‘Well, I can’t wait.’ I think of all the things I want to ask Miriam – finally someone will be able to tell me what it has been like for Mike.
‘Did she say what it felt like?’ I ask.
‘She says it was like she was in a deep sleep, and sometimes she knew what was happening,’ he says. ‘But it’s like you said, she didn’t really know how much time had passed. She thought it was about three weeks.’
‘Three weeks?’ I echo.
Edward laughs. ‘Mad, huh? I’ve been alone for almost two years, and she thinks it’s three weeks.’
I wonder what twenty-six years has felt like to Mike. I wonder if he thinks it’s been three weeks. Maybe he’s not feeling trapped at all . . . He’s just thinking he’ll rest for a few more days, and has lost track of time. Maybe while I’ve lived a lifetime in hell, he’s been resting for three weeks. Maybe he just doesn’t want to wake up to a reality where Jack is dead. Maybe he’s the lucky one.
Edward is talking and I have no idea what he is saying, so I tune back in. ‘. . . maybe this afternoon?’ he is saying.
‘Sorry, I spaced out for a moment there. Maybe what this afternoon?’
‘You can come and meet Miri.’
‘Tomorrow’s Wednesday,’ I say. ‘That’s my visiting day. I’ll come meet her then.’
‘Oh,’ says Edward. ‘Okay.’ I can hear how disappointed he is. He wanted me to rush to the hospital right now.
‘Edward,’ I say, and I decide to be honest, because I know Edward is a kind man and he will get it. ‘I am so happy for you, but I am also desperately, agonisingly jealous. I just need time to digest this.’
Edward is silent for a moment. ‘Oh, Helen,’ he says. ‘I hadn’t thought. How selfish of me. Me of all people. Of course this is weird for you.’
I feel my eyes fill up again. ‘It really is,’ I say. ‘But I look forward to meeting Miri properly tomorrow. I really do.’
‘Okay,’ says Edward. I can tell that I have spoilt his joy a bit, but I can’t help it.
‘And I’ll bring some champagne,’ I say, trying to make it better. ‘This deserves a celebration.’
‘Thanks, Helen – you’re the best.’
We say our goodbyes. And then I cry for real.
WEDNESDAY
Julia
My mother was invited to the strange baby shower lunch on Monday, but she didn’t come. ‘I didn’t think it would be appropriate,’ she said. Instead, she organised to go for lunch with Steve and me yesterday.
I had questioned the whole arrangement.
‘Well,’ said Steve, ‘you really like lunch, and you’ll be bored on your first day, and I, well, I don’t mind.’
‘You also really like lunch, right?’ I said.
‘I really do,’ he answered.
My mum and I got to lunch before Steve. At first, she was all jumpy and prickly – snapping answers at me as if I had no right to ask her simple things like how she was. But then, after she’d had a sip of wine and I’d had a glass of water, she said, ‘Sorry I’m so jumpy’ – which was already a huge shock because normally she has no insight into how peculiar her behaviour can be. But then she said the next part: that the reason she was so jumpy was because Edward’s wife had woken up. And I couldn’t get my head around that.
‘From her coma?’ I said. ‘But she’s only been in it for a couple of years.’ Like there’s some sort of time that has to be served in a coma.
‘I know,’ said my mother. ‘I guess that’s how it was for her.’
‘But Dad’s been in a coma far longer,’ I said. ‘It’s not fair. It’s like she’s skipped the queue.’
‘I know what you mean, Julia,’ said my mother. ‘I feel like that too. But we’re not being rational. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘I know.’ I paused. ‘But it’s unfair, right?’
Mum sighed. ‘No, it’s not fair. But you and I know life’s not fair.’
I felt sad and angry, but I also felt kind of happy – my mother recognised that it was her and me against the world. She’s never made me feel like that before.
‘Maybe Dad will wake up soon too?’ I said.
‘I don’t think it works like that,’ she said. ‘Like it’s catchy, and they all wake up together. As much as I wish it did.’
‘Mum,’ I ventured, ‘he’s going to wake up one day, right?’
‘I don’t know any more,’ said my mum. ‘I don’t actually know.’
‘But he hears us, right?’
‘Of course,’ said my mother. ‘I mean, Miriam was on a ventilator. Mike breathes on his own. So he must be at least as conscious as she was.’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘Right,’ she said.
But neither of us are actually sure, I don’t think. And then Steve arrived and we had to act normal – well, what passes for normal in our family. But I think we were both only thinking about that one thing.
But when we both came home in the evening, we didn’t talk about Miriam waking up. We didn’t talk about anything much, and Mum just pushed the omelette I’d made around her plate, although she carefully thanked me for it.
‘It’s nice coming home to a hot meal,’ she said, even though she didn’t eat it.
‘Don’t get too used to it,’ I said, laughing. ‘When this baby comes, you’re going to do all the cooking.’
That perked her up slightly. ‘Maybe I’ll take some time off work.’
‘Like maternity leave for grannies,’ I said. ‘Graternity leave.’
She smiled. ‘I’ll put in for graternity leave first thing tomorrow.’
This morning when I wake up, I think about what my mum said about the hot meal, and realise that I haven’t been helping much. I’ve noticed that the towel cupboard is a mess, so I start there. My lower back is a bit sore, but I really want to get the towels sorted, so I keep going. I want to organise the towels in piles of different colours and with the most worn out ones at the bottom.
This, I tell myself, will make my mother’s life much easier.
Helen
I phone Julia mid-morning to tell her that I’ve actually successfully arranged two weeks’ ‘graternity’ leave, starting as soon as the baby is born. And to remind her that I will be with Mike this afternoon and stupid-bloody-wide-awake Miriam.
‘I’ve sorted out the towel cupboard,’ says Julia. ‘And alphabetised the spices and cleaned the fridge.’
‘Are you feeling okay?’ I ask.
‘A few Braxton Hicks,’ says Julia. ‘Also, I changed all the linen. It smelt funny.’
‘Okay,’ I say, even though the linen was changed two days ago. Everyone knows pregnant women are strange. And I’m thinking about meeting Miriam, so I don’t really have the energy to ask about sheets. ‘Mum,’ says Julia, ‘I have to go. The scones might burn.’
‘Scones?’
But the line is already dead.
I look at my phone for a few seconds, feeling like I’m missing something. There’s a thought at the tip of my tongue, but it’s slippery and I lose it. I know I’m nervous about meeting Miriam. Edward and Larry have become so much a part of my life, and Miriam might not like that. And if she doesn’t like me, they won’t stay friends with me either. I’m trying to tell myself that I’m worried about my friendship with Eddie, but it’s Larry I’m picturing. If Miriam doesn’t like me, her brother won’t want to stay friends with me.
‘Friends,’ I mutter, loud enough that the people in the waiting room look up, startled. I smile vaguely and pretend to write a note in the appointment book. I can hear Julia’s voice in my head, teasing me about Larry, even though she doesn’t in real life. All Julia says about anything these days is, ‘What do I know?’
Before I can think more about Julia, Ewan comes through.
‘Okkie wants to go and see his family in Uganda,’ he announces to me and the waiting room. I feel the energy in the room shift. This is interesting. Mrs Beaumont has high blood pressure; I hope the exci
tement won’t kill her.
‘That’s lovely,’ I say, unsure why Ewan looks so angry. ‘I believe Uganda is beautiful. Will you go too?’
Ewan looks at me. ‘Do you know what happens to gay albinos in Uganda?’
Mrs Beaumont isn’t even pretending to read her magazine any more.
‘People with albinism,’ I correct, almost without thinking. Since becoming friends with Okkie and Ewan, I’ve become very sensitive to language and feel quite disturbed hearing Ewan say ‘albino’. ‘And anyway, is that a known sub-group? Gay albinos? Is it like a thing? Like a club?’
Ewan looks at me. ‘You’re not taking this very seriously.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not myself today.’
‘You mustn’t let him go,’ pipes up Mrs Beaumont from the waiting room chair. ‘The Ugandans are very odd about homosexuality. This Okkie character must stay right here. No good will come of being gay with albinism in Uganda, mark my words.’ She says the last part in a dark voice, as if she personally has experience in this field.
Ewan glares at me. ‘Mrs Beaumont gets it.’ And he goes back into his office.
I suspect Okkie is about to get a phone call telling him that even old Mrs Beaumont in the waiting room doesn’t want him to go.
‘Dr Marigold is such a nice young man,’ says Mrs Beaumont, reopening her magazine. ‘I hope his friend doesn’t do anything stupid.’
The whole incident is so strange that I feel completely wrong-footed. I send Ewan an email: ‘Sorry I wasn’t sympathetic. I’m distracted. Miriam woke up.’
A minute later, Ewan bursts out of his room again. ‘Miriam woke up?’ he yells across the floor. ‘What the hell?’
‘I know,’ I mutter, aware of Mrs Beaumont’s eyes on me again. ‘I’m going to see her this afternoon. Meet her.’
‘Bloody hell,’ says Ewan. ‘That’s something for the books. Come through, Mrs Beaumont.’
Mrs Beaumont looks perkier than I have ever seen her, and I can hear her asking whether Miriam is also from Uganda before the door has even closed.
I sigh, and wonder if Ewan expects me to say something to Okkie. This is one of the things about being out of the habit of friends – I’m not at all sure what is expected.
I phone Julia and tell her the story. ‘I’m not really sure what to do,’ I say. ‘Should I say something to Okkie?’
‘What do I know?’ says Julia.
‘Well, you have lots of friends,’ I say. ‘You know what people expect.’
‘Yes, I’m a superstar with friendships, Mum,’ says Julia. ‘Pregnant with the baby of the husband of the nicest friend I ever had. You should totally follow my advice.’
‘Well, I’m not going to get pregnant with Okkie’s baby,’ I say, and suddenly we’re both laughing. I love that, even though the patients in the waiting room are looking at me like I’ve grown two heads.
‘Anyway, Mum,’ says Julia. ‘Have to go – I’m painting the baby’s room.’
‘Why? It’s already painted.’
‘It is completely and utterly the wrong colour. I don’t know what we were thinking.’
The room is slightly off-white – ‘Battered Stone’ I think was the name. Julia spent hours choosing it.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘What colour are you painting it now?’ I’ve wanted a nice light green all along, and I feel quite hopeful that she is finally taking my advice.
‘Distressed Cream,’ answers Julia, without any apparent irony.
‘Be careful, darling,’ I say. ‘You’re very pregnant. Maybe you shouldn’t be painting.’
‘Honestly, Mum. I can’t possibly leave this like it is.’ And she hangs up before I can answer.
She really has been very strange today.
Claire
My morning run with the car park mothers proves unexpectedly wonderful. Not so much because of the run – I am hopelessly unfit and can barely keep up as we pound the suburban blocks. But my body feels good, and I remember how much I loved running when I was at school. By the end of the route, despite a sharp pain in my calf and me breathing like I’m in the final stages of emphysema, I’m secretly wondering if I should sign up for some glamorous marathon. When we all stop for coffee and chocolate croissants, it turns out that everyone’s on the same page, because they tell me they’re planning on running the New York Marathon next year. And they say they would love me to join, even though they’ve just met me. And nobody suggests I come up with a theme, or plan an event, or even research something – they just want me to come along, and I feel a little bit of what I felt when I first met Julia.
Almost as though summoned, my phone starts pinging. I look down, and there are a series of messages from her.
How do I work the camper cot you gave me? Xx
Never mind, figured it out. Xx
Do I need a bottle steriliser if I’m breastfeeding? Xx
What if I can’t breastfeed?
Then the phone rings, but when I answer, it’s just fuzz in the background. I get another message from Julia: Sorry. Bum dial. And ignore last message. Inappropriate. My therapist can deal with that.
The texts keep coming:
Which colour is better? accompanied by a photograph of two almost identical shades of off-white.
Do you need me to fetch Mackenzie today? Xx
Ignore last offer. Cannot possibly. Have to rewash all baby’s clothes.
‘Everything okay?’ asks Evelyn, one of the runners.
‘Fine.’ I smile. ‘My ex-best friend is having a baby with my ex-husband, and she seems to be in a bit of a state.’ The other mothers all gawp at me.
‘Gosh,’ Evelyn eventually says. ‘That sounds very modern.’
‘And you seem very calm about it,’ says Mpho. ‘No offence’ – she looks around the table – ‘but usually you whites freak out about this kind of thing.’
I try to shrug and look enigmatic and Zen, as if the whole thing has been easy from the word go.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘these things happen.’ I pause. ‘Okay, not to everyone. And not often. And it was pretty unbearable. But here I am.’
‘Well,’ says Evelyn, and for a moment I think she’s going to throw me out of the group, so serious is the look on her face, ‘the immensely good thing about it is that they can look after your daughter when you come with us to New York.’
I decide now is not the time to mention that Daniel and Julia are no longer together – that’s just going to make us sound more debauched.
‘They certainly can.’ I hope this doesn’t count as a lie – I mean, I’m sure one of them will. Just not together.
When the others are distracted, I quickly tap out a reply to Julia:
You’ll be great at breastfeeding. Stop worrying.
Thank you, she replies almost immediately. And I feel good.
Helen
It feels like the morning takes forever. I am so jittery over meeting Miriam that I can’t sit still, and I find myself rearranging the filing system – which makes me think of Julia and the spices. But finally it is lunch-time, and I hand over to the two afternoon receptionists. At the last minute I try to delay things. I find myself explaining the filing and trying to finish up some random chores.
‘Leave us something to do, Helen,’ says Liwa, the older afternoon receptionist. ‘Go. Enjoy your afternoon.’
I don’t think I can enjoy the afternoon, but I can’t put it off any more.
As I drive to the home, I start thinking about Mike. I have been trying hard not to see Miriam waking up as a sign that Mike might too – but now I can’t help it. What would it actually be like if Mike woke up? What if he started asking about Jack, and doesn’t understand why nobody even knows who Jack is? How would I explain that to him, when I barely understand how it happened myself?
And worrying about this gives me a new, terrible insight: do I not really want Mike to wake up any more? Am I worried about the complications it would cause? Does Mike somehow know that? When he was consci
ous, he always knew exactly how I was feeling – why should that have changed?
Is Mike staying in a coma because he knows that is easier for me?
And how would he feel about how old we are, if he woke up thinking it had just been three weeks?
What would he think about my wrinkles?
And our pregnant daughter, stuck in our house like a large balloon, who he last saw as a toddler? Would he love her? Would he understand?
Would he be excited about the baby?
Would he even know who Julia was if I didn’t tell him?
By the time I arrive, I am beside myself. My hands are shaking and tears are running down my cheeks. I can’t let Eddie and Miriam see me like this – so I stay in the car, breathing deeply, trying to find my calm. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath in, and then slowly release it. The yoga lessons I started last month are paying off.
I’m starting to feel slightly better when a sharp rap against the window startles me, jettisoning all the calm.
It’s Larry, peering in through the glass, his face worried. I roll down the window.
‘I saw you park,’ he says, ‘and then you didn’t get out. I got worried.’
‘I just needed a moment,’ I say. ‘Want to be at my best to meet Miriam.’
I try to laugh, but it comes out like a bray.
Larry looks at me for a moment. ‘This is complicated for you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Because of Mike?’ He’s stooping to talk to me through the car window, and there is something so endearing about that.
‘Yes. Because of Mike. But also because of you.’
‘Me?’
‘If Miriam doesn’t like me, you and Eddie won’t want to be friends with me any more.’
Larry reaches awkwardly through the window to touch my shoulder.
His hand is so warm I can feel it through the fabric of my shirt.
‘Besides the fact that Miriam is a very nice person, and she will like you,’ he says, ‘even if she didn’t, that makes no difference to me. I’m a big boy. My sister doesn’t get to choose my friends.’ There is an infinitesimal pause before the word ‘friends’. I think I’ve imagined it, but he blushes when I look at him.
The Aftermath Page 21
