by Rachel Dove
His eyes widened, and she pressed her lips together. ‘I mean separately, of course. You go first, I’ll wait till you’ve done.’ He looked like he wanted to argue, so she moved first. Which wasn’t that easy, given that she was standing on cushions, covered in junk and bits. Taking a small step forward, she toppled a little, and his arm was around her middle in an instant, pulling her tight to him and squashing a piece of tomato that was hanging out on his top between them.
‘Careful,’ he said, close to her cheek. ‘The glass. Stay there, till I get it cleaned up. Don’t move. You go shower first, okay?’ He was oddly masculine, and for a second she thought he was going to ask her to braid her hair and head to the Red Room. His knitted tank top ruined the daydream a little, but she went with it. He steadied her, and not letting go, he stood down, avoiding the shards. Leaning forward slightly, he looked around him, mentally and audibly mapping out his path. Turning back to her to give her an all clear, he then leaned forward a bit more. His head was hovering near her stomach, poised. ‘You ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, and before she got so much as a pinkie off the fabric, he hoisted her right up over one shoulder, and crab walked to the hall. He didn’t stop there either, heading straight to her bedroom, her slightly panicked hands grabbing at his bottom to try and stop her head from moving like a windscreen wiper. ‘Hey! I can walk now, thanks.’ He opened her bedroom door, and when they were both inside, he whirled her around in his arms, and put her gently to her feet. She couldn’t see him very well, since her hair had come loose and was now around her head like a lion’s mane. Scraping it back behind her ears, she puffed a bit of fringe out of her eyeline.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he started. ‘I’m sorry that I’m saying sorry, yet again. I must be your worst nightmare. I swear, in my flat, I have a nice place. I’ve lived there a year now, and only had one minor house fire. Well …’ He was still holding her around the waist, and seemed oblivious to the fact. She didn’t know why she hadn’t brought it up either. Trauma perhaps? Shock? She’d felt something. It was probably her stomach mourning the loss of that meal. ‘It was pretty minor. There was a singed rug over the balcony incident.’
‘Really? What happened?’ She could feel her lips twitching. He really was a geek. He was adorable with his glasses on, his face all pinched up at the memory.
‘Well, I pulled my tea out of the oven, and it was on fire, so I dropped it on the rug. Then the rug caught fire, and I just grabbed it and, well, I ran out onto the balcony and threw it over the side.’
He moved a hand away from her waist to illustrate his story, imitating himself throwing a flaming rug out into the night. She laughed, but it stopped in her throat when he put his hand back where it was. She could feel the heat from him. He seemed to notice it too, because he looked down at his hand.
‘The thing was, the neighbour had a lot of pots out, and some clean washing. The whole lot went up, she ended up moving out for a while, it was a whole thing.’
He squeezed his hand tighter, just for a second, and then released her. Looking into her eyes, he gave her a shy little smile. ‘Anyway, no fires here. I’ll go clean up, shout me when you’ve done.’
He left the room, leaving her standing there staring after him. A moment later, the radio started playing again, and she half smiled as he started to sing. Heading for the shower, she realised that she hadn’t thought about competitions or failures for a few hours. It felt pretty good. Maybe Saturday wouldn’t be so bad after all. Bearable even.
Chapter 4
There was a pretty pot of daffodils on the windowsill, but they couldn’t be real. Wrong time of year, he was sure. As sure as he was about anything these days. He’d have a look, ask someone usually. Offer to cut some fresh blooms from his own garden. Stuck here, in this squeaky-wheeled bed, he couldn’t do a thing but stare at them. Was the water in the bottom real? If he knew that, he could figure it out. He squinted his eyes, but his face still felt odd. He wasn’t sure he even had control.
‘Morning Frank, time to get up and shaking lad. Come on, your friend is here to see you again. I wouldn’t keep her waiting either if I were you.’
She was here again, the woman from that place. Oh, where was it, please, just remember. Everything’s so foggy, and I just feel so tired. I’m glad my son didn’t stay. I couldn’t bear for him to waste any more time. Especially not on me. I’ve already wasted enough of his. It was all too late, he saw that now. I don’t want him here, seeing this. What’s the point in … what’s the point in …
Dante came into view, kneeling a little to get to Frank’s level. ‘Come on Mr Sommersby,’ he said kindly, patting his huge, dark hand over the top of Frank’s rather pale-looking counterpart on the bed sheet. ‘We’ve been through this. Stroke is all about fast action and hard work. You got medical treatment fast, your body just needs a little help, is all.’ His voice was deep but rich, soothing. Frank could almost feel it wash over him. The man cared, but he didn’t realise that it was all a bit too late. Such a waste, really. Frank didn’t like to disappoint people. He never had.
‘Anything, Dante?’ A voice came from the doorway. Dante turned half to the door, patted Frank’s hand once more, and stood up.
‘Not yet, but it’s early days. The son coming today?’
Frank refocused on the flowers on the sill, resting his head back on the huge stack of pillows behind him. He needed to be kept upright, wanted to see out. He hated being laid down, his body uncooperative and clumsy. He hated this bed altogether, hated hospitals. He’d avoided the place like the plague for years. Now here he was. And so was she.
‘No, he’s … dealing with something at the moment, bit of a project, I think.’ She looked at Frank from the corner of her eye, and smiled when she saw that he’d turned his head to her. ‘Yes, I know you’re listening.’ She winked at him, and he felt a stir of something in him. Recognition? Annoyance? Frank puffed out his lips, a cavernous sigh erupting from him. It might as well be flatulence. He couldn’t even say the word, let alone decipher what his body was trying to tell him.
‘Oh, don’t be sighing at me. I’d rather have a wink, thanks.’ Turning back to Dante, she nibbled at the corner of her mouth, just for a moment. Frank recognised the movement, as though she did that a lot. He wanted to tell her that, to ask her if that was true. That his brain was still working, still remembering the things he wanted it to. Needed it to. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get the words out though, not without coming out in a cold sweat from the effort, so screw that. It had taken enough for him to scream at his son to get out, to go, to leave and not come back. He’d screamed at the nurses whenever his progeny showed up, and finally, they all got the message. No point anyway, in trying to articulate what he wanted. They wouldn’t listen, and they certainly wouldn’t help him. He sighed again, but the woman was there in front of him now. Looking out of the window. Now was his chance. He tried to raise his hand, but he got nothing more than a weak finger wave. He grunted in frustration, and tried again. Nothing. He couldn’t lift his own wretched hand from the bed. He wanted to punch something, to hit, to scream out, but nothing. Marilyn had turned to him now, and he tried to direct her back to his desire by opening his eyes wide. An old dog from his memory sprang to mind, eating a lolly on some garden back step. Him, laughing with someone else at the dog’s wide open eyes as he licked. The memory hit him so strongly that he could almost feel the fur under his hand, the warmth of the sun on his face. The memory faded, and Frank was left frustrated once more. He jerked his head wildly to the sill, and with one huge burst of anger, he shouted ‘Oooooouuuuuwwwtttt!’ He pushed the almost feral sound from his lungs with every little bit of strength he had. Marilyn looked at Dante, who grinned, exposing a huge set of white teeth that added a little shine to the rather dull room.
‘That’s it, Mr Sommersby, you sounded like a lion then! Roar again, go on!’
Frank clenched his fists, or at least tried to send out the signal, and took a br
eath. Marilyn was bouncing in front of him on the spot, her hair staying the same each time she landed.
‘Come on Frank, that’s it! Tell us what you want!’ She leaned in close, her eyes bright with excitement, the dark circles under her eyes at odds with the rest of her demeanour. He could see Dante, off to one side, ready to help. He felt like a bloody toddler, trying to take his first clumsy steps. He wanted to lash out, punch something. The fact that he couldn’t only made him worse.
‘Oooouuuutttttt!’ He tried again, looking intently at the cheap pot of artificial flowers on the sill. If he was going to sit here and waste away, then he jolly well wasn’t going to sit staring at that. He tried to flick his head, and the woman twirled, looking where he was, and picked up the pot.
‘It’s this,’ she said to Dante, her words coming out in excited whispers. ‘He loves his garden.’ She eyed Frank, who was staring at her from the bed with a wretched look on his face. ‘What’s the matter Frank? Is it this?’ She waggled it in front of him, and he deepened his scowl as much as he could muster. His face was still being as uncooperative in parts, like his stupid body. Marilyn looked at him, and to Dante, and then she placed the pot on his over bed table. Right in front of him.
He was about to try to grunt at her, to move his face into an expression that would hopefully display his vehement anger, when she looked him right in the eye. Her own eyes were cornflower-blue. Frank looked into them, and she smiled.
‘I know you’re in there, Frank, but you have to try. They told you, remember? Right hemisphere strokes are hard Frank, but your body can do it. You need to fight like you’ve never fought before, to come back to us. If you give up, that’s it. Your son is worried sick, he’s not been eating much. he looks awful! He needs to see you. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. You can’t let him—’ She stopped, the air pushing out of her lungs as she spoke. ‘You can’t give up Frank, God knows you have enough already.’ Dante kissed his teeth behind her, always warning her to stay positive, but she didn’t stop. ‘I mean it Frank. You have to try. God, I never realised you were this stubborn! I wish I’d said something years ago. What did you want to tell me?’
It was the first time someone had actually asked him that. In all the days since he’d crashed his car, people had been talking. To him, at him. Dante was a man of few words at the best of times, but he was gentle. He had warm hands and a lot of respect, which Frank appreciated. He couldn’t tell him, but just seeing him there made him feel so much better. Less alone, less scared. When he thought of his son, his heart lurched. That was the worst thing in all this, the worry on his son’s face that day in the hospital. His car was a write off, as were half the parked cars in the street. He knew how worrying that must have been to see. He did nothing but cry when he came, they cried together. It was about the only way they could communicate, even being so close, but Frank knew. He knew he could try harder now. He just wasn’t very sure that he wanted to bother. Turning away from her expectant face, he looked back at the now bare windowsill, and closed his eyes. He should have put up more of a fight years ago. When he was young enough and well enough to do something. He’d become a dad, and that had been his life. Till his wife died, and his whole world felt like a hole had been blasted through it. He’d never dealt with that hole. Not really. He’d tiptoed around it for years, too scared to live in case something else happened. He knew back then he wouldn’t survive it.
His son didn’t have to live that way. He had cut the apron strings now. It was done. He just wanted it all to be done, so he could finally find peace. Maybe see his wife again. Get out of this knackered body. He didn’t tell her any of this, he never said a word. He just stared at the pot of flowers.
‘Stubborn old fool,’ he heard a few moments later. The door to his room closed, and Dante’s voice filled Frank’s ears.
‘Your son looks like you, you know? I saw it, when he came to visit.’ Frank didn’t move, he didn’t want to think of their last meeting. It hadn’t gone well. What I wouldn’t give to be able to pick up the phone. Explain it to him properly. Make him understand that it was for his own good. ‘Is he like you, too?’ Frank made an odd noise in the back of his throat, and Dante waited.
‘Y-yes.’
It was only a little word, but Frank heard it. He’d said it, answered the question. He felt Dante’s hand cover his, and give him a slow pat.
‘I thought so,’ he said eventually. ‘You know Frank, people surprise me in this job all the time. I think you’re one of those people. Marilyn sure does.’ Frank flinched at her name. Marilyn. The woman with the cornflower-blue eyes. The pain in the arse with the flower pot. He didn’t try to reply to Dante, it wasn’t worth the effort. The fact was, Dante Flores had hit the proverbial nail on the head. Frank’s son, the apple of his eye, was just like him. And that was precisely why he’d sent him away.
Chapter 5
The following morning, Rebecca was up early, eager to get a start on her day off. After last night, Luke having cleaned up and made them grilled cheese sandwiches, she felt a little better about not waking up alone in her little oasis. She rolled over in bed, giving the view a glare as she opened the curtains. She dressed in a pair of black trousers, a pink sweater and her usual walking boots, and then she packed her bag with her phone, cash, and a list of stuff she needed to get from the shops. With Hans at the café all day, she wanted to go see Holly too, see how she was coping being cooped up indoors. Bedrest was the worst. She knew from experience what it felt like to spend hours and days staring out of the window, watching everyone get on with their lives. She had to live with Hans too, and was growing his spawn, so the least the woman deserved was a cuppa and a chat.
Heading out of her bedroom door, dressed and boots in hand, she heard a voice in the living room. She wanted to say hello, but she headed to the bathroom instead. It was nearer to the living room, and his voice got louder as she approached.
‘He really did that? Why?’ Rebecca could hear the confusion in Luke’s voice. ‘What about the activities coordinator? Did she try like the manager suggested?’ A woman’s voice came back across the phone line, and whatever she said made Luke gasp. ‘No! The middle one? That’s not like him, none of this is.’ Rebecca found herself venturing around the corner. He didn’t sound okay. ‘Well, I suppose at least his fingers are working. Did he say anything, ask about me?’ Rebecca walked into the room, and he noticed her then. He was sitting on the sofa, which was covered in a couple of her king size duvet covers. His laptop and notebooks were spread out all around him, but he was sitting back on the sofa, one hand running through his dark, messy hair, the other holding his phone to his ear. He smiled at her, and looked her up and down. She was grateful to have scrubbed up that morning for once, for putting some make-up on over her tired eye bags. She’d not been sleeping very well of late. She gave him a little wave, mouthing her apologies, but he beckoned for her to sit down by moving some of the papers next to him. He patted the seat.
‘Okay, no problem. Listen, thanks for letting me know. If you need anything, I …’ The voice was insistent in its refusal, and he rolled his eyes. Whoever the woman was, she was a woman who spoke her mind. ‘Okay, okay. Still, anything, okay? And thanks, okay?’ He was saying okay a lot, gesturing again for Rebecca to sit down next to him. The man had no boundaries, and after last night, and the heat she’d felt from his touch, she found herself nodding, taking up his invitation to sit down. Tucking her feet under her, hiding her Homer Simpson socks, she waited for him patiently. He was saying goodbye to the woman, and talking about bacon sandwiches for some reason, so she respectfully tried to tune him out. Looking around her, she could see various plans and notes. Technical stuff that looked like it was gobbledy-gook in places.
‘App designs, for clients.’ He was talking to her now, and his phone was on the coffee table. As it lit up, she saw a familiar image, the café, sitting in front of the mountains looking gorgeous. Just in the window, she could see herself, behind the counte
r, bowl in hand.
‘I like the view,’ he nodded at the screen. ‘Gorgeous here, isn’t it? Hans always sent photos, but it’s nothing like the real thing.’
Their eyes met when the screen went dark, and he nodded towards it again.
‘Sorry about that, a call from home. I—’
‘It’s fine, I should have given you more privacy. You working today?’
He looked back at his laptop screen, which was showing a very full inbox with a lot of urgent-sounding headings.
‘Yep, my trip here was a tad unscheduled so—’
‘Just a tad?’ she teased. He blushed, and she felt a bit mean. ‘Sorry, go on.’
‘I came last minute, as you know, and my clients are just used to me being around. I don’t usually travel.’
‘I gathered,’ she smiled, wanting to leave on a good note. The fact that he was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a white vest was nothing to do with it. Having a man sprawled on her sofa wasn’t going to stop her leaving to see her friend. ‘So, Hans is coming in today to run the café, I have a waitress coming too at 11, to give him a hand. I’ll be back later. If you need anything, he’ll be downstairs. You should be able to get some work done up here, it’s pretty quiet.’
‘You not working today?’ he asked, half reaching for her hand but putting it back on his own lap. She noticed a watch on his wrist, an old leather strap around an expensive-looking time piece. It had gone nine.
‘Nope,’ she said, standing up again and picking up her boots and bag. ‘Off into town, got things to do. You need anything?’
He reached into his side pocket, flashing a bit of toned midriff. He might make apps for a living but he clearly made time for the gym too. Pulling out a black leather wallet, he took out some Euros and offered the notes to her. ‘Here, for the bin and the sheets.’ It was a bit of a wad, more than what was needed.
