by Rhoda Baxter
‘Thank you.’ There was a waft of alcohol and the sour smell of someone who hadn’t quite made it back to sobriety. She walked past him, steady and stiff.
‘Down the hall and first left.’ Peter directed her into the kitchen. She turned and gave him a smile. Sally’s smile. It hit him like a thump in the chest. She was related to Sally alright. Judging by her age, she could very well be Sally’s mother. Or an aunt. Either way, Sally had family she’d never mentioned.
He followed the woman into the kitchen. She was looking around approvingly. ‘ By the way, I’m Glenda, Glenda Cummings.’
Another jolt of familiarity. The way she said it sounded just like Sally. Peter stared at her, immobilised by the memory.
Glenda watched him for a second and sighed. ‘Did she tell you I died?’
Unable to find a response, he nodded.
‘She does that sometimes,’ said Glenda, wearily. She frowned. ‘Did she tell you about her father?’
Peter found his voice. ‘She said he … committed suicide.’ Hanged himself, that was what Sally had said. He’d hanged himself from the bannister, so that Sally found him when she came home from school. He remembered Sally’s whole body trembling when she told him. And then she’d told him about how her mother had just faded away and died of a broken heart soon after. She’d said she didn’t want to talk about it ever again. He had respected that.
Glenda looked away. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He did.’ Another sigh. ‘After that Sally and I fell out and we don’t talk. Sometimes it’s easier for her to pretend I’m dead too.’
Sally lied to him? Why would she do that? She’d done it before, with the gambling, but once he’d confronted her, she’d told him everything. All those debts and sorry secrets. About the affairs that had funded the gambling habit. It had been their first and only row. She had cried and begged another chance. He’d loved her so much that he’d agreed. On the proviso that she went to Gamblers Anonymous, which she had eventually done, never missing a single meeting. He’d thought she’d told him everything. He remembered the red letter he’d dealt with the week before. No, not everything. It was entirely possible this woman really was Sally’s mother.
He made Glenda a coffee, which she took without comment. She sat at the table, still in her coat, and looked around. ‘This is a nice place,’ she said. ‘She’s done alright for herself, my Sally. Is she not in?’
Peter drew a breath. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this …’
The watery eyes widened. ‘She’s dead? There was no ad in the paper. When? How?’ The voice rose in pitch, also eerily like Sally’s.
‘No, no, no. She’s not dead.’ Peter held out his hands in a calming motion. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. She’s alive. But she’s not … well.’
Glenda frowned. ‘Not well? Is it serious? What is it? Is she in hospital? Is that why I haven’t seen her?’
There was no painless way to explain it. ‘She’s in a coma. There was a car accident after the wedding. She was injured. She’s been in a coma for nearly a year now. That’s why she hasn’t been … anywhere.’
The blue eyes widened. Glenda looked down at her hands. She gave a small sob.
‘Are you okay? Is there anything I can get you?’ He’d just told this woman that her daughter was in a coma. It was bound to be a shock. He wished there had been another way to tell her, but there wasn’t. ‘I’m sorry.’
Glenda didn’t look up. Her shoulders hunched in as though she were protecting herself. ‘Tell me.’
He told her. About the accident, about the hours of operations, the medically-induced coma. About how Sally never woke up. About the hope of each slight change that might move her closer to consciousness. Partway through his explanation, Glenda started to rock. She whispered, ‘My baby. My poor, poor baby.’
Peter stopped. What did he do now? He remembered all too well the feeling of being told all this about his wife. For him the news had come in bursts. Each new development punching into the ache left by the previous bit of bad news. Glenda was getting it all in one go. ‘Glenda? I’m so sorry.’
After what seemed an age, Glenda looked up. ‘I need a drink,’ she said hoarsely.
Peter hesitated. Glenda had clearly been drinking already.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Glenda. ‘I’m not going to get mean and rowdy on you. Right now, I really, really need a drink. I’m begging you.’ She looked up at him, her eyes hazy with tears. ‘Please.’
Frankly, he could do with a drink himself. Peter fetched the whiskey and watched as Glenda knocked back the glass he poured her. The resemblance to Sally and the response to the news of Sally’s coma was enough for him to believe that she was closely related to Sally. If she was her mother, she must have had Sally very late. Glenda closed her eyes briefly and Peter noticed that, despite the thin looking skin, Glenda’s skin was not that wrinkled. Perhaps she just looked older than she was. As he watched, the alcohol seemed to chase away some of the defeat from Glenda. When she finally looked up, she seemed more collected.
‘Did she tell you I died of a broken heart?’ Her eyes met his for the first time.
‘Yes.’
Glenda nodded and looked back at the hands. She rotated the glass, round and round. There was a thin layer of amber liquid at the bottom. ‘She did that a lot.’
‘Why? Why would she lie?’ What he didn’t say was ‘why did she lie to me? I’m her husband.’
Glenda shrugged. ‘She’s ashamed of me. It was easier to have a mother who was dead than one who’s an alcoholic who lives in a squat.’
‘She didn’t need to be ashamed. I would have helped. I helped her with—’ he stopped, wondering if Glenda knew about Sally’s problem.
‘With the gambling?’ Glenda gave him an appraising look. ‘She told you?’
Somehow that annoyed him. ‘Yes, she told me. We were getting married. She didn’t want to have secrets when we started our married life.’
‘But only up to a point, eh?’ There was something in the way that Glenda was staring at him, as though she were weighing him up. Something like sadness … or pity. ‘Don’t judge my girl too harshly,’ she said. ‘She didn’t have it easy in life.’
Peter folded his arms. ‘No.’
‘She found her father, you know. Hanging from the bannister.’ Glenda took another sip of the whiskey and closed her eyes. ‘She went to the neighbours. By the time I got home, she’d calmed down.’ She pushed the glass across the table and looked pleadingly at him.
These were things Sally had never discussed. A side of Sally that he’d never seen. Peter poured another short measure. Glenda was clearly highly dependent on the stuff. He wondered if addictions ran in the family. He wondered if he should be feeding her addiction.
‘Thanks.’ She drew it back towards her, the glass rumbling against the table top. ‘She handled it so much better than I did. And when I … when I fell apart, she tried to help for a bit. But then she gave up and left.’ Glenda sniffed and wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. ‘She blamed me, you know. For her father taking his life. She thought it was my fault. But …’ She gave a loud hiccupy sob. ‘I loved that man so much. I just couldn’t face life without him.’
Shit. Peter looked around and spotted the roll of kitchen towel. ‘Here.’ He passed it to her. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
Glenda blew her nose and managed a watery smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t need this. Your wife’s in a coma. You don’t need a silly old woman crying in your kitchen.’
‘It’s okay.’ What else could he say? He no longer doubted that she was telling the truth when she claimed to be Sally’s mother. She looked too much like Sally to not be related to her. Sally had told him the story of her father’s suicide. She’d also told him about her mother’s subsequent pini
ng and early death. Clearly, only half of the story had been true. Why would anyone deny the existence of their mother? Why, after all that song and dance about not having secrets, did Sally lie to him?
The chair scraped on the floor as Glenda stood up. ‘I should go,’ she said. ‘Sally would be livid if she knew I’d spoken to you.’
She took a step closer and the smell of stale alcohol grew stronger. ‘You’re a good man, Peter. I can see that you’ll do your best for my Sally. She’s lucky to have you.’
Peter didn’t know what to say. Glenda started towards the door. Peter put a hand on her arm. He couldn’t just let Sally’s mother disappear from his life, just like that.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ he said. ‘Money?’
She gave a short laugh. ‘I’ll only drink it.’
‘Something else then?’
‘A sandwich?’ she suggested, the smile pulling at her mouth making her look like Sally again.
Peter remembered the carefully labelled boxes of food in the fridge. ‘Wait a minute.’ He pulled the boxes out and stuffed them into a carrier bag. ‘Here. Take these. There’s food enough for a week.’
Glenda peered into the bag. ‘Thank you.’ She gave him the full benefit of her smile. ‘Thank you, Peter.’
He nodded, awkward.
As Glenda reached the door he said, ‘Wait. How can I contact you? If … if I need to.’ If the worst happens. If Sally dies. If Sally wakes up.
Glenda stopped. ‘I read the Times every day, you know. Not Sundays, because the library’s shut then, but otherwise. I read the classifieds and the births, deaths and marriages. So if anything happens to Sally, will you put a notice in the Times? So that I know.’
‘Of course. I’ll do that. If she wakes up, I’ll put something in the classifieds. I promise.’
‘Thank you.’ She gave him another one of Sally’s smiles and let herself out.
Peter went into the front room and watched her leave. Her step was a little quicker than when she’d arrived. Probably from the two glasses of whiskey she’d had. Poor woman. He wondered what she must have been like before the alcoholism had got its claws into her.
He thought of his own mother, who was so clean-cut and normal. Who cooked him meals that he gave away to strangers because he didn’t appreciate that they were just what he needed. He’d been so busy feeling sorry for himself that he’d forgotten to appreciate his family.
Family. Oh shit. Val and the boys! He looked at his watch and realised that he’d spent longer talking to Glenda than he’d thought. It was too late to join them for tea now. Bollocks. He called Val.
‘Val it’s Peter. I’m very sorry—’
‘But you’re not coming? Fine Peter. I should have known.’
He had expected her anger, but he still felt wounded by it. ‘I was all ready to go out but—’
‘Is it Sally?’ She sounded weary, as though she was just being polite.
‘No.’
‘In that case, I’m not interested in the excuse. I’ll see you when I see you Peter. Bye.’
‘No, wait! I’m still coming.’ Val had every reason to be disappointed in him, but he didn’t have to leave things like this. So what that he wouldn’t see the kids? He could still go see his sister.
Val was dubious. ‘It’ll be gone 10 o’clock when you get here.’
‘I could sleep over on the couch,’ he said. ‘I can be a couple of hours late for work tomorrow. It’s my company. What am I going to do? Fire me?’
‘I … okay. I’ll see you in a few hours.’ She still sounded unconvinced, as though she was still expecting him to cancel at the last minute.
He needed overnight things now, but apart from that, he was set to go. He felt much better. He needed to talk to someone and Val was one of the most blunt and down to earth people he knew. She was also the only person he could trust to keep a secret.
Chapter Fourteen
Peter was glad he’d made the effort to come to visit Val. He sat on her sofa, drinking a hot chocolate with a splash of whiskey in it. Val sat opposite him, telling him about the kids. She looked tired and puffy and much older than she had done before her son was born. Peter had just peeped in to have a look at the sleeping children. He couldn’t believe he’d managed to miss his nephew’s arrival so completely.
‘So,’ said Val, pulling a blanket around her knees. ‘Tell me what’s going on with you.’
‘How much is mum telling you?’
Val rolled her eyes. ‘You’re not eating properly. She’s worried you’re withdrawing from the world.’ She examined him for a moment. ‘I thought she was exaggerating, but you are looking a bit scraggly and thin.’
Peter smiled. ‘And I need a haircut. I know.’
‘She says Sally’s condition hasn’t changed.’
‘No.’ He sipped his hot drink and felt the warmth burn down his throat. It reminded him of Glenda.
‘So what has?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Why are you here, Peter? You haven’t bothered to come and see us for nearly a year and suddenly, you turn up. You’re so keen not to break your date that you turn up late. It must be something important. So what is it?’ Ah, good old Val. Always to the point.
‘I did want to see you, you know. And the kids. It’s just that life got in the way.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I get that. And …’
Val knew him so well. He glanced at her over his mug and wondered how she would judge him if he told her.
‘What have you done?’ said Val. ‘I know that look.’
He told her. About volunteering to help at the hospice just to get his parents off his back. About Grace. About what happened between them.
Val stared at him. ‘Woah. Peter! I didn’t think you had it in you. You were always the goody two shoes in the family.’
‘Val …’
‘You were. It was all “why can’t you be sensible, like Peter” when we were kids. Mum would have a fit if she knew you’d been shagging some woman from the hospice.’
‘I’m not. It was only a kiss. I didn’t sleep with her.’ Just. ‘And I feel terrible about it.’
‘You didn’t tell her that, did you?’
Had he? He thought about how he’d avoided Grace and how their last encounter had ended with her just running away. ‘Not … in so many words.’
‘Poor girl. Imagine how she must feel. Married man leads her on, then goes back to his wife. Honestly.’
‘I didn’t mean … I like Grace. I really like Grace. But I’m married to Sally and …’
‘And you’re stuck with her,’ Val finished off for him. ‘Well, it was always going to be the way, wasn’t it?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ He had assumed that Val would like Sally once she accepted that he was serious about her. Sally had certainly liked Val.
Val was quiet for a moment, frowning as though she were wrestling with some internal argument. Finally, she sighed. ‘You know I never really thought she was very good for you. I figured you’d realise that eventually, but by then it would be too late.’
‘Not good for me?’ He thought of the gambling problem and the lies that were slowly coming to light. Sally had her faults, but she had been working so hard on changing.
‘I hate to say this, but I think she was after your money.’
Peter laughed. ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘No, but you were an investment. You’ve already done well with one company. You’re well on your way to setting up another successful business. It was only a matter of time before you make a fortune.’
‘I could get unlucky and lose everything.’ It was a gamble. His heart dropped a little. Sally liked a gamble.
Val rolled her eyes. ‘How likely is that? I know yo
u, little brother. You will have carefully invested in a lot of different pots.’
She had a point. He took after his father when it came to money. Careful and measured. The only thing he’d ever done spontaneously was to fall in love with Sally. He looked at the floor. That and kissing Grace. Clearly spontaneous didn’t always suit him.
Val changed tack. ‘Tell me about this Grace woman.’
He told her. As he spoke, he felt a fresh wash of guilt and longing. He had messed things up with Grace and he should be ashamed of himself. The trouble was, he missed her. He missed talking to her and he kept daydreaming about her when he should be working. He longed to see her again, but wasn’t sure he could trust himself to maintain his distance if he did. He’d thought life was at its worst six months ago, but he’d been wrong. The strain and the heartache was still there, but now he’d added extra guilt. He only had himself to blame.
Sally was leaning against the door frame, listening to the nurses gossiping, when Peter walked through her. He went straight to the thermostat and shook his head. She’d given up trying to speak to him, or even teasing him by blowing cool air on his cheek. She waited for him to sit down, but he remained standing.
He went up to her bed and stared down at the sleeping woman. He looked … strange. It wasn’t an expression she’d seen on him before. She’d seen happy, confused, baffled, even ecstatic, but not this. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked angry. Except her Peter never got angry. Certainly not with her.
Peter said nothing for the longest time. Sally sat in the middle of her comatose body and swung her legs over. ‘So, Peter darling. What’s new?’ She lay next to her body and looked up at him. ‘You never look at me the way you used to,’ she said. ‘In fact, it’s like you look right through me.’
She examined him from her viewpoint. He looked even older today. She’s chosen to marry him because of his averageness. Attractive enough to sleep with, but not so devastatingly attractive that other women would fight her for him. Now he looked old. The scar on his forehead didn’t do anything for his looks either. ‘You’ve let yourself go, darling,’ she said. ‘When I come back, we’re going to have to fix that. A bit of cover up on that scar wound sort out the worst of it. And a decent haircut. Of course, I’d have to grow my hair back properly. We know how you like to run your fingers through it.’ She touched the set in lacquer wedding hair-do she was still wearing. She couldn’t feel it. ‘Mind you, I’d quite like to run my fingers through my hair right now. It’s very annoying having it up like this.’ She reached up and tried to touch his hand.