Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  I sit down at the kitchen table and send Eddie and Olivia a long text and two pictures of Michael and me at Fenton House. We look like a normal couple; it’s a picture that they will be able to show their friends or co-workers. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I take the opportunity of the peace and quiet to phone my parents; they’re recovering from a long walk on the Downs. I admire their positive attitude. I only tell them about our trip to Fenton House and how well the twins are getting on in Chamonix. I don’t remark on Kathleen’s mistreatment of me nor do I confess to my dalliance with illegal substances. Ignorance can be bliss sometimes.

  The daylight fades and the night closes in. I need to wake Michael up before Kathleen comes home, otherwise she will accuse me of being a lazy and neglectful wife. I gently nudge him. He stirs a little and opens his eyes. I am not sure if he recognises me now. He is always at his worst after a nap. He is a bit dozy but parts of what he says make sense. Has he been a good boy? Will he get a reward today? He repeats this sev­eral times. Kathleen has obviously been patronising him in the way that she attempts to patronise me. We agree that he deserves a reward. He wants chocolate. But I think he has eaten too many sugary desserts in the restaurant. Michael becomes quite agitated and irritated with me. We start to argue; it’s not a pretty sight. I sit back down on the sofa and try taking his hand in mind. I try to be kind and patient but he is exasperated with me. I am a “hussy”. I have never heard him use this word before. I know that it’s one of Kathleen’s. I vow to cross-examine her later. I will treat her like one of my adolescent pupils. She won’t get the better of me this evening.

  Kathleen walks in on cue. She is armed with four brown Primark bags, all of which are bursting at the seams. She has spent all the cash that I gave her. I offer to help her with her bags as she helped me with mine last week. You? I don’t think so. You couldn’t lift a pound of turnips. I don’t really know why I put up with her rudeness. I was so confident that I would be able to rebuff her insults and yet here she is, imme­diately belittling me. Michael is still asking for chocolate. He is rummaging around the old treats’ drawer; we haven’t used it since the twins were about eleven. It’s strange how his memory works, or doesn’t work. He insists on receiving his reward and it has to be in chocolate form. Kathleen stands on one of the kitchen chairs and picks up a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate from the top cupboard.

  The chair creaks a little; I hope that it will give way under the strain but it remains stubbornly upright. She hands it to Michael and ignores my comments about his lunch. And whose fault is that? He has got to stick to his routine. It’s not my fault he married a little hussy. And there it is: that word. I knew it came from her. I stand up to Kathleen this time. She has no right to speak to her employer like that; it’s a sackable offence. She threatens to report my marijuana felony to the police. I’m just waiting to find some hard evidence on her. It can only be a matter of time.

  Michael is becoming quite attached to Kathleen; it wouldn’t surprise me if she manipulates him into changing his will. I need to stay in the driving seat. I don’t trust that woman.

  Chapter 33

  No News is Good News

  Winter has finally abated and spring has appeared. We break up in three weeks’ time and with the twins away and Michael being looked after, I have managed to get through the past fortnight relatively unscathed. Principal Peter has not raised the subject of my sabbatical recently. I have a free period so I log onto my webcam to see what’s going on in the latest episode of Michael & Kathleen. The kitchen is cur­rently unoccupied. I am expecting something dramatic to happen but nothing does. The webcam is also functioning in the bedroom; this is a relief, as I am sure that the interloper invades my personal space as often as she can. But still noth­ing. All’s Quiet on the Western Front.

  Emily pops into my office; it has been a while since I have had to talk to her about her classroom management. She has a Year 8 pupil with her. Lucas has been using his mobile in her lesson and has uploaded a film of her onto YouTube. The puerile boy has been boasting about his tech­nical brilliance in class. I immediately find the one-min­ute upload and see that it is totally humiliating. The boy has filmed her breasts from above; they’re practically fall­ing out of her blouse whilst she has been helping another child with his homework. I am forced to watch it twice, so that I can see who the other culprits are. Lucas has not acted alone. I use the internal phone to contact Liam; he is more technically astute than I am. He comes very quickly. He isn’t busy or he is a voyeur like me; either way, it doesn’t look good. I am not sure a Deputy Head should be so easily available.

  Lucas is sent out of the room and is asked to wait in the corridor. He slumps onto the floor, stretching his legs out for passers-by to trip over. He is skating on thin ice. The three of us watch the YouTube clip. I have viewed it three times and it is three times too many. I feel sorry for this poor young teacher. Emily is in tears. The clip has already been viewed by 43,000 people and the numbers keep rising. Liam man­ages to get the offensive video taken down within minutes. But everyone in Year 8 has seen it and the vast majority have shared it with several others. Liam says “boys will be boys” which I think is unhelpful. I phone Lucas’ parents and asked them to collect him at 2.30 pm He will be suspended for ten days. Emily cries pitifully and confesses that she can’t face returning to her classroom. She is mortified. I give her the School Counsellor’s number and inform her that she is enti­tled to three free sessions. I send her home to “convalesce” and end up covering her remaining two periods. I let the stu­dents watch a film (something educational) which I know is a cop-out but I don’t have time to prepare anything myself. When I return to the office, I see that I have six missed calls from Eddie.

  I close the door and put a “Silence: Exam in Progress” notice on the glass panel; this is the only way I can guar­antee no one will disturb me. Until now, no news has been good news. But Eddie’s desperate messages which are devoid of content have filled me with fear. What has Olivia broken? Why can’t he elaborate on a text? I hope I can get through. Which hospital is Olivia in? I make the call. Eddie answers straight away; it sounds as though he is in an airport. He isn’t. He’s in Geneva University Hospital. Eddie is crying so much that I can barely make out a word that he is saying. I tell him to slow down. I am here. She was flown by helicop­ter from Chamonix. I tell him to sit down and stay on the line. I am worried that he will collapse. He is in a complete state. Eddie listens to my clear and calm instructions. It feels good to be back in the driving seat but bad to be in this par­ticular one. Olivia has suspected meningitis. I Google men­ingitis as we speak. I ask him if it’s viral or bacterial. He says it could be the former but they suspect it’s the latter. Either way, it’s worrying. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare. The symptoms started with a severe headache last night. She couldn’t work this morning. She developed a stiff neck and couldn’t turn it to the left or right. Olivia complained that the chalet lights were too bright; this rang alarm bells with the one of the guests who happens to be a Junior Doctor in Geneva. I want to know if she has a rash or pimples. Eddie said she had pinprick pimples on her legs.

  It’s only Monday evening but it is obvious that I won’t be working for the rest of the week. I leave the sign on my door and rush over to Peter Principal’s office. He’s on the phone but waves me in. I am too flustered to sit down so I pace around his characterless room until he says he will call the person back. I tell him about Olivia. He is sympathetic and concerned. I’m not to worry about setting cover. Harry-the- Harrovian will do that. But my erratic attendance will have consequences. He reminds me that the option for a sabbati­cal is still open and that he strongly recommends that I take it. I phone my parents’ landline. They offer to fly to Geneva instead of me but I reject this offer. I want to go. I want them to remain on standby for Michael, just in case something happens. I send Kathleen a text, asking her not to make any arrangements this week. I will fill her in when I get home. I offer h
er an additional £100 for the inconvenience as she will be on duty 24/7. I start searching for flights. I am lucky. The British Airways flight isn’t full. I don’t book a hotel room. I text Eddie my itinerary and send lots of kisses. I will phone him again later. I will be with him in less than twenty-four hours.

  At home, Michael is already changed into his pyjamas; it’s only 6.30 pm Kathleen says he is worn out. They’ve had a full day. I hand him a blanket (which is permanently on the sofa) as he is a little exposed but he says he’s too hot and doesn’t want it. I am no use to him now. Kathleen makes dinner. I don’t think I can keep a curry down tonight. She is easily offended. I just want to be with my children. I take out a black holdall from the under stairs cupboard. I am not sure how long I will be away so I pack enough clothes for a week. I lay everything out onto the bed; I have always packed this way. I take a couple of adapter plugs out of the drawer and pack a spare mobile charger in case I forget it tomorrow morning. It will be a very early start. The holdall isn’t par­ticularly heavy so I carry it down the stairs by myself. I leave it in the hall, near the front door, but make sure that it’s not in anyone’s way.

  Kathleen is still dawdling in the kitchen. I ask her if she has ever treated a patient with meningitis. We sit down opposite each other. She regales me with a dreadful story about a little girl who lost her leg. Her description is horribly graphic. I tell her that I don’t want to hear it but she insists on continuing. I want to leave the table. My hearing is muffled; my vision is blurred and my legs feel weak. I know I am on the verge of fainting. Kathleen props me up a bit and forces a glass of water down my throat. I knew you were a fainter. I know the type. I am in no mood for confrontation. I allow myself a little time to recover before I get down to business. I send her images of my passport; my insurance documents and the details of the hospital. I do this all on WhatsApp. I also remind her that Michael has an appointment with the psychiatrist on Thursday. She will have to take him there. I can hear her mutter something under her breath. Something about my being useless anyway but I pretend I can’t hear her. What’s the point? Olivia is more important than my pride.

  Michael is still resting on the sofa. I ask him if he wants to come up to bed with me. He rejects my offer, much to the amusement of Kathleen, and says he’s busy. He has work to do and deadlines to meet. He almost sounds sane. I shrug my shoulders and head upstairs. I am still feeling a little nau­seous. I brush my teeth, set my alarm, lock the door and go to bed. It’s short lived though as I wake up at 3 am and can’t resettle. I start Googling the NHS website about meningitis; it’s clear and informative but terrifying to read. I just want to be in Geneva. I can’t be there soon enough. I decide to leave the house early so as to avoid Kathleen. My holdall is ready. The Uber arrives within ten minutes. There isn’t much traffic at 5.30 am so I have hours to kill before I can even check in. The time passes sluggishly. I send Eddie text after text. I also send messages to my close friends, most of whom instantly reply. They can’t believe it. Rosie says I have been dealt a misère hand.

  The flight is quick. The captain announces the punctual landing as the conditions couldn’t be more perfect; besides, we are the first scheduled flight of the day to arrive in Geneva. At least one thing has gone my way. I take a taxi straight to the main University Geneva Hospital and report to the reception. The building looks more like a state-of-the-art five-star hotel. I am confident that Olivia is in good hands. But I am desperate to see her. I can barely hear the instructions that are meted out to me. When I reach the iso­lation wing, I am not allowed beyond the waiting room. I enquire after Olivia and ask if Eddie is here. A middle-aged nurse greets me and takes me to a room with a table and four chairs. She immediately inspires confidence. I just want to see my daughter but am told that I will do, soon, but not until they have ruled certain things in or out. The doctors are still conducting tests. Olivia has a very high tempera­ture; a severe headache; is suffering from dizziness and is over sensitive to the light. She has all the classic symptoms of meningitis. I ask about the tumbler test; it’s one of the few things I know about, but she shakes her head and tells me to be patient. Eddie appears within minutes. He looks frazzled and exhausted. He is father, brother and son combined. It is too much responsibility for a young man.

  Another nurse comes into the room with two glasses of water and a plate of biscuits which remain untouched. She asks me to sign a consent form for a lumbar puncture and hands me a hospital biro, indicating the place where my sig­nature is needed. The middle-aged nurse explains that the lumbar puncture is used by doctors to confirm the diagno­sis of meningitis and to check for signs of what is causing it. Her English is perfect. She starts to clarify how the test is conducted. It can take up to thirty to forty minutes. I know that Olivia is as squeamish as me so I also hope that she isn’t fully conscious of the process. The nurse continues to speak. I hear the letters CSF but I don’t catch what they stand for. I am desperately trying to be strong for Eddie; after all, I am his mother. He should be able to defer to me now. But as the nurse explains in vivid detail that a needle is passed between two vertebrae at the lower end of the spine, containing the CSF, I am deaf and blind again. Kathleen is right. I am a fainter. I always have been. I am quite comfortable lying on the floor though truthfully, I have no idea where I am. I can hear someone say “Sophie Boswell” and another lower voice calling me “mum” and “mummy”. It takes me a few sec­onds for to realise what has happened. I don’t want the atten­tion; it’s awkward and embarrassing. The focus has to be on Olivia. I say this out loud. A cup of sweet tea is brought to my lips. The nurse is kind and encourages me to sip it, even though she says she couldn’t drink it herself.

  We wait for an hour but it seems much longer. The staff here are kind and attentive. They have even assigned us a private room close to the nurse’s station. But we are still not allowed to visit Olivia in person. Not yet. We are encour­aged to rest as the test results will not be instantaneous. I cannot remember the last time I shared a room with Eddie. He reminds me so much of Michael. There are two single beds separated by accompanying night tables with lamps. He kicks off his shoes and lies down on top of the sheets. I know I should check into the webcam but I am too tired; besides, nothing ever happens. I am not missing Kathleen and I am sure that Michael isn’t missing me. Eddie falls asleep quickly; he is his father’s son. I put my mobile onto charge and read the BBC News on my app. British politics seems irrelevant to me. I only want to receive a positive newsflash about Olivia. I switch the main light off, leaving only my bedside lamp on. I watch Eddie’s chest rise and fall with his quiet and regular breathing. I hope he has pleasant dreams. I leave the room and speak to the nurse on night duty. Her name is Nina and she’s about twenty-five and pretty. She has a one-year-old daughter. I ask to see a picture. The baby is beautiful. She has large blue eyes and a mop of curly flaxen hair. Nina is tactful and mature for her age. She asks me to show her a picture of Olivia. She confesses that it’s hard to see the real person beneath the tubes and cannulas. We talk for at least half an hour but we are interrupted by a most insistent bleep. She returns to the ward and I go to bed.

  I spend most of the night awake. I try to sleep – I really do – but my insomnia is determined to keep me company throughout the night. Someone knocks on our door at 8 am. Eddie is still asleep. He must be exhausted, emotionally and physically. I am so sleep deprived that yet again I fear that I won’t be able to cope. I am not sure what I am running on: fear, I think. I tidy up the little room and reorganise my things as well as Eddie’s. He has only brought a tiny ruck­sack and has virtually nothing in it. The knock is harder and more persistent. I open the door to a cleaner. She empties the bin and cleans the en suite bathroom that we haven’t used. Eddie wakes up when the woman leaves.

  We walk over to the nurse’s station and ask for an update. A consultant takes us to one side and sits us down. It’s good news. The lumbar puncture result has confirmed that Olivia doesn’t have meningitis b
ut she does have septicaemia. I sob with relief but we are not out of the woods yet. I ask when we can see her. We follow the consultant and the nurse down a series of corridors until we reach Olivia’s room. She is still in isolation though not in solitary confinement. We are advised to use plenty of hand sanitiser and are given surgical gowns and masks to wear. Olivia’s bed has been slightly raised so that she can see us as we enter the room. She smiles weakly. Little tears appear from the corner of her eyes. I bend down to kiss her wet cheeks, trying not to touch the drips and can­nulas inserted into her veins. The sheets are pulled up to her chest so I can’t see the rash on her legs. She’s attached to an intravenous drip and there are other devices and monitors which I don’t fully understand. Eddie has a lovely bedside manner. I wonder whether he should reapply to study med­icine instead of Biochemistry. I sit back on one of the two chairs and watch Eddie and Olivia speak without speaking.

  The doctor wants to talk to me about the course of treat­ment. He indicates that the septicaemia is under control but they are weary of sepsis developing; this would be a complete calamity. I know so little about either that I just listen and nod my head. The consultant advises me to book a room in a hotel nearby. We will be here for some time. A nurse comes over with a wad of leaflets, one of which is for a hotel called the Adriatica. It’s located in the Malagnou and Champel district which is about half a mile from the hospi­tal. It has free Wifi and free bicycles. I thank her and accept her recommendation.

  Eddie and I take it turns to visit Olivia as the nurse is worried that our combined efforts are too exhausting for her. I take out my laptop and book adjoining rooms at the recommended hotel. I am conscious that I haven’t spoken to Kathleen, or updated her, or watched the webcam, and I can’t do any of this in front of my son. Besides, he must want his privacy as I want mine.