by Kathy Shuker
‘She’s on antibiotics,’ the nurse patiently replied. ‘And the doctors are reviewing her regularly. She’s comfortable.’
Comfortable. What a ubiquitous word that was in hospitals; it seemed to cover every conceivable condition.
Sitting again on the hard plastic chair, holding Eleanor’s clammy hand, Jo felt a chill fear spreading through her. Her aunt’s face looked paler than ever and yet there was a tiny unnatural spot of colour high in each cheek. Her slow decline was beginning to feel inevitable.
‘Eleanor,’ she almost shouted, patting the hand roughly. ‘Eleanor, come on, wake up. It’s about time you got up and about, you lazy bones. That’s what you used to tell me when I stayed in bed. Do you remember? So come on. Let’s see some activity.’
There was no reaction.
‘You’d have laughed last night, Eleanor. I took Sidney out on a lead. You know: my cat? The rescue people said I should wait two weeks before letting him out but I thought at least he could get used to the gardens and get some fresh air. Sidney thought it was a game to start with and kept trying to catch the lead in his paws. Everyone we saw looked at me as though I was mad and Vincent was very sarcastic. Not that he’s in any position to talk.’
Nothing. Eleanor was breathing too fast, Jo could see that. The afternoon dragged. By the end of it, she didn’t know whether to go or to stay.
‘We’ll call you if she gets worse,’ a nurse assured her. ‘Of course we will.’
For four days, there was no change. On the Saturday morning, when Jo rang the ward, she was told that Eleanor’s temperature had come down a little. When she saw her on the Sunday, her skin was no longer clammy and the red spots had gone. Her breathing had slowed. Jo silently thanked a God to whom she spoke only rarely and settled in her customary seat. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off her. She could have cried.
‘You had me scared there, Eleanor,’ she berated the blank face before her. ‘Don’t you dare do that again.’
Jo rubbed the cool hand. There again, maybe the antibiotics had simply bought a little more time, a reprieve. It was too soon to feel relief.
‘You’ve got to wake up, Eleanor,’ she hissed, frustrated and scared. ‘Please. Come on, wake up. And tell me what happened. Come on.’
For days, she had tried to talk brightly about nothing in particular so that Eleanor would feel positive. It hadn’t worked. Perhaps she needed a different tack. How could she get into that head and get some reaction? The magazine cutting secreted away in the poetry book loomed into her mind. It had been crushed in a fit of emotion, then meticulously straightened out again.
Jo leaned forward, speaking close to Eleanor’s ear.
‘People are gossiping, Eleanor. I know you don’t care about gossip. “Sticks and stones”, you used to say. But they’re saying that it was Frank’s engagement that made you walk off the cliff and it’s not true, is it? I’m waiting for you to wake up and put these rumours to bed. You don’t want people to think you’d hurt yourself over Frank, do you? I wouldn’t want anyone to say that about me over Richard.’
Jo straightened up and watched and waited. There was still nothing. She sat back and closed her eyes. She didn’t know what else to try.
*
It was late on the Sunday evening when Eleanor became aware of a sound. Something had woken her, she was sure, but, eyes still closed, all she could make out was the sound and she couldn’t identify it. The world was very dark around her and yet there seemed to be some lightness somewhere too. Now the sound was beginning to resolve into something identifiable. A woman’s voice…maybe. But still nothing made any sense - the sounds were too jumbled - and now the sound was moving away again.
Ugh, there was something horrible in her nose. She tried wriggling it but the irritation wouldn’t go away. Damn. Double damn. How disgusting.
She wanted to open her eyes but nothing happened; her eyelids felt too heavy. So very heavy, weighted down with lead. Anyway, the voice had gone now and she couldn’t be bothered to try and open her eyes any more. A deep wave of the darkness was overwhelming her and it was too hard to try and fight it so she gave in and slipped back.
Chapter 7
There was a bright light searing Eleanor’s eyelids, burning through to her retinae. And something in her body hurt. She couldn’t pinpoint where. In fact, now she thought about it, lots of things hurt, too many to care about. The light grew dimmer. She was drifting again and she was glad. She wanted to sleep, to slip back into the darkness. It was easier; it was comfortable and safe and it was too much effort not to go there.
‘Eleanor? Eleanor?’
Eleanor heard the voice but took a minute to understand what it was. It was quite close. And it seemed familiar. She tried to open her eyes but they felt sticky. It wasn’t important after all. Nothing mattered except the darkness, that sweet, velvety blackness where she could rest.
‘Aunt Eleanor? I’m sure I saw your eyes move. Eleanor? Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me. Come on, you can do it. Eleanor?’
Eleanor became aware that there was pressure on part of her. Yes, that might be her hand. Which hand, she wasn’t sure. Was someone holding it? A woman? It sounded like someone who knew her. She thought about trying to squeeze the woman’s hand and maybe she had. It felt like she had. She didn’t care much but she’d love a drink. She would ask for one. There. She’d asked. She was sure her lips had moved but nothing was happening. No-one gave her a drink. That woman was saying something to her again but none of it mattered because she was going to sleep. She had to sleep.
*
‘We’ve been doing some tests and your aunt can clearly hear,’ the doctor told Jo, ‘though we can’t formally test the range of her hearing yet. She can see too. Her eyes follow movement but again we’re not sure what her vision is like. I understand she wears glasses just for reading, is that right?’
‘Yes. Should I bring them in?’
The doctor looked tired, the way she felt, but he managed a weak smile.
‘Maybe soon. I don’t think she’ll be reading just yet. She’s coming up quite quickly now but there’s still a long way to go. Fortunately she seems to be swallowing all right so we’re going to try her with fluids. She has some motor function but of course she’s very weak and quite uncoordinated. That might improve - it’s too soon to say - but there are things she may need to relearn; simple things some of them. We’ll get the physio working with her.’
A nurse touched him on the arm and gave him something to sign. He glanced at it and scrawled his name, saying something in a low voice. He looked as though his mind had already moved on to something else and he was impatient to be away. Jo had so many questions she wanted to ask him, many of them barely formed in her mind, just abstract concerns which had no real shape as yet. The doctor offered another brief smile and was about to turn away.
‘Do you think she understands what’s happened to her,’ Jo said quickly. ‘Does she know where she is?’
His eyes narrowed for a minute. She could sense him planning carefully what to say, what not to say.
‘As you’ve probably heard, she’s managing some speech though most of it is incoherent. But it does seem to be getting better. It’s too soon to know how much brain damage there might have been and what functions might be impaired long term. Undoubtedly there’s quite a lot of confusion there. Her memory might be an issue. Try to give her as much stimulation as you can.’
He walked away but the words brain damage lingered in Jo’s head. She had known all along that damage, possibly permanent, might be a result of the fall but hearing it said like that felt brutal. She walked back into the little side room where Eleanor was now sitting propped up in a chair, supported on all sides by pillows. Jo had brought a radio in for her aunt to listen to when she was alone and someone had been in and switched it on, turning it to a commercial station where a strident DJ’s voice was reading out a succession of tweets. Th
en music began to thump out and Jo fiddled with the tuning to change the station. When Eleanor listened to the radio, it was always Radio 4. She switched the radio off and went round to sit by the bed. Her aunt’s mouth dragged on one side; a trail of saliva ran from the side of it and down her chin. Jo pulled a tissue from the box on the locker and wiped it up.
It was Thursday, the thirteenth of July, nearly three weeks since Eleanor had fallen on the cliff. Since the first fluttering of her eyelids that Jo had seen on the Monday, the change in her aunt had been remarkable in many ways. That night she had gripped the nurse’s hand; by the morning she had tried to pull the tube out of her nose and had managed to kick one foot out from under the bedclothes; by the afternoon her eyes were frequently open and she was making noises and getting agitated because she clearly wanted to say something but no-one could make out what.
Still clutching the tissue, Jo sat back down in the chair she had recently vacated.
Eleanor’s hair had grown about half a centimetre. The bruises had largely faded. Even the surgical wound on her scalp had healed over and was rapidly looking less livid and submerging into the hedgehog-like growth. The dressing had long since gone. Jo watched her aunt avidly. Her eyes were closed at the moment, her breathing regular; she looked peaceful, as if she was sleeping. The touch to her chin hadn’t woken her. Try to give her as much stimulation as you can. She reached forward, took Eleanor’s left hand, squeezed it gently then patted it with her other hand. Immediately her aunt’s eyes opened.
Jo smiled. ‘Hi Eleanor. How’re you doing?’
The hazel eyes fixed on her. They looked much darker now against the luminous white of her hair and the pallor of her skin. Jo felt herself examined as if she were an alien from another universe.
‘You know me,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s Joselyn. Your niece. Jo.’ Was that the faintest flicker of recognition? It was hard to be sure. ‘You’re in hospital, Eleanor,’ she said for the umpteenth time. ‘You had a fall in the garden at home - knocked yourself out. Cracked a couple of ribs too. What did you think you were doing…’ Jo squeezed her aunt’s hand again, adopting a flippant tone. ‘…trying to nose dive down the cliff? You gave us all a fright.’
Eleanor was watching Jo’s lips intently as she spoke. Did that mean she understood? Or was she struggling to follow? Her aunt’s eyelids started to droop again and Jo leaned back in the chair, drained. Thrilled and relieved to see her aunt awake, still the journey ahead looked long, its outcome uncertain. Foolishly, she had been hoping - if not admitting it to herself - that when Eleanor woke up, she would be her old self again.
She had also hoped that Eleanor would be able to tell her how she came to fall, but that seemed unlikely now.
*
It had started to rain, one of those bouncing, stair rod showers that suggested that someone, not far away, was suffering a thunderstorm. It was dark in the den and somebody had flicked the lights on which only served to exaggerate how dismal it was. There was an uneasy feeling in the air too, the proximity of the storm perhaps or maybe an intangible tension in the room. Frank wasn’t sure which.
It was five past eight in the evening and Jo had just come down from the house to see them, ducking into the room not long before the heavens opened. He and Mari were playing whist; Imogen and Vincent were watching the television - having argued at some length about which station to put on - and Louisa was sitting reading, though her attention regularly appeared to wander. Frank would catch her at times, her gaze settling on each of them in turn.
‘Come and join us,’ he’d said to her, indicating the vacant chair by the table, but she had smiled weakly and shaken her head.
Now Jo stood near the doorway, apologising for disturbing them. Imogen muted the television and they all turned to look at her.
‘I’m glad to catch you all,’ she said. ‘Only I thought you might like to know the latest on Eleanor. She’s woken up and after a few days of, well, ups and downs, she’s definitely conscious now.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Mari.
‘Marvellous,’ agreed Imogen.
Vincent turned his head, his manner studiously casual. ‘Can she remember what happened?’
‘I’m afraid she’s not making much sense yet.’ Jo paused, frowning. It struck Frank just how pinched and pale she looked. ‘I’m not sure she remembers anything much, or even who I am, but it’s early days. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know. She tires very quickly though so visiting needs to be restricted.’
‘Still, I think this calls for a drink,’ said Imogen, pushing herself to her feet. ‘Will you have one, Jo?’
Jo thanked her but declined and turned to leave. Frank got up and moved quickly, meeting her by the door.
‘It’s hammering down out there,’ he said. ‘Stay and have a drink. You look done in.’
She produced a weary smile. ‘I am. But I think I need an early night. Thanks all the same.’
‘Wait.’
He put a hand to her arm, staying her, glancing back into the room. Imogen and Mari were in the kitchen, pouring drinks, and Louisa was deep in conversation with Vincent. Frank turned back to Jo and dropped his voice.
‘I was hoping to see you. It’s not easy for me to go and see Eleanor in the circumstances. Will you keep in touch, let me know how she’s doing? This is my phone number.’ He slipped her a small piece of paper. ‘Perhaps we could have coffee sometime soon?’
She glanced across at Louisa and reluctantly pocketed the paper then fixed him with an earnest expression. ‘I don’t know what to say, Frank. It’s difficult for all of us, isn’t it? I found the cutting Eleanor saw about your engagement. It clearly upset her. I don’t want to get caught in the middle here. My first loyalty is to Eleanor. You do understand?’
He nodded and let her go, and she slipped out into the rain. Turning back, Frank saw Vincent move away from Louisa, heading for the kitchen, and a drink no doubt.
Frank walked back to his seat at the table, pausing by the sofa to rest his hand briefly on Louisa’s shoulder.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
She tipped her head back to look at him and smiled. ‘Of course.’ She returned to her book but there was a look in her eyes he couldn’t place. He couldn’t read her. There had been a spell, when he and Eleanor had been at their best together, when they had always known what each other was thinking, like two violin strings, resonant with each other. They had joked about it, how they didn’t need to talk, how they kept finishing each other’s sentences. Or perhaps it was an illusion. Every couple wants to think that they’re made for each other, that they’re two halves of a whole.
The volume on the television went back up and Frank played cards with Mari for another twenty minutes. He had his back to the room and didn’t notice that Louisa had left until they finished and he got up from the table.
‘When did Louisa go?’ he said.
Imogen shrugged. She had picked up a magazine and was buried in its pages. Frank went outside. The rain had stopped but water still lay in pools on the stone slabs and dripped from the shrubs and trees. There was no sign of Louisa. It unnerved him that she could slip out like that without him realising, but he was prone to let his mind wander. Snatches of poetry stalked his brain and he was often only too happy to let them catch him.
He went to the apartment he was sharing with Louisa - it was theoretically hers - and let himself in. There was no light on and he was about to go out again when he saw her sitting on the side of the bed in the fading light.
‘Louisa? Are you all right?’
She didn’t reply and he crossed to sit beside her on the bed, putting his arm round her shoulders.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked softly.
‘Nothing.’
‘There must be something. To sit here like this. It’s almost dark.’
He pulled her closer, put his other arm around her and rocked her gently. She had been like this
when he first knew her: vulnerable and reflective. Her mother had not long died and she’d been grieving. Her softness and vulnerability was one of the things he loved about her. Sometimes now though she seemed like a different person: challenging, teasing, temperamental.
She tilted her head up and fixed him with sad eyes. ‘You seem to get on very well with Mari.’
He laughed, taken aback. ‘Everyone gets on well with Mari. You know what she’s like.’
‘Yes, but she’s especially fond of you. I can see it in her eyes. And she’s very pretty.’
‘Louisa, that’s absurd. You can’t be jealous of Mari. She’s gay. She and Imogen are a happy couple.’
‘She used to be married to a man though, didn’t she? Imogen told me. Imogen worries that she still…you know…wants a man in her life.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘In any case I don’t want her.’
She leant into him and he hugged her hard.
‘What did Vincent want?’ he said softly.
‘Want? Nothing.’
‘But you were talking.’
‘Oh, we were just wondering about Eleanor. Why did you want to see Joselyn?’
‘I felt sorry for her. She looked so worn out. I’ve known her since she was a skinny kid.’
He stroked her hair. She had lovely hair: thick and glossy.
‘Do you think Eleanor is going to pull through?’ she muttered into his rugby shirt.
‘I dunno. She doesn’t sound good but…’ He shrugged.
Louisa eased herself from his hold and stared into his face, a little too long, as if trying to read his innermost thoughts. ‘I wish we hadn’t come here this year, Frank, don’t you? It was a silly idea.’
So she’d changed her mind again. She kept doing this.
‘You shouldn’t let Eleanor’s fall upset you so. All we did was get engaged. Where’s the harm in that? What Eleanor did or didn’t do isn’t our fault. We’ll just do the work we’ve agreed to do and leave. It’ll be OK.’