Rest and Be Thankful

by Emma Glass

  It’s not blood, they’re just chapped.

  He doesn’t say anything but he holds my hands. Careful. Careful.

  How does this look?

  You are here. You are between his hands and mine. You are the water bubbling between us going hot.

  I take my hands away when the water starts spilling over the crooks of my elbows and cascading on to the floor. I look at him and give him a half-smile.

  I wait for him to say something, his breath is held, he stands close, like Jennifer did. I feel hot and itchy in the tiny room, in my too-tight polyester. Say something. Tell me I’ve done wrong. I carry on washing my hands, I scrub and let the skin burn.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says.

  I give a half-laugh. I have to.

  ‘Don’t scrub so hard. Your hands are fragile. Your skin is … delicate.’

  His words are soft.

  ‘I can take a look later, prescribe something for you to take home. An ointment for night-time.’

  He is looking at my face but I keep my head bent and I focus on cleaning between my fingers.

  Thank you but what I need is a fucking rest.

  I am thinking about you. I picture us sitting up in bed, you rubbing moisturiser on my chapped hands, gently massaging my skin, putting a tiny dollop on my nose and laughing as I wrinkle my nose like a rabbit. I picture you kissing me, coming close with your lips, kissing both of my cheeks, the bristles of your whiskers tickling, putting your nose to my nose and we Eskimo-kiss until the white lotion has melted away. You help me on with cotton gloves, scoop my hair up from under my head as I lie back on the pillow, you fan out my hair behind me and stroke it, running your fingers lightly over my forehead and eyelids. You say, ‘Shh, go to sleep,’ kissing me deeply once. You turn off the light and sleep on your side with your arms around me.

  Wilf moves behind me, to leave. I want him to leave, I feel ashamed. You would hate this. You would hit him. You would be swinging for his honest face once, a while ago. But maybe you would not now. His body is very close, he is careful to keep his hands by his sides. I feel his lips hover, I think they brush my hair. He pauses. Today is not the day to be close to me, I am suddenly conscious that I smell like vomit.

  ‘Tracy was sick earlier,’ I say. ‘She got me.’

  He laughs lightly and says quietly, ‘I was going to say you smell like lavender soap and tea.’

  ‘Like an old lady?’

  We both laugh and he takes the tension with him when he leaves. I am smiling when I finally get through to see the baby next door.

  I Don’t Know Where to Look – Part Two

  The figure dressed in black is executed at close range. The killer lets go of the controller when he sees me. He has hit the pause button, the screen is frozen and spattered with blood. A sinister heartbeat serves as a backing track for bedtime. Where is the baby?

  ‘Hello again,’ I say. I think his name is Paul but I stick with Dad, just in case. ‘How is little Buddy today?’

  Where is Buddy?

  He is on the bed next to Dad, sleeping, uncovered, dummy in, no blankets or pillows around him, he could roll and fall. I tell Dad that he should really have a barrier around him. Dad shrugs and says, ‘Do you want to just put him in the cot then?’

  ‘Sure, but don’t you want to put him to bed?’

  ‘Nah, he just wakes up and cries when I pick him up.’

  He watches me gently lift the baby. I cradle him close and walk him over to the cot. I put him down and he doesn’t stir, I tuck a blanket over him and wind up the musical mobile hanging from the rails. ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ tinkles out, a sweet contrast to the sickening heartbeat. Whilst Buddy sleeps I take a last set of vital signs, I reach into my pocket for my folded sheet of paper and realise it is sick-soaked and still in the pocket of my uniform. I will need to retrieve that for writing up my notes later, I feel my nose wrinkle involuntarily at the thought of the sticky sicky paper. I write the observations on a paper towel and scrunch it up and put it in my pocket.

  Dad is eating something salty and cheesy. I can see the orange powder settle in the corners of his lips.

  ‘So, overnight your son will need feeding. We’ve given slightly less through his tube today so that he should wake up hungry, and this is what the doctors want to see, they want him to try and take bottles so we can take the tube out. It will be much better for him and you’ll be able to go home sooner.’

  Dad keeps his eyes fixed on his snacks and says, ‘Yep. I’ll get up with him and feed him.’

  ‘Great. I’m back on shift tomorrow night, so see you then.’

  The door closes and the game goes back on, gunfire distorting the tinny nursery rhyme. I see Dad shooting down the twinkling stars.

  Do I Have to Believe You

  The linen cupboard is the brightest room on the ward. The lights are always on. People come in here to cry. They come here for the comforting heat and scent of freshly washed and pressed linen. The sheets are folded and stacked in great piles. Light bounces off the white, heavenly stacks of patiently waiting neat and tidy ghosts, waiting to unfold.

  I come in here not to cry but to find the box. The dark towels are kept on the bottom shelf, hidden away so as not to be used by mistake. When I kneel down and pull out the towels, the box is tucked all the way at the back. I sit cross-legged with the box balanced on my knees. I touch the white lace ribbon which holds the lid in place.

  It is dusty. There hasn’t been a death for a while.

  I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

  The prayer cards are yellowed at the edges where age has eaten away at them. The lettering is still gold and holy.

  I unfold the tiny white cotton gown, plain and pure and previously worn. It has the same starched smell of the sheets surrounding me. There is a bonnet with a single white ribbon bow at the front. And two pairs of booties in different sizes. One pair is very small and the other pair is tiny.

  At the bottom of the box there is a pile of lacy doilies. They cover a small white leather-bound bible with wafer-thin pages edged with silver. There is a small crystal flute and a single silk rose.

  I put everything back in and tie the ribbon. I drape a little pile of dark towels over my arm and take the box, but I pray on the way back to the nurses’ station that the towels won’t be needed. I walk slowly. I am bringing a makeshift funeral parlour. The box feels flimsy, the lace is fake, everything worn, I wish we could do better.

  I set the box down on the desk next to Jennifer. She is typing up the handover sheet, her brows are raised high with concentration. She touches my wrist as I go to pick up my notes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, gripping my wrist, typing with one hand.

  She looks at the towels. ‘Oh.’

  I lean towards her and say in a whisper, ‘These are the things you don’t want to have to run off and look for.’

  She nods.

  I sit behind her and start to write up my notes. Samantha is hovering above me, watching me write.

  ‘Wow, black towels! What are those for?’

  Hairs bristle on my neck as I feel her ponytail swishing, disturbing the air around me.

  ‘They’re not black, at least we don’t call them black. They are dark towels.’

  Jennifer halts her typing, she can hear the irritation in my voice. She picks up the conversation for me, I bend my head and continue writing. My eyes are stinging. Her words are my words and I say them along with her in my head.

  The towels are not black. The towels are dark. We have them and we hope we never have to use them. We have them because our patients have a low platelet count. They could haemorrhage, and rather than let the parents see the bleeding, see sopping saturated soaking-wet red towels, we use the dark ones. The dark towels soak up the blood so you can’t see the red.

  And I look up and see no red in Samantha’s cheeks, her face has drained, she is white and silent.

  I Didn’t Cry on the Way Home

  The room smells of burnt toas
t, the misery is a dark cloud settled over the kitchen counter. The television is blaring. You are drowning out the world with loud sounds and whisky. The glass is empty on the coffee table. Your feet are up next to it. You are slumped and slumbering, don’t hear me come in. Why? Why are you drunk? What are you sad about?

  The kitchen is covered in crumbs and smears of butter and jam. There are crumbs of cheese. The oven is not on. There is nothing on the hob except a dirty saucepan. My legs shake and my head throbs. I need to eat.

  I pour an inch of orange juice into a glass and drink it. I hope the sugar will help me hold out. There isn’t much in the fridge but I try. An onion, some tomatoes, garlic. Nothing else needed. I begin chopping the tomatoes into quarters. I place a wedge in my mouth, the flesh bursts, the juice is delicious and slips down my throat. In a roasting tin I pour olive oil and throw in the tomatoes and slices of onion. I leave the garlic cloves in their little purple jackets. Lots of salt and lots of pepper and more oil, I mix with my hands and wince as the juice of the tomatoes runs between the cracks in my skin. Little red waterways. I turn the oven on high and put the tin in. I boil the kettle for stock. I could lie face down on the kitchen tiles and sleep for the rest of my life, but I must try and stay up, to sleep away some of tomorrow before the night shift.

  I lean against the oven and feel the heat on my back. You don’t stir. When the vegetables are roasted, I squeeze the garlic cloves out of their skins into a pan, the vegetables and golden juices go in with stock and more pepper. I crane my neck to watch you jump when I blend the soup and the blades crack together, smacking liquid against the glass and shredding flesh. In your mouthy fuzzy drunk-mouthed way you ask me what the fuck am I doing.

  I ladle the soup into a bowl and butter the last slice of bread. The last slice, a peace offering, a gesture of care. Or an oversight.

  I perch on the sofa next to you with the bowl balanced on my knees. I huddle over it and let the steam rise up and curl over my cheeks, coils of warm comfort. Your eyes are on me. I tear the bread and dip it in the soup. I chew slowly, quietly, the butter melts on my tongue, rich and delicious.

  You tell me that if you’d known I was going to cook you wouldn’t have eaten so much crap. Your eyes are big and watery, you are gruff and slurring a little from sleep and booze.

  ‘If I had known I would have to cook, I would’ve stopped for something on the way home. I am starving, I didn’t have a lunch break today,’ I tell you.

  You scoff and tell me I never have a lunch break, I’m always starving and I’m always tired.

  Truth.

  I lick the spoon. I try to take a mouthful of soup, but the bread is stuck, soaks up the hot liquid, stopping up my throat. A rough swallow shifts the lump. The sound of my swallow is loud, I hear the creaking movement of my jaw, the little fizz in my ear. You are watching me and it feels worse. You can hear me slurp. Your eyes are rolling with revulsion. I keep eating. Fuck it. The hot soup burns but I don’t slow down. The spoon clangs my teeth and I feel you reeling. You grip my wrist as I lead the spoon to my mouth. Fingers curl tightly and you pull my arm down. The spoon falls to the floor, a metallic clatter as drops of soup scatter. Red rain. You are breathing heavily, hand still on my wrist. Pain marks your face. For a moment I think about putting the bowl to my lips and drinking it down. But I can’t eat, I’ll choke. I want this to be over now. Making you angry won’t help. I turn slowly to look at you, expecting rage, but when our eyes meet there are tears trailing down your cheeks, dripping into your beard, little spitting pitter patters of rain landing on leaves in a forest. Your grip slackens on my wrist, your hand falls to my lap, knocks the soup, the bowl rocks and then the simmering frustration bubbles, I see it in your fingers as they kick out, fingertips flicking, the bowl flips over, a wave of red, splashing down my leg, up the wall, the bowl is smashed on the floor, red spreading. Spreading. You stand quickly, wipe your face with your sleeve, say quietly that you can’t do this any more, that you don’t love me any more, and leave the room and close the door.

  I sit surveying the sea of soup. A second stream of liquid slicking my skin. At least it’s not sick this time. Thankfully we never thought to buy a rug. Thankfully we never replaced the pretend-leather sofa. Thankfully we never made this too much of a home.

  I begin by picking up the broken shards of china. I end with three sopping stained tea towels, half a roll of kitchen paper, saturated, sludgy. Fingers stained red. I wish I’d brought home some dark towels to soak up the bloody mess.

  Oh, How I Need You Now

  You go to bed.

  And I don’t stick around for this shit.

  I wash my face and hands in the bathroom. I brush my teeth and cup my hands and gulp down cold water.

  I put on my puffy winter jacket and put keys and money in my pockets. I zip the jacket up to my chin, I catch the skin in the fine teeth and unzip and rub the sting. I open the door and pause. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going. I turn and see you standing there, in the darkness. I didn’t hear you opening the bedroom door, I didn’t hear you stepping out into the hall. I didn’t hear you call my name. I can’t make out your face, but you are watching me, probably frowning. Probably glad I’m leaving. Darkness suits you, makes you bigger, makes you harder, makes it easier for me to slam the door.

  After today, all I wanted to do was sleep. I have been sucked dry. I am an empty shell. Wind rushes through me, lifts up my crust and carries me along the pavement. I take shelter at a bus stop. A shell within a shell. The wind batters the scratched plastic windows. I watch the cars rolling too fast down the road. Open my eyes wide into the headlights. The light stings. Dash out my eyes forever. I am blind by the time a bus comes. I grope the metal handrails to pull myself up to the top deck. I sit with the party people playing music and drinking from plastic bottles. They chuck the bottles under the seats when they are empty, the scrunching crunching plastic sounds electric, they are set for a big night.

  We get off the bus close to the river. But I am not with them, they leave me standing on my own as I decide which way to go. I look up. I look up at the cranes in the sky, static arms reaching, revealing red orbs. Clouds grow red like hell. I want to go up there. I wonder what it is like up there. I can’t get there. I stagger backwards to see the sky. I stand on my tiptoes, I stretch my neck, stick out my arms. Stretch out into the night. And now I know what I’m looking for.

  I’m Going to Dance It Away

  Nobody in there. There are no bodies to absorb the sound. Nothing to plug the beat. The bouncer on the door is a regular man. He’s not big or built or intimidating. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t ask for identification. He unhooks the sad stained rope from the rusted metal pole and lets me inside. The music thumps me in the face as I enter the blank space.

  Two young girls lean on the bar drinking from frosty champagne flutes. They are chattering and laughing, one girl throws her hand up and does a little wiggle. I wasn’t going to have a drink but the bartender steps up and smiles at me and shouts over the music, ‘WHAT CAN I GET YOU?’

  Vodka and Coke.

  WHAT?

  VODKA AND COKE.

  Why? I’ve never ordered a vodka and Coke in my life. He puts the glass down on the sticky bar as I put money down on the sticky bar. The ice cubes roll in the bottom of the glass, little amber nuggets that tip up, and the fizz is real, it rolls up my nose as I down it. He watches me as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and walk away.

  The cold bubbling liquid in my belly makes me want to dance. I walk across the empty dance floor and through swing doors at the other end of the room. I know where these go, I have been here before.

  The room on the other side is bristling, bouncing, beats banging out. A line for the ladies’ toilets, a line for the cloakroom, a line at the bar, green lines cutting across the ceiling, white lines being cut on top of the black plastic surface of a speaker, the heat and the vibrations make the powder jump, noses down and sweeping, s
wooping up and ah ah ahhh. They sniff and spin around. They can dance now.

  I work my way to the middle of the room, shuffling around people’s moves. I begin to swing my arms.

  And my legs.

  I become fluid with the vibrations in the room. I bump against bodies but I am padded and insulated by my jacket. I throw up my hood and I am disappearing here. Strobe light blisters the room. We inflate in that FLASH. And then we burst and spill over each other.

  Grabbing and groping but no one grabs me, I spin around and I keep spinning. I wait for the next strobe my heart pounds my head spins I am the beat I am the beat I am the heartbeat that doesn’t come, erratic and swirling and jumping jumping. I dance with my head low, I can’t make out feet on the floor but I feel the shuffling so I glide. Gliding through the room, swerving around tangled, twitching bodies. I move towards the walls, I want to watch. But as I move into the darkness I know that I have come too close. The walls are lined with clusters of people, standing all too close together, bunched and touching, glowering like the insides of a pomegranate. Too close. Clustering and sinister. I come too close to the red bodies, no faces, just bubbles swathed in smoke, in coke, in drink.