Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  We walk to the hotel using Google map to get us there. When we arrive, the façade is illuminated in pink in addi­tion to international flags swaying in the light breeze. We walk up the elegant steps which are flanked by small fir trees; these lead straight to the reception which is old fashioned in its fussiness and different from the modernity expressed outside. The stripy chairs in the hall way remind me of antiquated pubs in Brighton. We take the lift up to the fourth floor and enter our rooms simultaneously. Mine is very tasteful: modern, chic, a well-dressed room with lovely touches and a large flat-screen television that takes up half the back wall. I’m also pleased to have a bath as opposed to a shower. I knock gently on Eddie’s door to check that he’s happy in his room too. His room is identical to mine except that he has a shower and not a bath. We are both content. We agree to meet for breakfast at 9 am I tell him he can have whatever he wants from the minibar; this is a first. I have spent my life telling the children the complete opposite.

  I finally plug in my laptop and tune into home. It’s late and I fear that I have probably missed all the excitement, if indeed there was any. I haven’t even texted Kathleen, or phoned Michael. There hasn’t been much of an opportunity until now. I go to the loo; run a hot bubbly bath and decide to soak in until I have turned into a fragrant prune. I take advantage of the fluffy white towelling robe and even wear the oversized slippers, since they’re provided. I return to the bed and lie down to watch my house. I flick between the kitchen and the bedroom. The kitchen is tidy. The chairs are tucked under the table and the only thing on it is a tabloid newspaper. I flick back to our bedroom. Michael’s long body is under the duvet. He’s wriggling around a bit and has his head buried under one of the pillows. I watch him for a few minutes and wonder if he is having a nightmare. Part of me desires to see his face; for him to look straight at the teddy camera. But he doesn’t. I keep watching my screen, mesmer­ized by the image. My eyes are so tired that I tell myself to stop. I should take advantage of the hotel and sleep. What good will I be to either of my children if I don’t recharge my batteries? I am on the verge of closing the laptop when I see a flicker of movement from the right -hand side of the bed. There’s a large silhouette in the frame. It’s very difficult to see the figure clearly, until she switches on the bedside lamp. The woman puts on a pair of white latex gloves. I am glued to the screen. What can she want these for? Her hands approach the bed and to my horror, she climbs in next to Michael.

  Chapter 34

  Night Nurse

  My prurience is interrupted by a succession of childish knocks on my hotel room door. I haven’t ordered room ser­vice. I reluctantly tear myself away from the greyish images. I look through the spy hole to see my son, Eddie, standing in the corridor wearing boxer shorts and a tee shirt (the one he has been wearing all day). He comes into the room and flops down on the single chair beside the bed. I close the laptop and give Eddie one of the white towelling robes from the bathroom. I make us mugs of tea, taking care not to spill the miserly miniature carton of milk supplied in long-life form. We talk for what seems like hours. He is anxious that the dementia might be hereditary. We have had this discussion before. The doctors have reassured me Michael’s particular strain of frontal lobe dementia is highly unlikely to be hered­itary. I remind Eddie that Michael’s parents died in their for­ties so we have little medical history to go on. I resume my motherly role, giving him the love and reassurance that he craves. He is scared that his father won’t recognise him when he gets home. I console him with white lies: we are eons from this but in all honesty, I don’t know whether we are weeks, months or years from this cruel eventuality. He probes me for more details, both about Michael and Olivia. I am reluc­tant to share what I know, even though Eddie is eighteen. Eventually, I give him just enough information to send him back to his room. I am kind but firm. We both need to sleep.

  I have clearly dozed off because I wake up with the bedside lamps still on and the empty mugs beside me. I immediately reach for my laptop and look at the webcam. Michael is sleeping, soundly, and there’s nothing sensational to report. I feel a sense of anti-climax. I am half awake and half asleep. I begin to question what I viewed. Perhaps I was imagining it? Deep sleep and I are intimate strangers. The image on the screen was neither light nor clear. I can’t view it again; it’s not a recording device. Even though it’s about 3 am I take two green and white pills; they’re my last remaining Night Nurse capsules. It seems a shame to waste them at this hour but I am desperate for some continuous sleep.

  In my dream, we are gathered at the Hampstead Cemetery for Michael’s premature funeral. There are hundreds of people there: his former work colleagues from Dayton Hardwick and Chase; his lanky brother has come down from Newcastle, complete with a carer; my children and some of our friends. Everyone is crying. I try to smile at Michael’s brother, Ian. He looks young: thin, clean-shaven and boyish. I haven’t seen him for years. He could be one of my students. Even in my dreamlike state, I am conscious that I haven’t told him about Michael. He wouldn’t understand though. He can barely speak. The skies are full of dark clouds which look ready to burst with rain. We are surrounded by willow trees, bending and swaying into our path. The branches pro­trude into the mourners, enveloping them with their deli­cate twigs, mostly bereft of their leaves. Small buds are reap­pearing; it’s spring after all, though in my dream it could be any season. The rain begins to fall, landing noisily onto Michael’s coffin.

  I know that I am dreaming but I am on the periphery, observing the scene. I want to be part of it but I am on the outside looking in. Almost everyone is dressed in white with black carnations pinned to their jacket lapels or flimsy dresses. Everyone is drenched. Michael’s former boss, the one who let him go so unceremoniously, gives a hollow eulogy. Even in my dream, I am angry with him. I want to approach him but nature intervenes. She springs up in the form of plants and tangled trees; they appear around my naked feet, twisting and whirling around my ankles like black ribbons on a ballet dancer. The rain teems down, as it does in films. The deluge comes down in Biblical proportions. Eddie is sopping wet, standing next to Olivia. Her cannula is still attached to her wrist and her insubstantial hospital gown is soaked. I cannot understand why she isn’t wearing a proper dress. The willow trees bend towards her, sheltering her under their sympathetic branches. I find a navy suit jacket rolled up next to the trunk and place it over her shoulders; it’s one of Michael’s and it still has the dry-cleaning label pinned inside the pocket. I am startled in my dream to see Kathleen present. She is the only person wearing black and her ugly face is half-concealed by a delicate lace veil. There’s a monstrously large red carnation pinned to her left breast. As with all dreamers, I am bold and confident, though my shoeless feet sink heavily into the squelching mud. I con­tinue to defy my surroundings, approaching this duplici­tous woman. I jab her portly chest with my sharp fingers and accuse her of abusing Michael. The half-veiled woman doesn’t reply but her carnation bleeds slowly, until the flower droops and bends its head away from me.

  After the burial, I find myself being drawn to the outside of The Flask in Highgate. I know it well. As with all dream­ers, I am in possession of great knowledge and yet every­thing I know is void of meaning. I am alone again, running down a dark and empty corridor. It is nothing like the pub in Highgate. It is much more like a school though it isn’t mine. My body is drawn to the noise and the familiar voices. The corridor is no longer empty. There are hundreds of scruffy students sitting on the floor, blocking my way. They are sit­ting on a red carpet. I leave muddy footprints in between their outstretched legs and am conscious of my untidy trail. I don’t know why my feet are bare. I can hear muf­fled music; crowds of people drinking at a bar; a jukebox playing “Dangerous Woman” by Ariana Grande. I try enter­ing– everyone I know is in there now – but my entrance is forbidden. I have lost my black carnation.

  I wake up in a peculiar position on the hotel bed. I’m lying the opposite way around w
ith the duvet half on and half off. It takes me a few minutes to re-orientate myself. I wonder whether Michael feels like this every morning: bewildered. I feel as though I will be exposed; that other people will know what I have dreamt. I look in the mirror to see a normal person facing me. I phone Eddie and suggest we meet down­stairs for breakfast.

  I phone the hospital from the hotel breakfast-cum-din­ing room. The news is good. Olivia is responding well to the intravenous medication. We are informed that the recovery can vary between three to ten days. I send Eddie off to buy some clothes for himself; there’s a department store quite near the hospital. He has money; a debit card and common sense. I am sure he can manage. Besides, I want to speak to the nurses and the doctors in private. We pare off in separate directions but agree to meet at Olivia’s bedside in two hours, or thereabouts. I am not specific. It is not school.

  I arrive before visiting hours so I find a table near a socket and plug my laptop into it so that I don’t run the bat­tery down. Luckily my adapter is still attached. I don’t feel as though I am in another country. One hospital canteen is very much like another. I have fifteen minutes before I can visit Olivia. I phone my parents. My father puts me on loud­speaker; I’m used to this but it makes me self-conscious. My mother knows that I am hiding something but I refuse to elaborate. Sheila and Henry simultaneously offer to fly out to Geneva. I decline again but ask them if they could come up to London for when we return. Eddie and Olivia will not be completing their work experience here.

  When I reach the nurse’s station, I am relieved to see the familiar face of Nina. She smiles, reassuringly, and I feel grateful that there is at least one person here in whom I can confide. She escorts me back onto the ward where I am greeted by two doctors and another nurse. The doctor is concise and professional. He does his best to use layman’s terms. We are almost out of the woods. Before I am allowed to see Olivia, I take the opportunity of explaining my hus­band’s condition to the medics. I don’t want their sympathy but I do want their understanding and their advice. Besides, I feel compelled to excuse his absence. The consultant isn’t judgemental. He scribbles down a note and hands it to the more senior of the two nurses; it’s a recommendation of a psychiatrist whom they will contact on Olivia’s behalf. There will be no charge.

  I sit down next to Olivia and stroke her hair away from her forehead; it’s a little sticky and needs a wash. I take her soft hand in mine and caress it until she wakes up. I reas­sure her that she will be discharged within the week. She can see a counsellor if she would like to. Olivia nods her head. Little tears cascade down her cheeks. She asks me about her father. We talk wistfully about the old days and how unfair life is; I can’t say that it isn’t. Eddie breaks the sombre atmo­sphere by bounding into the room. He is armed with two shopping bags, one of which is full of clothes for Olivia. He is thoughtful twin. The three of us are closer than ever. I talk to my children quite candidly about the future. I mention Principal’s Peter suggestion that I take a sabbatical. Even as I refer to it, I can hear my mother’s words rankle in my ears. You need to support your family; don’t throw your career away; it’s not necessary; be careful; just take three months off if you have to and so on. My children are surprisingly rational and reason­able. They will support my decision either way. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

  Eddie proceeds to pull out various items of clothing including a lovely brightly coloured knitted cardigan; it’s for Olivia and he won’t be reimbursed for it. I leave the twins chatting quietly and ask Nina, who is still on duty, if there’s a private room that I can use, just for a few minutes. I plug my laptop in again and look at the webcam. I still feel uncom­fortable about leaving Michael with Kathleen. They’re in the kitchen, chatting. It all looks very innocent. I decide to tele­phone her whilst simultaneously watching the screen. The image in the kitchen is much clearer than the one in the bedroom as it’s bright and all the spotlights are on. I put my finger on her name in my contacts’ list and wait for her to answer. I feel jittery and nervous, as if I am waiting for my students’ examination results. Kathleen deliberately lets her mobile ring at least ten times. I watch her as she observes her phone vibrate on the kitchen table. Michael looks a little agi­tated but he doesn’t open his mouth other than to eat toast. There is no sound on my webcam.

  Kathleen is civil. She asks after Olivia and says all the right things; however, there is no sentimentality in her voice and I doubt she means anything she says. I am annoyed with her for letting the mobile ring unnecessarily and decide to be more assertive. I ask to speak to Michael; after all, he is still my husband. She places her hand across his mouth with­out touching it. He is still chewing. He nods his head as if he is complicit in her ridiculous game. There is a long pause whilst Kathleen pretends to fetch him from the sitting room. I have to force myself to go along with this farce for fear of blowing my cover. I wait, patiently, for the next episode in this soap opera that is my life and theirs. I update Michael about Geneva and inform him that Olivia is making a good recovery. We will all be home soon. I am not sure what he understands but his responses are normal and polite. Either that or they’re a reflex action.

  As I talk, and he listens, I watch that odious woman hov­ering over his shoulder. Have I been to Geneva? Is it in England? Should I be there? His unassuming questions make him sound like the simpleton that he isn’t. I wait a few seconds until she walks over to the sink. I ask Michael if he is free to speak. Is there something he wants to tell me? Does he feel safe? I practically whisper these words down the line as I am fearful that Kathleen is still in earshot. I repeat: are you all right? But this is too subtle for his disorientated state. I simply ask: is Kathleen hurting you? As I say this, I watch both Michael and Kathleen. She is inches away from him, washing some­thing up in the sink. He props the mobile up with his right shoulder, wedging it under his right ear; simultaneously, he starts rolling up his left sleeve. I’m certain that he is about to reveal a bruise or an injury but Kathleen pounces on him, grabbing her mobile before he utters another sound. She looks straight at the camera that she doesn’t know is there. She tells me that he is fine. I should stop fussing. Michael rolls up his sleeve, revealing a red welt on his wrist. His mouth is moving but I can’t quite hear him as she has decided to boil the kettle for added interference. I can hear her sounding off in the background: If you’re so worried about your blessed eejit of a husband, I suggest you come back to London you fecken’ blonde bimbo. I have been a bimbo. I should have been more circum­spect; locked my papers away; taken more precautions. I am not sure why I didn’t. My ineptitude doesn’t even make sense to me. I put it down to stress. My life is no longer ordinary. I am not as resilient as I thought I was.

  I have heard enough. I end the call and end her contract. My parents will have to come down sooner than I planned.

  I will pick up the pieces when I get home.

  Chapter 35

  My Temperance Level

  It is the end of March and the end of term; it couldn’t come soon enough for me. I have written my sabbatical email in draft form and propose handing it to Principal Peter, in person, after his final assembly or at tonight’s staff party. It seems only fair. He knows it’s coming. We have talked about little else since I returned to London with the twins last week. Olivia is still convalescing but she is well enough to receive a succession of visits from her lively friends.

  Even at forty-nine, I heavily rely on my parents for their help. They have been staying in an Airbnb in a rather grand house in Daleham Gardens, just around the corner from our mews house. I never imagined that Sheila and Henry would feel so comfortable in North West London. They are Sussex folk, through and through. Whilst I have been back in school, they have engaged and paid for an army of helpers, both for Olivia and for Michael. I know that he has deteriorated further but he is no longer as angry as he was and his outbursts and temper are much reduced though his aggression is still latent. I remain careful around Michael. He doesn’t always k
now what he is doing, especially first thing in the morning. It’s not easy shar­ing a bedroom with someone who occasionally forgets who you are. It’s as if I am an imposter in my own home.

  I like to think that he’s pleased to see the back of Kathleen but I shall never know. He refuses to talk about her and says he doesn’t know who she is. Or to use his own words: I don’t’ think I know this woman. Did I have sex with her?

  My parents have invited Olivia, Eddie and Michael over for an informal supper. Eddie and Olivia walk on either side of their father. I pop in for a quick drink but am returning to school, by bus, for the party. It’s good to see that you have made an effort with your appearance, at last. You look lovely. These are my mother’s and my father’s respective comments. I look at Michael for his approval but it isn’t forthcoming. I am not sure what I am to him anymore or what he is to me. My father opens a bottle of white wine. He makes a toast to our good health; I can’t help thinking that this is tinged with irony.

  I catch the bus into town. I wish I could take the Jubilee line; it would be so much faster. I know this aversion to the underground cannot go on. I need to address my demons. I am armed with a printed copy of my email-cum-letter; it’s suitably contrite and grateful. I finger the envelope in my handbag and resist the temptation to re-read its con­tent. It’s too late now. I just hope I have the confidence to hand it in. When I arrive at Bond Street, I can see that the entrance of our school is flanked by silver helium balloons. It’s quite a spectacle. There’s even a red carpet up the short staircase to the front door. Someone ought to be a profes­sional party organiser. I change into my heels and put my trainers into a small black tote-bag. I walk up the red carpet, turn my head to the non-existent paparazzi, and continue into the hall where I am immediately plied with champagne. I am bemused by the sudden decadence; there wasn’t a hint of it earlier in the day. Abbas is dressed in navy suit, blue shirt and a yellow tie. He looks like a lawyer or an invest­ment banker. I am not sure he knows how to dress to party… My other colleagues are less formal but they’ve all made an effort, even Liam, who is inclined to dress down for parties as he says he lives in a suit five days a week. The atmosphere is convivial. We start congregating in the Randolph Room; it has many uses and this is one of the more enjoyable ones. I stand with the other members of the SMT. We gaze at and comment on the twenty-somethings; they’re all dressed to party though I still can’t quite get my head around young women wearing dresses and trainers. Olivia has done this for years. I’m offered another glass of champagne. I have a low temperance level but I tend to forget this after a couple of glasses of fizz. Besides, it’s my last day until September. What can possibly go wrong?