Blink of an Eye (2013)

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘Ooh, a real mix, “Dancing in the Street”, “Simmer Down” and that Smokey Robinson one . . .’

  ‘“Tears of a Clown”,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes, and “Candyman”. What else? Oh yes – “Jump Around”, “I Got You Babe” . . .’

  I recognized all the tunes she mentioned. ‘Did you talk about anything in particular?’

  ‘The job market, Alex getting his job. And Naomi told me about her interview. For a teaching assistant?’

  ‘Yes.’ I stopped writing. If they’d only left five minutes earlier or later, if she had driven just that little bit slower, she might have a job now. Lily Vasey would still be alive. Alex and Naomi might be moving into a place like this.

  ‘And apps,’ Pip said, ‘for phones: what we’ve got, what we like. She was into Angry Birds.’

  Not any more. I suspected she was not allowing herself to do anything that could be considered fun or pleasure.

  ‘Was she drinking?’

  Pip’s face fell, ‘Some,’ she said. ‘White wine.’

  My stomach turned over.

  ‘When was this? Can you remember?’

  ‘When we were dancing. So sometime between seven and eight? Jonty said you don’t know yet if she was over the limit?’

  ‘That’s right – they couldn’t breathalyze her and the blood test they do takes a few weeks for them to get the results. Did she seem drunk?’ I was apprehensive about the answer.

  ‘Bit merry, perhaps. Not pissed, though.’

  Sober enough to drive? ‘Did you see them leave?’

  ‘No. I’d gone to the loo, and on the way back I got talking with Jonty.’

  What Pip said echoed Suzanne’s account. They’d left at eight, so Naomi hadn’t had time to process anything she had been drinking. Not pissed, though. Was that enough? Oh God. Please, please, not pissed.

  ‘I Got You Babe’. I thought about it as I drove home, I’d played it non-stop, the UB40 and Chrissie Hynde version, when Suzanne was tiny. For the next twenty-one years, Phil and I were no longer just a couple, but a family. Then Suzanne left home, followed by Naomi. I’d been anxious about how I might feel, but I didn’t really suffer with empty nest syndrome when Naomi went off to uni. Yes, the house was quieter, there was an absence of interaction, a period of getting used to there only being the two of us, but my relief at her getting into university was the dominant feeling.

  All the little chores felt easier too, the shopping and cooking, washing. Naomi, the girls between them, had generated a disproportionate amount of housework. With only Phil and me it was a doddle.

  We began to rediscover some of the freedom we’d had before becoming parents. Spontaneity returned. We could decide to go and see a film or have a meal at the last minute, go to bed on Sunday afternoon if we fancied it, book a weekend away without having to worry.

  I had more time too. I was still doing my shifts with the emergency duty team and of course I had my regular visits to Mum to fit in. But there was space in my week to take up new interests. I began to learn massage. I’d a vague idea that if social work got too grim, if I became burnt out, which I’d seen happen to many colleagues of mine, it would be useful to have some other skill. Something I could trade where I’d work for myself.

  We didn’t get too complacent. Naomi came back at the end of each term and her summer breaks lasted several months. Nevertheless, it was a shock to the system when she and Alex first moved in with us.

  They had stayed on in Newcastle for almost a full year after graduating. She had a part-time job in a video rental shop and he was working in a bar. Then the video shop closed and they couldn’t manage their rent any more.

  They spoke to both Monica and then us, sounding us out. If they split their time between the houses, would we be happy for them to live with us until they found work? Well, we weren’t going to say no, though I did wonder whether it might be simpler all round to just base themselves in a single place instead of toing and froing all the time.

  But once they’d come back, I saw that we would have struggled to accommodate all Alex’s possessions as well as Naomi’s. This way, most of his stuff was at Monica’s and most of Naomi’s at ours. They kept their old postal addresses and we gradually got used to the situation.

  Naomi had a TV in her room and they made their own food. There were some niggles: their version of tidying the kitchen after having a meal was a long way from mine. Our fuel bills leapt up; they were in much more of the daytime and there were all the extra showers and loads of washing. But we rubbed along all right and we didn’t think it would be for ever.

  Now for the first time I wondered whether Naomi would ever be able to build an independent life. If she did go to prison, securing work afterwards would be even harder. It was still unclear whether she’d have any long-term health issues as a result of her injuries. The biggest risk was infections; without a spleen, her immune system was compromised, and being in prison was a terrible place to be on that score.

  I tried not to dwell on it, not to worry when it was all uncertain and unknown, but it was hard.

  Naomi

  Monica brings Alex to the hospital. She came in with him the first time, after he’d been discharged and was visiting. She was friendly and everything but sort of professional – I bet she’s like that when she’s dealing with her passengers. No real connection. Not that we ever did have much of one, anyway. She used to try and pass clothes on to me. I know she was being kind because Alex and I were really skint and Monica’s my size. But I like boho stuff, or skate/surf-type clothes. There are little stalls in town where you can get recycled clothes and I like some of those. She wears completely different things, smart and tailored. At first I just used to thank her and put the things in my drawers, but then one time, when she had a roll-neck mustard sweater and a tweed pencil skirt, I said, ‘Aw, thanks, but I’m not sure they’re really me. I could take them to the charity shop unless there’s anyone else you know who would like them.’ I was blushing like mad; I really didn’t want to upset her, but I had to find a way to stop her doing it. Because sooner or later she’d see I wasn’t wearing any of it.

  ‘If you really don’t want them . . .’ she said.

  My cheeks were on fire. ‘No, sorry, thanks, but . . .’ I said in a rush.

  ‘I’ve a friend might like them,’ she said. And she smiled.

  We left it at that. It felt awkward but I think it was better than never saying anything.

  Alex is her only child and there’s probably no woman out there who’s good enough for him. But I bet she’d rather he found some clever lady lawyer to date instead of the no-hoper who totalled her son’s car, broke his bones and killed a little kid.

  It’s getting so I dread his visits, because it’s like this massive reminder of the mess I am in, the terrible thing I’ve done, the thing we can’t talk about because what is there to say? And so we talk about stuff that means nothing. Each time he goes, there are angry red arcs on my palms where I’ve dug my nails in.

  How long will it take for him to come to his senses, to go off me? To realize that I can’t be cheered up? That I’m hard work and could get harder? That I might be left with health problems as well as a criminal record? He won’t dump me, you see – he’s loyal. He feels sorry for me, he wants to show he forgives me for the accident, for the nightmare I set in motion. But I don’t want any of that. I haven’t earned it. I don’t want him visiting me in prison.

  And if he won’t leave me, then I’ll have to leave him.

  He’s talking about our friends Becky and Steve, who are planning a wedding and can’t agree on a venue. I cut across him, interrupt, no preamble or anything, straight to the bone. ‘I don’t think we should carry on.’

  He’s confused, a half-smile flickering around his lips, and I put him straight, stop him trying to find a way to reinterpret my statement: ‘We should stop seeing each other.’

  His eyes cloud over and for a second his mouth hangs open. He never e
xpected this. My heart goes out to him and I’m close to back-pedalling. I love him so. Maybe there is a way to work it out?

  My toes are curled rigid under the sheet, my spine set. I must not cry; no weakness or he might talk me round. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly, ‘I can’t go on any more.’

  Something flickers through his eyes; it takes me a moment to work it out, but it’s relief. He’s glad! Deep down he wants this. I’m letting him off the hook and he can taste the sweet release of it. The freedom, the fresh start. As quickly as it came, the hint of relief vanishes and his eyes glitter. ‘Why?’ he says, his voice wobbling.

  ‘Everything that’s happened . . . it’s never going to be the same now and it’s no good like this.’ I plaster my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to stop any tears arriving.

  Alex wipes his face with his hand, gives a sigh. He doesn’t know what to say. Not that he needs to say anything. He just needs to go.

  ‘Please,’ he begs. The blood has drained from his face and he looks frightened. ‘Don’t.’

  I sniff hard. I feel lousy, I’m shaking and I can’t get it under control. ‘It’s what I want. I don’t want to be with you any more. I’m sorry.’ The sentiment is brutal and he whips his head away, his throat tensing, his hands balled. I pray he won’t argue, or declare his love or propose marriage or make any other attempt to save the relationship.

  Memories we shared, moments of connection, my love for him hover on the sidelines, just out of view, and I keep them at bay. Trapped behind the fences in my heart.

  He swallows and gets up. I can’t watch. I listen to his footsteps on the hard floor, to the sigh and thud of the ward door as he leaves.

  When I am sure he’s gone, I let go. Pulling the sheet over my head and weeping silently so no one will say anything. Already I ache for him, for the time we had and for the future we won’t share. But I have only myself to blame.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Carmel

  One afternoon when I visited, I could see something was up. Naomi’s eyes were pink. She had been crying. I was allowed to wheel her to the canteen. She was desperate for a change of scene, a few minutes away from the ward. She said she wanted to go home, when could she go home? I promised to ask and add my voice to hers. In the canteen she stirred sugar into her tea, round and round, as though she was trying to drill through the bottom of the cup. I reached out my hand to rest on hers. She gave a small shrug of her shoulders, put the spoon on the saucer by the used tea bag.

  ‘I’ve broken up with Alex.’ She blurted it out.

  ‘No!’ My heart kicked with the shock. ‘But why? What—’

  ‘It won’t work, Mum. Not after all this.’

  ‘You still love him?’ I tried to grasp where this had come from, what her reasons were.

  ‘Of course.’ She fought tears, concentrating on the spoon, mashing it into the tea bag, dark orange liquid seeping out and circling the saucer. ‘But I can’t face him. This is so awful. It’s spoiled everything.’

  ‘But if you love him . . .’ I said lamely. ‘If he loves you . . . I know it’s hard, but together . . .’

  She shook her head, her nose reddening and a tear falling on to the table. She wiped her eyes with her fingers.

  ‘Have you told him? What did he say?’

  ‘He was really upset,’ she said. ‘He was gutted.’ She looked at me, her face crumpling.

  ‘Oh darling,’ I moved to sit closer and held her. She was stiff, even with the release of tears, her back and shoulders tense. After a few moments, I let her go, found some tissues in my pocket.

  ‘I can see why you might feel like ending it with him, but you’ve been through a terrible thing, it’s not a good time to be making big decisions. Not when you’re at your lowest. And if you still love each other . . .’

  ‘That’s not enough, though,’ she cried. ‘I look at him and see his arm and leg in plaster, and then there’s the little girl. That’s all I think about when I see him – nothing else . . .’ She broke off.

  I was so saddened at her decision. She was cutting off one of the few people she loved who could have supported her through the days to come. They had been such a perfect fit.

  ‘I hope you’ll change your mind,’ I said eventually.

  ‘I won’t,’ she said.

  ‘I think you’re wrong, I think you’re making a mistake.’

  ‘Another one?’ she said harshly.

  ‘Just don’t write it off, the relationship; you might feel very different in six months’ time.’

  ‘I could be in prison,’ she said.

  ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Don will do everything he can to try and make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Alex should just get on with his life.’ Her breathing was fractured, the words coming out one at a time.

  I felt she was being destructive, punishing herself, but she was in no mood to listen to me.

  The news troubled me for the rest of the day. Phil too was disappointed to hear it. ‘You’re joking!’ he said. ‘I thought they’d make a go of it.’

  ‘He saved her life,’ I said. ‘How’s he going to feel now?’

  ‘I guess something like this – it changes things,’ Phil said.

  ‘Yes, but it’s too soon to really see how. Okay, in a year’s time it might be clearer: are they still in love, are they still happy, has it driven a wedge between them? But she’s not even giving it a chance.’

  ‘If she thinks it’s the right thing to do . . .’

  ‘She’s not thinking straight,’ I told him.

  ‘It’s her life, you have to let her get on with it. You can’t interfere,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  But I did.

  Monica answered the door. ‘Hello,’ she said coolly, no smile. Probably as upset as I was that Naomi was ditching Alex.

  ‘I’ve got some of Alex’s things, clothes and trainers. And I was hoping to have a word with him.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ I hovered on the doorstep. There was a soft grey rain falling, which brought out the scent of the roses in her front garden and the tarmac on the path.

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Right.’ I handed her the bag. She took it and clutched it to her chest defensively. She didn’t invite me in.

  She’s a striking-looking woman: the green eyes that Alex has inherited, a deep golden tan, sun-streaked hair. She was wearing make-up, carefully done, but still she looked tired.

  ‘Did he tell you Naomi had broken up with him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. That was it. Yes. No elaboration.

  She wasn’t making it easy for me, but I ploughed on. ‘That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell Alex that I think she’s making a mistake. With everything that’s happened, the state she’s in, she can’t see sense. She still loves him, she’s told me that.’

  ‘I think it’s for the best,’ Monica said quickly, a flare of red blotching her neck. Had I misheard? ‘She could have killed him, killed them all, not just . . .’ Her eyes were simmering with heat. She was furious.

  ‘It was an accident,’ I said, trembling. ‘She’s never done anything like this before.’

  She stepped back, shaking her head, her lips clenched in a bitter line. Preparing to close the door.

  ‘She didn’t do it on purpose,’ I said. ‘Please tell Alex—’

  ‘Alex told me she was thrown out of sixth-form college for drinking. If she was drunk, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?’ She shut the door.

  A flash of temper forked through me, sharp as lightning. I wanted to kick the door down. Shake her till she understood.

  I wrote a note to Alex while I was at work that evening. Explaining my fears and asking him not to assume that there was no chance for reconciliation. Telling him that Naomi still loved him and that perhaps in time, if he felt the same, they could try again. I didn’t talk about the accident or blame or the po
lice or any of that. But I said I was really sorry about all that had happened and thanked him again for saving her life. I posted it first class so he would get it the following day.

  I never told Naomi or Phil that I’d sent it, but I did tell Evie, who said she’d probably have done the same.

  Naomi

  As Mum talks, I imagine it as a movie. Me in my blue dress and spotted shoes in the garden. Some of the background I can fill in from the photos she’s printed out – like where they’d put the buffet in the shade under the canopy and where the chairs were, the faces of the people I talked to.

  ‘Straight after you arrived, Alex opened the champagne,’ she says. ‘You made a toast. After that you cuddled Ollie.’ She hands me the picture of us together. ‘Then you had something to eat. Francine, this woman with Suzanne,’ another photo, ‘had just bought a flat in town, so you discussed the pros and cons of being in the middle of things. There was a girl there called Stella, she had a poncho on, one of those floaty ones, and she asked you about clubs in Manchester . . .’

  As she talks, I wait for a prick of familiarity, for some word or phrase or image to puncture a way through to my memories. To tear through the screen and let them all come spilling out.

  ‘. . . You had a tuna kebab. That was just after we left, and you talked to Gordy about Newcastle,’ she says. ‘His daughter’s thinking of applying to uni there. There was a little boy, a toddler in dungarees called Adam; you read him a book on the swing seat. And you helped get the Chinese lanterns ready; that was just before seven. Pip, she’s the one from London who works with Jonty, discussed phone apps, and when you put the music on, she danced with you.’

  I wait and listen, but the words have no resonance; there’s no echo in my head, no spark or tingle.

  ‘Pip said you drank some wine around then.’

  I swallow. Mum’s told me that Suzanne reckons I was drinking a lot, but Alex says different. It’s something else I can’t recall. But I can’t imagine getting drunk and driving the Honda. I never drive when I’ve been on the booze.