Apple of My Eye

by Claire Allan

  I’m relieved when they finally finish their task and leave, sympathetic smiles on their faces, and I finally give in to the tears that have been threatening for the last hour.

  ‘Eliana, why on earth did you not tell me about this note?’ Mum’s voice cuts through my thoughts, jolts me into the now. ‘I knew there was something you weren’t telling me – some reason you’d asked me to come down early.’

  ‘There wasn’t really anything to tell,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know it was about Martin. I didn’t think it could be about Martin. Oh! Mum, what am I going to do?’

  ‘You’re going to talk to him. You’re going to ask him to come home and you’re going to talk about this face-to-face.’

  I nod. I start to cry and she’s beside me, hugging me.

  ‘Wait until you talk to him, Eli,’ she soothes. ‘He’s a good man. Now, how about we try to get some sleep? This will all seem less insurmountable in the morning. Go to bed, darling. Call Martin just to let him hear your voice and just for you to hear his, but then tell him you need him home. You need to talk. I’m sure he’ll come.’

  ‘But his work …’ I say, even though at this moment I don’t care about his work.

  ‘His work will still be there the day after tomorrow,’ she says and kisses my head. ‘Now, young lady,’ she adds softly, ‘go to bed.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Louise

  The next time I saw her she looked like a ghost. Her skin was so pale. Her hair lank. I was sure she’d lost weight. She didn’t seem to want to eat. She wasn’t even making an effort with the cup of tea in front of her.

  I remember that feeling. After.

  I felt as if I were see-through. As if I were floating and no one else could see me. Because if they did, they wouldn’t have laughed and joked with each other. They wouldn’t have huddled together to gossip. They wouldn’t have smiled at me and wished me good morning.

  That man? Well, he wouldn’t have said ‘Cheer up, love. It might never happen.’

  I wasn’t one for violence, but I relished the feeling of the bare skin of my palm as it struck his face, the bristles of his beard stinging. The look of shock in his eyes. I’ll remember that, just as I’m sure he’ll remember the look of anger in mine.

  ‘What would you know?’ I asked him before walking off.

  He could’ve come after me, of course. He could’ve hit me back. He could’ve called the police. To be completely honest, I didn’t care. Nothing was right or fair in the world any more and I didn’t give a damn about whether or not I hurt other people.

  They didn’t care that I was hurting.

  That woman, sitting with her moping face over the cup of weak tea she had yet to touch, didn’t care that I was hurting. She wouldn’t want to think about what had happened to me. Even if I sat down opposite her and opened my heart to her, she would’ve backed away. She would’ve covered her ears.

  I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to ask her, why wasn’t she happy? Why didn’t she understand how lucky she was? She was going to be a mother. I wonder, has she ever considered what it would’ve been like to have been told that was something she’d never be?

  ‘Everything okay for you?’ I asked instead with false smile.

  She looked at me and offered me a weak smile back. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her eyes were drawn back to the tea. I wondered what she saw reflected in it that made it so interesting.

  ‘Is this your first?’ I asked.

  She blinked back at me. I nodded towards her stomach.

  ‘Yes. My first.’

  ‘Can be a wee bit scary, can’t it?’ I asked, hoping she’d engage. Open up a bit.

  ‘I suppose,’ she answered, her eyes darting back to the magic teacup in front of her once more. Clearly, she wasn’t the chatty type.

  I wished her well but stayed close by. Cleaning the tables around her even though they were already clean. I made a mental note of her shopping, her handbag, the keys sitting at the top of it – anything that would help me to find out more about her.

  I could hardly believe my luck when I heard a voice call to her. A man, tall, handsome. Her husband, maybe. He was as handsome as I’d hoped he’d be. Well dressed. Groomed. A hint of a tan. Healthy. A good genetic gene pool. He looked tired but he wore it well.

  ‘Here you are,’ I heard him say. ‘I was worried.’

  I watched as he moved towards her, hugged her. I noted she didn’t hug him back. Just leaned her head in his direction.

  I stayed close and Lady Luck rewarded me a second time. Her full name. He used her full name. A jokey comment about her giving him a heart attack. She addressed him by name in return – a jokey exchange despite how tired they both looked. I made a mental note of both and moved on to clean the other tables.

  I knew who she was then. I knew who he was. It was all coming together perfectly.

  More signs. More prayers being answered.

  I knew this was His way of telling me I was on the right track. That if I just kept my faith in God, I’d get what I wanted. As the Bible promised, if I asked, I’d receive.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Eli

  I press the call button and wait for him to answer. It doesn’t take long. He sounds concerned, or is it guilty? I want to scream at him. I wish he was here so I could do just that.

  ‘You have to know I have nothing to do with any of this,’ he says. ‘I’ve no idea what that note is about. I swear, Eli, I’m not cheating. I’ve never cheated. You know that. This is someone trying to mess with us.’

  I’m almost too tired to speak. ‘Martin, I think we need to talk about it. I think you need to come home. Please, come home.’

  He doesn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll book flights as soon as we’re done talking. Get back as soon as I can. I swear, Eli, you have to believe me.’

  I imagine he wants me to say that I do believe him. That’s it’s all laughable that my husband would ever cheat, and any time before the last seven months I would probably have said so. But things are different now. I’m different.

  ‘Look, I’m really tired. Just get home. We’ll talk about it then.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says. He sounds subdued. Then again, he would be, if he’d been caught. ‘I love you, Eliana,’ he says.

  I tell him I love him, too, and saying the words almost breaks me. Might I have to stop loving him? I can’t even think of that.

  *

  ‘You’re not seriously going to work today?’ My mother fusses around me, trying to persuade me just to eat something. So far, I’ve refused a cooked breakfast, porridge and a croissant. She’s now making some toast, which she’s told me I must eat at least half a slice of, dry if necessary.

  ‘Yes, Mum, I’m seriously going to work. I have to go to work. I don’t work somewhere where they can just call in someone else at half an hour’s notice.’

  ‘But don’t they have bank nurses they can call in?’

  I shake my head. While of course they do, it’d be an increased cost to our already stretched budget and we’ve one patient at least on the ward who’s unlikely to make it through the day. I’ve been caring for him since his admission ten days before and I don’t want to cause a big upheaval for his family by suddenly adding someone new to the equation.

  ‘I’ll be fine. If it’s quiet, I’ll even grab an hour’s rest in the on-call room. The other staff will look after me.’

  I take a bite out of the slice of toast she hands me as if to make a point. The truth is, I desperately want to go back to bed and wake up to find Martin home so we can talk. He’s texted to say he’s secured a flight into Belfast shortly after lunch. He should be home before dinner. He emphasised his innocence. Told me he loved me. I’d replied with a ‘See you then.’ I couldn’t bring myself to type more.

  My mother doesn’t look happy at my decision. Nor is she happy that Martin isn’t already at our front door.

  ‘Surely there’s an earlier flight than lunchtime?’ she says before apologising. ‘Sorry, Eli,
me getting cross won’t help. I just worry about you. I worry about you both. This is very upsetting.’

  She says it like it should be news to me, even though I’m painfully aware of just how upsetting it is.

  ‘He’ll be here soon enough,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be at work anyway.’

  ‘I can’t say I approve, but you always were a stubborn one, Eliana Johnston.’

  ‘Hughes,’ I remind her. ‘Eliana Hughes.’

  ‘You’ll always be Eliana Johnston to me, my darling,’ she says.

  She tells me she’ll stay, not go back to Belfast. She’ll deal with the SOCO people. I tell her to call the hospice directly if the police need more information. I’ll call back as soon as I get a minute.

  ‘I’ll call a glazier and get someone out to fix that window,’ she says. ‘It shouldn’t be too expensive. You don’t want to lose your good record with your insurance company.’

  Ever practical, my mother. And good in a crisis – much better than I am, anyway.

  My head is already thumping when I reach work. I’m rubbing my temples when Rachel walks into the nurses’ station and sits down beside me.

  ‘Tough night?’ she asks.

  ‘You’ve no idea. We had someone peg a rock through the window.’

  Her eyes widen.

  ‘Seriously? At your house? Jesus, Eli, are you okay?’

  I know I can tell Rachel everything if I want to. All about the rock, and the note and what the note said. She’ll be there for me. But for some reason I can’t face it. Not today. Maybe it’s just that I don’t want her looking at me with her sad eyes and inwardly welcoming me to her ditched wives’ club. Martin isn’t like her ex. Martin and I aren’t like they were.

  So I nod. ‘I am, apart from this headache. But I’ll take a few paracetamol and get on with things. Can you give me fifteen minutes to pull myself together and I’ll get stuck in? Mr Connors, is he still …?’

  ‘With us? Yes, but his resps are slowing. The family are here. I think we need to make sure we’ve a nurse near them at all times. I sense of a bit of tension between two of the sons.’

  Losing a parent is always tough, and we’re used to seeing emotions overspill, so I nod to Rachel. ‘I’ll keep a special eye.’

  ‘That’d be good,’ she says as I fish in my bag and pull out a packet of paracetamol. ‘Eli,’ she says as she makes to leave. ‘Are you sure it’s just a headache? I mean, with the stress and all? Do you want me to check your blood pressure? Have you any swelling in your feet or fingers?’

  ‘Rachel, I love you but it’s just a headache and I’m going to say this as nicely as I can. Can you stop fussing around me? I’ve had enough fuss for one day from my mother.’

  I’m snappy and I can hear it in my voice. I don’t like it.

  Rachel looks put out. She mutters something about only wanting to help and says she’ll leave me to it before turning on her heel and leaving. I swear under my breath and wish I’d started the whole day differently.

  I fill a glass with water and take my tablets. Decide I need to get on with my work, where I’ll probably watch someone else die. That’ll be the least distressing part of my day.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Eli

  Work always has the ability to take me away from everything. Even on days like today, when I’m existing after just a few hours’ sleep and trying to wrap my head around the notion that my husband might be cheating on me.

  And that someone out there seems intent on doing whatever it takes to let me know about it.

  I’m too busy to allow it anything more than fleeting space in my head. I have other people to care for. People to keep comfortable. An emergency respite admission for a young woman who has stage four breast cancer and can’t get any relief from her pain. Emotional support to offer to Mr Connor’s family to keep them from hitting out at one another as their grief rages.

  I know how to do this job well.

  There’s a comfort in that. There’s stress involved, of course, but it’s a good stress – an adrenaline buzz, but of the good kind.

  There’s a huge sense of achievement that comes with making sure someone suffers as little as possible in their last hours and moments. It’s always sad, yes. Don’t get me wrong. I have cried and will cry for many of our patients and for their families, but I feel proud that I can make a horrific experience less so.

  So, although I’m dead on my feet and my head’s still aching, I’m almost sorry when my shift ends. I’d happily have stayed on at work for another few hours if they’d let me, but Rachel is ushering me towards the door as soon as staff changeover is done.

  ‘I’ll be following you out of the door, so on you go. You’re exhausted and I can’t have you taking ill on my conscience. Try, if you can, to relax on your days off.’

  I shrug and she gives me a sympathetic look. ‘You know where I am if you need me. The kids are still with their dad, so I’m a free agent.’

  ‘Well in that case, I’m sure you’ll have much more you could be doing than being bothered with my worries,’ I tell her.

  ‘You’re my friend, Eli. You and Martin both. I care about you.’

  I feel bad for being snappy with her earlier, so I reach out for a hug. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but thanks for listening.’

  ‘You’d do the same for me in return,’ she says before opening the door and giving me a gentle push outwards.

  When I get into the car, I take my phone from my bag and see a series of messages from Martin, the last of which says his flight was delayed and is now due to land at Belfast just before six. He hopes to be able to make it home before 8.30 p.m. He’s going to call into the police station on his way home and speak to Constable Dawson.

  For a moment or two I wonder whether we can just forget it all. Brush it all under the carpet. Can I live with knowing what I know?

  I’m afraid to ask him about the allegations. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll have. If he continues to deny it, should I believe him? If he admits it, should I leave?

  The thought hits me in the stomach with the force of the kick from my baby that follows. This is not how we planned it. This is not how it’s meant to be.

  I know I’ll make it home before him by half an hour or so. I wonder whether to stop and pick up a takeaway on the way home, like I often do on a Saturday night. But this is hardly any normal Saturday night. I’m going home to ask him again, only this time directly, if he’s having an affair. I need to see his face as he answers me. See if I can tell if he’s lying.

  I shake my head – I won’t pick up a takeaway. I won’t act as if everything’s normal when it so clearly isn’t. Everything feels sullied.

  As I pull out of the hospice driveway and turn left towards the Foyle Bridge, I’m glad my mother’s at home. I imagine Martin won’t feel as glad, even though the pair of them have always got along well. He’s been made aware of my mother’s interrogation techniques from the stories I’ve regaled him with about my youth.

  We’d rubbed along quite nicely together. I’ve never given her much trouble, not even as a teenager. But there were a few memorable occasions – some missing vodka from one of the bottles in her drinks’ cabinet, to name one where she went full bad cop on me. I wondered, would she go full bad cop on Martin? Or would she play the good cop role while I lost control of my temper?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Eli

  When I get home I find that my mother’s cooked a full roast dinner with all the trimmings and she calls to me that it’s almost ready as I walk into the house. The window by the door’s been fixed. It’s almost as if nothing has happened, but of course it has.

  ‘Mum, I’ll not be able to eat this, lovely and all as it is,’ I say, trying not to make her feel rejected.

  ‘Just eat what you can, pet,’ she soothes. ‘You’re just skin and bone and that bump. I don’t know how that baby can be getting everything she needs with you eating so little.’

  ‘Th
e baby’s fine. The baby’ll take whatever it needs from me, even if I don’t eat much. It leeches it from my system like a little, well, leech, I suppose.’

  I watch my mother shudder. ‘That’s a horrible way to think about your baby,’ she scolds.

  I don’t think so. I’m pragmatic about these things. Logical. Perhaps it’s my medical training. I look at things differently sometimes. In a detached fashion. The life inside me is a parasite of sorts, after all; not that I’d say that to my mother. She’d be apoplectic with rage at my use of such a word. Even if I qualified it by saying she was a very cute parasite. Even if I don’t reveal just how scared I am that I don’t feel that all-encompassing motherly love so many women talk about.

  ‘You know I don’t mean it in a bad way,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘Let me go and freshen up. I won’t be long.’

  Upstairs, I strip off my uniform and throw it in the laundry basket before having a quick shower. I still feel the need to look and feel more presentable for Martin.

  I wonder if the police will have had any new information for him. Maybe I should’ve called myself and checked for updates. Asked if they were looking at any other leads. Mum’s told me that the SOCO team were very nice and understanding but not particularly forthcoming with any information about where the investigation was.

  I brush my wet hair out and look at it hanging limply around my face. I need a haircut, I know that. I look in the mirror at the tired eyes looking back at me. They’ve been tired since I became pregnant. I’ve become pale and uninteresting. Could I blame him for looking elsewhere?

  I jump when I hear the front door open and close. Hear his voice, muffled, call out a hello and my mother answer, telling him that I’m upstairs and will be down soon.

  I sit for a moment, almost too afraid to move. I’m scared to see him.