him. He got as far as the bottom of the stairs before his conscience kicked him. He shouldn’t have said that. They meant well. They worried about him. It’s what they always did. He sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He should go back and apologise, but he didn’t want to move. It was all so … difficult.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there. He started when his heard his mother say ‘Peter?’
He pushed himself away from the wall. ‘I’m sorry Mum. I shouldn’t have said that.’
She reached up and touched his face. ‘You can’t help it.’
Peter sank down onto the bottom step and his mother sat next to him.
‘I know you’re stressed, sweetheart, and that you’re hurting and missing Sally. But beating yourself up like this isn’t going to help anyone. You need to stay strong and healthy. If Sally wakes up, she’ll need you.’
‘If Sally wakes up … and I want her to wake up, Mum. So desperately. But what if …’ he couldn’t say it. ‘If …’
‘If she’s damaged?’ See. She couldn’t say it either. It was too horrible to contemplate. Sally without the ability to walk. Or speak. Or bowel control or whatever. He would have to look after her like she was a child. He’d do it, but she would hate that. Or what if she didn’t remember him when she woke up? Or her personality had changed? The thing he loved most about Sally was her enthusiasm for life. It was her energy that dragged him out of his dull grey comfort zone and showed him this wonderful future where they brought the best out of each other. What if she woke up without it? What if she blamed him as much as he blamed himself?
‘It’s my fault,’ he said. ‘I was driving.’ He closed his eyes and saw Sally, in her wedding dress, her eyes big and piercing green. The concern on her face as she said ‘Don’t you trust me?’ That was the last thing she had said to him. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ And he’d tried to throw the lottery ticket away. Because he didn’t. If he’d had faith in her, if he hadn’t had the moment of doubt, she would still be here. ‘I let her down.’
‘Oh Peter.’ Diane put her arms around him. ‘Oh my boy. My poor darling boy. You can’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault. It was an accident. No one knew it was going to happen. No one could have prevented it.’
He turned to look at her w
orried face. She was wrong. But he nodded. ‘I’m going to get ready.’ He stood up, and climbed the stairs, leaving his mother sitting at the bottom.
By the time he’d had a shower and dressed, Peter felt better. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wedding photo on his bedside.
His parents’ concern for him had shifted everything slightly. It was as though he had gained some sort of clarity compared to before. Something needed to change. The phrase ‘parallel planning’ popped into his mind. It was what he’d been told he had to do. Live life with two parallel futures – one where Sally woke up and needed help and one where things stayed as they were. The idea of either was too horrendous to contemplate, so he’d avoided thinking about either; tackling each day as it came. He realised that this was an exhausting way to live. He couldn’t plan anything and he kept putting everything non-essential on hold.
Well, something was going to have to change. He wasn’t sure how he was going to achieve that. The memory of the woman from the lift, Grace, popped into his mind. She had asked him to help with redecorating the hospice. It was happening that day and it wasn’t exactly out of his way … perhaps doing a spot of volunteering with a bunch of people he didn’t know wasn’t as silly an idea as he’d originally thought.
When he got back downstairs, his father was outside cutting the grass and his mother had restocked his fridge with food.
‘Mum,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’m volunteering to help refurbish one of the sitting rooms at the hospice this weekend.’ Now that he’d made up his mind to go, it seemed the perfect solution. It would put his mother’s mind at rest. He could always retreat to Sally’s bedside after a short while. So long as he could honestly say he’d tried it.
Diane shut the fridge door and looked at him seriously for a moment. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she said. From the caution in her voice, he knew she didn’t believe him. Now that he took the time to observe her properly, he could see that she had worry lines on her forehead and she seemed older than he remembered. Perhaps Sally’s coma had affected more than just him. He hadn’t thought of it that way.