by Marian Keyes
There was some phrase rolling around like a pebble in the back of my mind which my granny used to say: ‘When you enlist you have to soldier.’
You know the way old people always have a litany of awful news – a woman up the road had the tiles stolen off her roof, a traffic light toppled over onto so-and-so’s husband, and the man who worked in the post office, his dog had bitten a barrister?
Well, whenever Granny Locke (Dad’s mum) came to visit, she’d relate all manner of disasters and when she’d finally finished she’d sigh, with a sort of happy gloom, and say, ‘When you enlist you have to soldier.’
She was saying that when you sign up to this life business, you agree to it all, good and bad; there’s no opt-out clause for pain. Everyone suffered – I could see it now with startling clarity – even the parents in Betsy and Jeffrey’s school. On the surface their lives seemed like one long carousel of fabulous holidays, but you heard things. One of the mums, who was a doctor, was struck off for getting high on her own supply of prescription painkillers.
And another of the mums, one of the more fabulous ones – oh, you should have seen her, she looked like she should be married to a rock star – she wore jeans from the kids’ department and was so, so skinny in a way that looked effortless. Well, one day she stood up and broke her thigh bone and it turned out she had osteoporosis – at thirty-five! Life-long anorexia, apparently.
She got hustled off to a psychiatric hospital and I hadn’t seen her since. (Does it make me a very bad person – yes, probably – that her story gave me a small bit of relief: my stomach might not be flat but at least I wasn’t going round breaking my legs by simply getting out of a chair.)
Everyone suffered. Not just me.
And here came Mannix Taylor. His doctor’s coat was flying open – whenever he appeared it was always with a flurry and a flourish.
Button your fecking coat.
He took a chair and said, almost cheerily, ‘Stella, I know you don’t like me.’
I blinked my right eye. Yes. I mean, why not? It was obvious. And he didn’t like me either.
‘But will you work with me on a little project?’ He seemed … enthusiastic.
… Er … okay … Again I blinked my right eye.
‘Is that all you can do?’ he asked. ‘Blink?’
I stared at him. In my most sarcastic tone, I thought, So sorry to disoblige you.
‘All right, I just wanted to be sure. See, I’ve been thinking about you. You not being able to communicate, it’s not on. Have you heard of a book called The Diving Bell and the Butterfly?’
I had, actually. Dad had made me read it a few years back.
‘Written by a man, who, just like you, was only able to move his eyelids. In fact, he could only use one; he was in an even worse situation than you. What I’m trying to say is, if you can blink, you can talk. So think of something you’d like to say to me.’ He took a pen from his pocket. With a snarky little smile, he said, ‘Try and make it polite.’ He unclipped a page from my bedside chart and turned it over to the blank side. ‘You won’t have the energy to say much,’ he said. ‘So make it matter. Have you thought of something?’
I blinked my right eye.
‘Okay. First letter. Is it a vowel?’
I blinked my left eye.
‘No? So it’s a consonant?’
I blinked my right eye.
‘A consonant. Is it in the first half of the alphabet, A to M? No? Second half?’
Again, I blinked my right eye.
‘Is it N?’ he asked.
I blinked my left eye.
‘Stop, stop,’ he said. ‘You’ll be exhausted if you react to every letter. We’re going to have to fine-tune this. Okay, if it’s not the correct letter, do nothing. I’ll watch you; I’ll do the heavy lifting. Okay? Is it P?’
I didn’t react.
‘Q? R? S?’
At S I blinked my right eye.
‘It’s S? Okay.’ He wrote it on his page. ‘Second letter. A vowel? Yes? A? E? I? O? It’s O? Okay, next letter. Vowel? No, consonant …’
We kept going until I had spelled out the word ‘SORRY’.
He leaned back in his chair and said speculatively, ‘So what are you sorry about?’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘I can hardly wait to find out. Do you feel able to keep going?’
Oh yes.
We continued until I’d ‘said’, ‘SORRY ABOUT YOUR CAR.’
‘Your first communication for a month and you use it to be sarcastic. Nothing about being too hot, too cold, in pain? Well, it’s great to hear that all is so good. And there was me, concerned about you.’
Suddenly I was deeply sorry that I’d wasted this valuable opportunity by being snippy. I should have asked if someone would get Jeffrey to wash his hair – I suspected he hadn’t done it since I’d come into hospital – or if Karen would buy Grazia and read it aloud to me.
‘Anyway.’ Mannix Taylor bowed his head in a courtly fashion. ‘Apology accepted.’
Now who’s being sarcastic?
‘Now who’s being sarcastic?’ he said to himself, then flicked a quick look at me. Almost in alarm, he said, ‘That’s just what you were thinking.’
I blinked. No.
He shook his head. ‘For a woman who can barely move a muscle, Stella Sweeney, you’ve a very bad poker face. As it happens, it wasn’t my car you drove into.’
I began blinking. ‘WHOSE CAR WAS IT?’
Mannix Taylor looked at the page he’d been transcribing my blinks onto, then he looked at me. ‘Stella …’ He shook his head and gave a little laugh. ‘Would you let it go?’
But I wanted to know.
He considered me for so long that I thought he wasn’t going to tell me. Then, to my surprise, he said, ‘It was my brother’s.’
His brother’s?
‘Sort of.’
Was it or wasn’t it?
‘Somehow he’d convinced the dealer to let him drive away a brand-new Range Rover without having actually paid for it.’
How?
‘He’s extremely charming, my brother.’ Mannix gave me a mocking look. ‘Obviously, there’s no family resemblance.’
Hey, you’re the one who said it …
‘I was returning it to the dealers but it wasn’t insured. It was only a short journey and I have third party, but …’
It took me a few moments to join all the dots, then I got the full picture and it wasn’t a pretty one – Mannix Taylor had been driving a new car he wasn’t insured on so the full cost of replacing it could land on his shoulders.
The irate man who had driven into the back of my car, despite his frenzy of rage, wouldn’t necessarily have been liable.
I’d no idea how much a new Range Rover cost but it was bound to be eye-watering.
‘SORRY.’
‘Ah, it’s okay.’ Wearily, he rubbed his hand over his face.
I was so hungry for conversation I’d have gladly listened to anything, but this was honest-to-God juicy stuff.
Conveying encouragement with my eyes, I urged Mannix Taylor on.
‘He’s my older brother. An estate agent. Roland Taylor. You probably know of him. Everyone does. Everyone loves him.’
Roland Taylor, yes, I did know of him! He was sometimes on talk shows, being vastly overweight and regaling people with funny stories. In fairness, he was very entertaining: Ireland’s first celebrity estate agent. One of the many strange things the Celtic Tiger had thrown up, along with celebrity opticians and celebrity water diviners.
Despite his size, Roland Taylor always wore very fashionable clothes and hipster’s spectacles but somehow he came across as charming rather than risible. He really was extremely likeable – the type of celebrity that you wish was your friend in real life – and he was Mannix Taylor’s brother. How unexpected!
‘He has … problems,’ Mannix Taylor said. ‘With money. With spending. It’s not his fault; it’s … ah … a family trait. I’ll tell you about it someday.’ He
eyed me as if he’d thought better of it. ‘… Or maybe not …’
Monday, 2 June
04.14
I awake. I don’t mean to but clearly I have not appeased the Sleep Gods with enough offerings. I go to the spare room and switch on my computer. Then I think, What in the name of Christ am I doing? It’s four in the morning. I promptly switch off the computer and return to bed and rummage in my bedside drawer for some sort of sleep aid. A box of valerian pills presents itself; it recommends two tablets ‘for peaceful sleep’ so I take six because, hey, it’s only herbal. My devil-may-care attitude clearly impresses the Sleep Gods because I am rewarded with five more hours of slumber.
09.40
I rise again. Downstairs, there’s evidence that Jeffrey has already broken his fast and left the house – a washed mug and bowl are on the draining board, simply radiating primness. We have a dishwasher so there’s no need for him to hand-wash anything but he does anyway, as some strange sort of rebuke to me.
I loiter at the kitchen table and drink tea and muse on what an oddball my son is. He could have poisoned us both with those foraged things last night. Obviously this is just a phase he’s going through but the sooner he becomes normal, the sooner I’ll like it.
I drink more tea and eat a sizeable bowl of granola. Yes, granola: broken biscuits masquerading as healthy food. I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m no longer in denial. But to begin my BARR (Belly Attachment Reducing Regime), I need to buy special horrible food and until then I may as well use up the stuff in the house. After all, it’s a crime to waste good food, especially in these straitened times.
I’m seized by sudden horrible fear – the thought of living without carbs is terrifying.
But I’ve been able for it in the past, I remind myself. Although, in retrospect, I’m astonished at how obedient I was. Again, I remember that day in Denver when Gilda had got me out of bed and made me run four miles in the dark. When we got back to the hotel I’d had a shower and simply awaited further instructions. I was hopeful I might get fed but I knew there was no point asking. If I was due food, I’d be given it. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t. Simple. No thinking involved. Thinking was Gilda’s area.
She was in charge of my diet – a calorie-counted, high-protein, sugar-free plan. Between that and the running, it kept me a size eight. A European size eight, I should stress. Not a US size eight, which is really a size twelve and which nobody admires.
While Gilda had blow-dried my hair – there was very little Gilda couldn’t do – she talked me through that day’s schedule. ‘In ten minutes the car will be here to take us to Good Morning Denver. You’re in the seven thirty-five a.m. slot and you’ve got four minutes. They’re tagging the lunchtime event and flashing the book cover. After that we go to a physical rehab centre where you’ll meet patients. You’ll feed them breakfast. A local news channel will be covering it –’
‘What about me?’ My anxiety burst out. ‘Will I be getting any breakfast?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Oh yeah, really?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t shoot me. You’re going to have some hospital food with the patients.’
‘Hospital food?’
‘Come on,’ she said encouragingly. ‘It’ll be heart-warming. You’ll talk about the memories it brings back of when you were fed through a tube into your stomach. Who wouldn’t be moved by a memory like that? I’m feeling teary already.’
‘And you?’ I said. ‘I guess you’ll be getting a big plate of pancakes and syrup.’
‘Guess I will. But then again, I’m not the star.’ And we both laughed.
Back in the present, I eat some more granola and consider my morning. Task one: I need to lose half a stone from my b-place. Task two: I need to write a book.
My phone rings. It’s Mum.
‘Where are you?’ She sounds cross.
‘Where should I be?’
‘Here. Bringing me to the shops. It’s Monday.’
It’s my job to drive Mum to the supermarket every Monday morning. How could I have forgotten?
This means I can put off doing any work for a while. Great!
‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’
‘You should be with me now.’
Using my new lady chinos as a fulcrum, I assemble a summer outfit. Luckily my weight gain hasn’t affected my feet, so my sandals from last year still fit me.
10.30
I get into my car, the same car that I used to drive Betsy and Jeffrey to school in. The car that I didn’t need any more when my new life started and I moved to New York. I’d asked Karen to sell it for me but she’d held onto it because clearly she didn’t have the same faith in my happy ending that I did.
And maybe it was for the best. Because when my happy ending turned out to be an illusion, I needed a car. And this one was waiting to welcome me home, as if I’d never gone away.
As I drive, ‘Bringing Sexy Back’ comes on the radio and I’m thrust right back to the Justin Timberlake gig in Madison Square Garden that Gilda had taken me to. It had been one of the greatest nights of my life. For the millionth time I wonder how she is. But I can’t let myself Google her. All I can do is say the mantra: May you be well, may you be happy, may you be free from suffering.
10.35
Mum opens her door and she’s got her annoyed face on, on account of me having forgotten about the weekly shop, but then she looks me up and down and says, in startled pleasure, ‘Stella! Did you get new trousers?’
With unexpected pride, I say, ‘Karen helped me. They’re chinos.’
‘Chinos? Are they not for men?’
‘These are lady chinos.’
‘Lady chinos! They must be a new thing. Well!’ She is a-puff with admiration. ‘You look very nice! Go in and show your father.’
‘Okay. Hello, Dad.’ I don’t just stick my head around the front-room door, I go right in to make sure he gets a proper look at me.
‘There you are, Stella,’ he says. Then he peers at me more closely. ‘What did you do to yourself? You’re looking gameball.’
‘She’s after buying chinos.’ Mum has come in behind me.
‘Chinos?’
‘Lady chinos,’ Mum and I say together.
‘Did the Parvenue have a hand in this?’
‘She did!’ we both say.
‘Well, credit where it’s due,’ Dad says. ‘You look gameball.’
‘Gameball,’ Mum agrees. ‘To the max.’
Well, what do you know? I look gameball! My lady chinos are a success! My new look works!
12.17
Oh my God, the crap they eat – biscuits, crisps, strange cakes with ten-month eat-by dates … Any combination of trans-fat and sugar is welcome in Hazel Locke’s trolley.
Shopping with Mum is always a power struggle – she who controls the trolley, controls what goes into it. This week Mum wins – she told me that I’d better straighten up my parking, then she hopped out of the car, a euro in her hand, and had bagged a trolley before I’d even switched off the engine. When it suits her, Mum can be surprisingly nimble. Also cunning.
We spend a horribly long time in trans-fat central, then I insist we visit the fruit and vegetable aisle. ‘How about broccoli?’ I suggest.
‘I hate broccoli,’ she says, sulkily.
‘You’ve never even tasted it.’
‘That’s right. Because I hate it.’
‘Come on, Mum. What about some carrots?’
In lacklustre fashion, she touches a bag of carrots and then recoils as if it’s radioactive. ‘Organic!’
‘Organic is good,’ I say, like I always do. ‘It’s better for you than the ordinary stuff.’
She picks up an organic apple. ‘How can it be, Stella? Look at the gammy shape of it. It’s like an apple from Chernobyl. Anyway,’ she says gloomily, ‘at our time of life, let us have our little pleasures.’
‘You’ll die prematurely.’
‘So what?’
/> I want to grab her by her shoulders and say earnestly, ‘You must stop being so old!’
But she can’t help it. Mum and Dad, they will never wear white linen and walk barefoot along a beach, smiling and holding hands and glowing with fish-oil-induced health.
‘Just because you live near a golf course, it doesn’t mean you have to play golf.’
Extract from One Blink at a Time
Mannix Taylor swung into my cubicle, accompanied by four, no five, of the nurses. What was going on?
‘Morning, Stella,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have a little lesson here. Will you show your nurses the blinking you and I did yesterday?’
Er, okay.
The nurses crowded around my bed in a sullen cluster. We’re very busy, their vibes said. We’ve more than enough to do as it is without having to watch a paralysed woman blink.
‘Right!’ Mannix held a pen over a piece of paper. ‘What would you like to say, Stella? First letter. A vowel? No? A consonant? First half of the alphabet? Yes? B, C, D, F, G, H? H! Okay! H it is.’
He turned to the nurses. ‘You see how it’s done. Who’d like to take over?’
When no one volunteered, he foisted the pen and page onto the nurse nearest to him. ‘You do it, Olive,’ he said. ‘Off you go, Stella.’
Almost shyly, I spelled out the word ‘HELLO’.
The nurses stared and eventually one of them said, ‘Hello back.’
‘Why are you saying hello to her?’ another asked. ‘She’s been here a month.’
‘But this is Stella’s first time to speak to you,’ Mannix said.
‘Aaah. Right. Well, we’d better go.’
As they made their way back to the station, I distinctly heard one of them say, ‘Who the hell does he think he is?’
‘What time does the husband come in?’ Mannix asked Olive.
‘Most mornings about eight and again at seven in the evening.’
‘So we could have been talking all this time?’ Ryan, dark and angry, squared up to Mannix Taylor. ‘She’s here for a month before someone lets us know?’