‘You sit down while I finish with supper. Put your feet up. Relax. You work too hard.’
I didn’t know what to make of it. It was like he’d accessed the disloyal thoughts I’ve been having about him and decided that he’d show me how great he really is. And I’m certainly not complaining. Maybe he finally started the divorce proceedings, I thought. Maybe he was going to propose! That gave me a small frisson of excitement. And apprehension. I supressed the memory that Daniel had proposed to Claire on top of the Eiffel Tower. ‘So cheesy!’ Claire had laughed when she told me, but to me it had sounded romantic.
I looked around my small, overcrowded flat. Daniel’s boxes are still not unpacked, lurking like malevolent spirits everywhere I look. They’re now dusty and the edges are scuffed from us tripping over them. Whatever’s in them doesn’t seem important enough for Daniel to actually need. But other than the boxes, my place is nice. And I’ve made it feel like home, even more so since Daniel’s moved in and the spectre of Claire’s perfect house has loomed over me. There are lovely new scatter cushions that I paid too much for, and curtains that Mandy made for me, and an orchid on the coffee table, because Claire once told me there’s no design dilemma an orchid can’t fix.
It wasn’t Paris, but it would do.
But as it turned out, Daniel didn’t propose to me. In a way that made it better, because then I didn’t have to compare it to Paris. As it was, it was just a wonderful, romantic night, exactly like I imagined life would be with my perfect match. Romance for no special reason. Just because.
And we ate a delicious meal, and Daniel didn’t even blink when I asked for third helpings – he just smiled and said, ‘Got to keep my little boy growing.’ And when I actually burped at the table, he looked at me as though I’d performed a magic trick. So I almost immediately squashed the thought that Claire would never have burped in front of him. Obviously he was fine with it.
And after dinner we made love in a good, ordinary, romantic way. None of this up-against-the-wall, dirty-talk stuff. Just ordinary sex, with loving words. And yes, maybe it wasn’t as earth shattering as the other type. Maybe it was even a bit boring. But that was a good thing – that’s the type of sex one should be having with the father of your child when you’re twenty weeks pregnant. It made me feel like at long last I was safe with Daniel.
So today I wake up happy. And even though Daniel is busy all weekend, like he said he would be, I don’t mind. He sends me text messages during the day, checking in on me. At first, it’s sweet. It’s like we’ve turned a corner, like he’s made the decision to be with me in his heart. But as the day goes on, it gets a bit irritating. He’s gone weeks without contacting me all day, and now my phone is beeping every ten minutes. I go from feeling like the star of a romance movie to the victim of a stalker – but I push that feeling down. This is how it’s supposed to be. This is love.
Eventually, I send him a message: Stop worrying about me. I’m fine. Enjoy yourself.
And it’s a good time to smuggle the little rabbit like contraband into the house. First, I put it in the cupboard in the nursery, which is what I’m calling the spare room, but then I think Daniel might look there. After all, it is where half his clothes still are. So I put it under my bed. But that’s insane – it’s just a toy rabbit – so I put it back in the nursery, in the cupboard he never uses, and realise that he probably isn’t going to notice it anyway, or think that anyone but me bought it. I am acting like a complete lunatic. Finally, I put both the giant teddy and the rabbit on the spare room bed, on display. I need to get a cot, instead of acting like a toy rabbit is radioactive.
I try to phone my mother to see if we can go for lunch, but she doesn’t answer. So I stay at home, researching schools and births and early childhood development. I’m going to be ready for this baby. I feel grown up about my life.
Daniel is late home, but he texts several times more, so I don’t worry.
I’m okay, stop stressing, I tell him, every time. He’s obviously not used to being with a strong, confident woman like me is all I can conclude, trying hard not to picture Claire.
I’m fast asleep when he gets home.
I hear him bashing about getting changed, making the most enormous noise and pulling things out of the cupboard. I smile to myself – he must be very drunk. But I don’t let him know that he’s woken me, because as lovely as last night was, I don’t really feel like sex. And he might.
So I let myself fall back to sleep, holding my baby bump and thinking how lucky and happy I am.
Helen
On Saturday I wake up feeling good. I have a visit with Mike and then the lunch with Edward and his family. It feels good to be full of plans. I think about phoning Julia before the day starts, but then remember how I hated my mum nagging at me when I was a young adult. Obviously, after she died I would have given my right arm for a dose of her nagging, but you can’t tell them that, can you? It’s one of the things people must learn for themselves, when it’s too late. Anyhow, the last time I spoke to Julia she was fine, and she’d let me know if there was a problem. We don’t have one of those mother-daughter relationships where we need to yabber about nothing all day. It’s probably my fault. I haven’t been the small-talk type since The Accident.
For a moment I remember how I used to speak to my mother about everything, and I feel a pang of longing. It’s been years since I had space in my grief to miss my parents; it feels strange.
I dress carefully – I don’t want to look too smart for lunch, but I want to look good. I’m glad that I’ve finally started going to the hairdresser again, and my hair is glossy, with all the grey coloured away. I take the time to apply the make-up I spontaneously bought last week when I was in the shop getting shampoo and deodorant. I even threw in some ridiculously expensive perfume. It’s been years since I bothered with all that, and I’m surprised by the face that looks at me from the mirror. It looks like a person with an interesting life.
I find that I’m wanting Edward’s family to like me. I’m wanting them to see that even if you’re a broken half-person, you can still look okay. Maybe then they’ll have hope for Edward.
I explain all this to Mike when I get to the hospital, speaking easily and laughing as I hold his hand. When I run out of words, I just sit for a bit, stroking his hand, trying not to think too much. Mike and I have been through so much, and I owe him that final release from his prison, but right now I can’t get a grip on my plan for us to die, even though the drugs that I ordered are sitting in the cupboard at the surgery, waiting for me. When Julia first got pregnant, it felt so important. And it is important. I will be free when the baby is born, and I must free Mike. But for now I just want to sit, holding his hand, telling him about my day and absorbing his peace.
When I am done chatting to Mike, I go down the passage to Miriam, pausing to explain to the nurse on duty. I know for most people visiting Miriam would be strange, but I treat her like I would Mike, even though I know that it’s different because obviously she’s nothing like Mike. Nobody’s home, basically, but out of respect to Edward’s grief, I speak to her as if she’s as alert inside as Mike is.
First, I tell her who I am again, in case she is awake inside there and has forgotten me. I tell her a bit about Mike and about Julia and the baby she’s expecting. It feels quite cathartic speaking to her – I’m less self-aware than I am with Mike. Maybe because Miriam is a vegetable. I tell her about the lunch, and who will be there. I ask her what she thought of these people when she was up and about, and I wonder what they’ll make of me.
‘Edward’s cooking,’ I say. ‘He says he was always the one who cooked for company, but I bet you helped more than he realised. I bet he’s going to find it really hard without you.’ I laugh.
And as I laugh, Miriam’s hand flies up next to her and then drops, and her heart rate monitor goes up. An alarm must sound at the nurses’ station because they come racing through, and suddenly she’s surrounded by people. I tell them wh
at happened, and one of the nurses painstakingly writes it up in her chart. But Miriam’s back to normal now, and the nurses decide that they’ll speak to the doctor on his rounds rather than calling him.
‘Should I tell her husband?’ I ask. ‘Should I get his hopes up?’
One of the nurses I know well shakes her head. ‘It happens, Helen,’ she says. ‘It was just muscular.’
I nod. I know that. But I can’t help thinking that even Mike has never done anything that dramatic. And if it had been Mike, I’d want someone to tell me. I decide to play it by ear – I can’t tell Edward in front of everyone, and I don’t want to tell him before his lunch because he’ll get all distracted and worked up, and will probably want to come see her immediately. That’s what I’d do.
On my way out, I pop my head back into Mike’s room.
‘Miriam just moved,’ I tell him. ‘Do you want to match that? See her and raise her?’ I wait a minute, and nothing happens. ‘Okay. Just thought I’d check.’
When I get to Edward’s place, Stan, his brother, and his wife, Lizette, are already there. Stan is like a shorter, washed-out version of Edward, but Lizette could never be described as washed out. She has big hair, blonde, and bright-red lipstick. When Edward introduces us, Stan stands up and shakes my hand. Lizette remains seated but pats the seat next to her.
‘I’m not the sort of person who beats around the bush,’ she says. ‘We’re very curious about you.’
I smile and sit down next to her. ‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘But really, I’m not very interesting.’
‘It’s not like me to be blunt,’ she says, contradicting her first statement, ‘but Edward tells us your husband is also a vegetable, just like Miriam.’
I look at her to see if she’s being deliberately rude, but her pale-blue eyes are open very wide, and she’s looking at me with curiosity. At that moment, Edward arrives with the gin and tonic I requested, and rolls his eyes at me. ‘Lizette,’ he says, ‘I’ve explained that they’re not vegetables. They’re in prolonged comas.’
‘Edward’ – her tone is apologetic – ‘you know I’m not the sort of person who wants to upset people.’
Stan pats her hand. ‘Nobody’s upset, love. Just try not to refer to people’s spouses as vegetables, okay?’
Lizette nods. ‘That’s very fair,’ she says. Then she turns back to me. ‘So, what happened to your husband that made him a vegetable?’
I feel a laugh building up and I catch Edward’s eye and see that he’s also laughing. I guess that’s all we can do.
‘It was a car accident,’ I say.
‘Oh, how awful. Car accidents are terrible. Terrible.’ Lizette says this like she has just realised the truth of it, and she shakes her bouffant sadly. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d have to agree.’
She perks up ‘I knew you would,’ she says, like we’ve just agreed on a very obscure point. ‘I’m sure we’re going to be great friends. I’m the sort of person who has a feeling about these things.’
I’m tempted to tell her that I’m not ‘the sort of person’ who has friends, but that would upset her, and anyway I’m not even sure it’s true any more. So I smile, and sip my gin before asking Lizette what she does, allowing her to give a soliloquy on the sort of person she is, which only requires me to nod and smile.
As Lizette is telling me that she’s not the sort of person who likes death – because of course the rest of us are simply mad about it – another man enters the room. He is tall, with grey hair and bright-blue eyes. Stan jumps up and shakes his hand, and Lizette stops mid-sentence to embrace him warmly.
Edward waits for Lizette to let go – which takes slightly longer than it should – and then introduces me. ‘Helen, this is Larry, Miriam’s brother.’
I stand up and shake Larry’s hand. His skin is warm and dry, and his grip is strong.
Edward, however, is smiling. ‘Helen’s husband is also in a coma,’ he says, much like you might mention a shared profession or hobby. ‘So she knows all about what I’m going through.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Larry. ‘How long has he been in a coma?’
‘Twenty-six years.’
Lizette turns to Stan. ‘That’s a terribly long time, you know.’ Stan pats her shoulder. ‘It is, love. Poor Helen.’
Lizette looks at me with her wide eyes. ‘Helen’s not the sort of person to wallow in her grief,’ she announces. ‘Helen’s the sort who keeps her chin up.’
We all look at her. I’m stunned that anyone who has spoken even three words to me can hold this opinion. Larry and Edward look interested, although Edward must surely know I am an absolute expert in wallowing in my grief.
And Stan’s chest swells. ‘Lizette’s the sort of person who has a good grip on other people.’ He is so proud and she looks so happy that you can’t even be angry with them. I catch Larry’s eye for a moment, and I could swear that he winks at me, his eyes glistening with humour. I must be mistaken, but I allow myself a small smile.
‘Helen visited Miriam this morning,’ says Edward.
‘Oh,’ says Larry. ‘And how was she?’
I take a deep breath. ‘Well, actually,’ I say. ‘Something happened, but please don’t get too excited.’ I say the second part to Edward.
‘Did she die?’ whispers Lizette. Everyone turns to look at her, even Stan.
‘She’d hardly have kept that to herself until now, love,’ says Stan, with a slight question in his voice.
‘And why would that excite anyone?’ says Larry. ‘Honestly, Lizette. Think before you speak.’
I expect Lizette to be dampened by this quite blunt admonishment, but she just smiles and says, ‘Well, what then?’
Edward is pale, saying nothing.
‘I was chatting to her, telling her about the lunch, and her arm moved.’
‘What?’ Edward grabs hold of my arm. ‘She’s waking up. I must go now.’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘The doctors checked her and she isn’t waking up, Ed. They say it was a purely neurological thing. They didn’t even think it worth mentioning to you. But I thought you’d want to know.’
There is so much hope in his face, and I hate myself for putting it there. I should have kept quiet.
Larry takes Ed’s arm. ‘Why don’t you phone the doctor?’ he suggests. ‘See what he has to say. And then decide what to do.’
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ says Lizette, looking from me to Ed to Larry.
‘Very,’ says Stan, expertly shepherding her away from Edward. ‘Come tell me again about what happened at book club last week. I can’t hear that story enough.’
Ed steps outside to call the doctor, and we see him through the window, pacing as he talks.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ I say quietly to Larry. ‘It means nothing.’
‘Maybe it is a good sign,’ says Larry, and I remember that Miriam is his sister and he doesn’t know how unlikely it is that she could wake up.
‘You mustn’t get your hopes up, Larry,’ I say, in what I hope is a gentle voice. ‘People like Miriam very seldom recover.’
Larry sighs. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But it would be so wonderful, wouldn’t it?’
‘Indeed,’ I say, smiling. ‘It would.’
Ed comes in. ‘The doc says that there’s little point in me rushing over,’ he says. ‘It’s all back to normal. But,’ he says, with a smile, ‘he says that while it’s not something to get excited about, it’s also not a bad thing. So that’s a reason to drink some champagne, right?’
‘I’m not the sort of person to say no to champagne,’ says Lizette, and we all laugh – the tension that was hanging over us dissolves.
At lunch, Larry and I are seated together, and as he offers me some wine, he mutters, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m the sort of person who needs a drink to get through all this self-analysis.’ I turn to see if he is being serious, but as our eyes meet, he starts to laugh.
�
�Oh, that’s nasty of me,’ he says. ‘Pretend I never said it.’
I smile. ‘She is awfully sure of what sort of person she is.’ We are speaking softly so Lizette, who is lecturing Edward, won’t hear us.
‘Once . . .’ says Larry conspiratorially, ‘once I had a sip of wine every time she said, “I’m the sort of person” or anything similar. I got so drunk. Miriam was furious with me.’
I laugh out loud. ‘I’m almost tempted to try. It must have been hilarious.’
‘Hilarious and kind of terrible,’ says Larry. ‘I wasn’t in a good space. And then when I got drunk, I kept starting my own sentences with “I’m the sort of person . . .”, and Miriam thought I was doing it deliberately. But here’s the terrible part: I wasn’t. It’s just contagious. Like a cold.’
Lizette intervenes. ‘Have you caught a cold, Larry?’ she asks. ‘I’m not the sort of person who gets sick, but when I do, I always take lots of vitamin C. You should try that.’
Larry smiles easily. ‘That’s a very good idea, Lizzy. I’ll definitely try that.’
Lizette looks thrilled at this, and I realise that Larry is a very kind man, despite his teasing.
‘I think Lizette’s the sort of person who likes to help people,’ I say.
‘Oh, I am, Helen, I am,’ says Lizette, delighted, while Larry snorts on his wine.
The lunch is easy after that – the tone is set. We all gently tease Lizette, who loves it and has no idea she’s being teased. Stan probably knows, but he seems to be a man who is happy if his wife is happy, merely reining her in with a pat on her arm or a quiet comment when she gets a bit overexcited. She always takes his criticism well – ‘You are so right, darling’ – and then blithely ignores it.
Somehow, Larry and I manage to speak a bit in-between all this. I tell him about Julia and he tells me about his two sons, who are in their late teens and who live with him. They haven’t seen their mother since she left with the gym instructor and they won’t even speak to her on the phone. Larry is matter-of-fact about it, which means I am matter-of-fact when I tell him about Mike and the bare bones of the accident – the version I always tell. The sanitised version. But Larry is an insightful person.
The Aftermath Page 16
