by Paige Toon
The look he gives me is heartfelt. ‘She felt threatened by you,’ he admits with open honesty. ‘She hated that we were friends. She used to accuse me of having the hots for you, which was ridiculous,’ he mutters, ‘because you and I have never fancied each other in the slightest.’
It’s a moment before he registers the fact that I’m not rolling my eyes and agreeing with him. His brow furrows, and then, I don’t know why I say this, because I’ve spent the past twenty-odd years not saying it, but suddenly I don’t feel like I can keep it inside any longer.
‘You’re wrong.’
His eyes narrow as he stares at me, not comprehending.
‘I’ve been in love with you since I was eight.’
Even in my drunken state, I’m profoundly aware that what has just been said can never be taken back.
I watch his face freeze, as though in slow motion. He cautiously retracts his hand from its position beside my cheek.
‘What do you mean?’ he asks warily.
And despite my grasp on what is, I’m sure, a very serious situation, words continue to spill out of my mouth of their own volition, no longer content with being suppressed.
‘I’ve always been in love with you, Ethan.’ I regard him helplessly. ‘I’m sorry.’
The look on his face… He looks stricken, torn, incapable of formulating a response. Everything he thought about us – our friendship, our history, the world as he knew it – has tilted off its axis, and he doesn’t know how to right it again.
‘Please don’t worry,’ I plead quietly. ‘This won’t change anything.’
‘But… Ned,’ he says with bewilderment, his eyebrows pulling together.
‘I love him, too,’ I say. ‘You were married and had two kids, and…’ I laugh at myself and shake my head. ‘And you weren’t in love with me,’ I finish.
He lets out a long, deep breath and drags his hand across his mouth.
‘Hey,’ I chide. ‘Don’t be too freaked out.’
‘I am freaked out,’ he erupts in a loud whisper, shooting a glance at Nell. She’s still fast asleep, thankfully. That would be embarrassing. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ he asks.
‘Because you didn’t feel the same,’ I reply.
Headlights spill into the front window, and for a split second the light is blinding. I hear the sound of car tyres crunching across the gravel.
‘Taxi’s here,’ I note regretfully, putting my glass down behind me and pulling my boots back on. Ethan doesn’t move, clearly still floored. I feel oddly calm, but maybe that will wear off with the alcohol and I’ll wake up with heart palpitations.
I try to rouse Nell awake. ‘Nell,’ I prompt. ‘Nelly Belly, taxi’s here.’
‘Don’t call me Nelly Belly,’ she grumbles, coming to.
‘Bella Nella, then, is that better?’ I tease as I help her up. She once had a crush on an Italian boy who called her that, so I know she likes it.
She smirks and stumbles slightly, so I link my arm through hers. I’m hyperaware of Ethan’s every movement as he gets to his feet and follows us through the house. His silence is unnerving.
‘Thanks for having us,’ Nell says with a sleepy smile as we walk outside.
‘Any time,’ he replies, stiffly returning her hug before she goes to climb into the taxi.
He hooks his thumbs into his pockets and turns to me with a stark look.
‘If you let this change things, I will never fucking forgive you,’ I find myself saying vehemently, with only a pinch of humour.
His eyes widen. ‘Christ, A,’ he exclaims, a grin finally finding its way onto his face, dimple included.
‘You’re my oldest friend,’ I say firmly. ‘Don’t be a dickhead about this.’
He looks taken aback.
‘Will you still drop Dad’s car home tomorrow?’ I ask, just to be sure.
‘Of course.’ He shrugs. ‘I said that I would.’ I’m relieved to see a smidgeon of his usual nonchalance.
‘Would you mind setting up the PS2 before you go? Get Liz off my back?’
‘Sure.’ He nods.
‘Thanks. Okay. See you tomorrow.’ I lean up to peck him on his cheek and then hurry over to the taxi and climb in, shutting the door behind me. I cast a look out of the window and see him lift his hand in a half-wave as the car drives off, then I face the front.
I’ve totally freaked him out. Shit.
Chapter 13
When I wake up early the next morning, my head is throbbing, my body feels heavy, my eyes are stinging and my throat feels as rough as sandpaper. Most of these things would be cured by a little more sleep, but there’s fat chance of that.
Thoughts begin to whizz around my head like clothes on a spin cycle and, for a moment, everything feels chaotic and impossible to settle. Then, fragments of my conversation with Ethan start slamming into place – bang, bang, bang – each piece increasing my sense of dread. I cover my face with my hands, feeling the sting of blood rushing to my cheeks. I’m absolutely mortified.
What, on God’s green earth, compelled me to come clean after so many years of keeping my feelings to myself? The look on Ethan’s face when it all sank in…
I groan out loud and curl up on my side in a foetal position, coming face-to-face with Lambert.
He stares back at me with his glassy black eyes, and out of the blue I’m hit with an image of an auburn-haired woman smiling at me.
Hello, Mum.
My memories of her are few and far between, and sometimes they’re coupled with a sinister sense of foreboding. This one feels clean and pure, though, so I hold my breath and try to develop her image into something more real and tangible.
Where are we?
We’re in my bedroom and she’s holding Lambert and dancing him around in front of my face. She pushes him onto my tummy and bounces him back up again, making me squeal with laughter as she does it again and again. Then she takes me in her arms and holds me tightly, Lambert squashed soft and furry against my neck.
‘Goodnight, little…’
The whisper of the memory drifts away and I’m left feeling breathless and emotional. I clasp Lambert to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
Last night I managed to inject a certain amount of bravado into my voice when I said goodbye to Ethan. Today I don’t know where that bravado came from, and I certainly don’t know how to retrieve it. I feel very subdued as I get ready for the day ahead.
By the time Liz comes out of the bathroom, I’m already well under way with the cleaning. I’ve rolled up the rugs and have put them in the kitchen, ready to be stored in the shed. Now I’m vacuuming the hall and plan to mop it afterwards.
‘Oh, thank you, Amber,’ she says stiffly. ‘Would you like some help taking the rugs outside?’
‘No, I can manage,’ I reply.
A short while later, she emerges from her bedroom, dressed and ready for work.
‘By the way, I left Dad’s car at Ethan’s parents’ house last night,’ I tell her, in case she wonders where it is when she goes outside. ‘He’s dropping it back later.’
‘Oh, okay. Would you like a lift to the hospital now?’
‘No, I’ll wait until visiting hours this afternoon.’ Dad has his therapy sessions in the morning, anyway, so I won’t be missing much.
Liz pauses. ‘It’s going to be strange having him home.’
‘We’ll be okay,’ I say, forcing myself to adopt the requisite positive attitude.
She smiles a tight smile and goes to the door. ‘See you later, then.’
‘Bye.’
I carry on with my mopping.
At around eleven a.m., I get a text message from Ethan, which simply tells me that he’s on his way. It sends a flurry of nerves racing through me.
Even though I’m expecting his arrival, I nearly jump out of my skin when the doorbell goes half an hour later.
He is standing, awkwardly, on the doorstep, proffering the keys, and I meet his eyes for a split second before
taking them from him.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You still okay to do the PlayStation?’
‘Sure. It’s pretty straightforward.’
I stand aside to let him in, feeling on edge as I close the door behind him. He leads the way into the living room and kneels in front of the telly, pulling his PS2 down from on top of the DVD player. ‘Do you have the remote control?’ he asks over his shoulder.
I pick it up and hand it over, then sit down on the sofa.
Neither of us says a thing about last night as he works away, plugging in leads and adjusting the television channel until Medal of Honour appears on the screen. Our normal, easy-going banter has fled the house, and it’s clear he feels as uncomfortable as I do.
‘There we go,’ he says eventually, flashing me a quick glance before returning his gaze to the telly.
‘Are you going to show me how to play it?’ I dare to ask.
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘I thought you didn’t like shoot-’em-up video games?’
‘I don’t, but I’m going to have to find some way to entertain Dad once tomorrow comes.’
Empathy registers on his face as my statement sinks in. ‘Okay.’ He passes me the second control and sets up a two-player game, then comes to join me on the sofa, talking me through the buttons I need to press. I ask the occasional question and, to an outsider, there would seem to be nothing odd about our conversation, but I can see that he’s apprehensive. When the game begins, he perches on the edge of the sofa, rather than sitting back beside me.
I fix my attention on the TV screen and watch as a group of soldiers spill out of a ship onto a sandy beach. The fighting instantly kicks off.
If I thought I was tense before, it was nothing to how I am now. Gunfire is coming at me from all angles and I squeal as I run away, before turning to shoot at a Nazi soldier.
‘You’re shooting at our guys!’ Ethan yells.
‘What? Who…’
‘There!’ he shouts overexcitedly, pointing at some men up on a hill.
‘ARGH!’ I run towards them, gun aloft. This is terrifying!
Suddenly he cracks up laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ I demand to know.
His laughs subside, but he still has a grin on his face. ‘You’re dead,’ he points out, casting me a sidelong glance, while still playing the game. Despite everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours, my stomach flips at the precise moment that his green eyes lock with mine.
‘Well, I’m glad you find the thought so amusing.’ I pretend to be annoyed as he continues to fire manically at the Nazis, his thumbs working overtime and the muscles on his back rigid with tension. Eventually he cries out with frustration and slumps back against the sofa, dropping the control disgustedly onto his lap.
‘Bastards,’ he erupts. ‘I’m out of practice.’
I smirk at him. ‘Feel free to go again. Do you want a cup of tea?’
He pauses before deciding. ‘Sure.’
When I return, he’s texting someone. ‘Mum,’ he explains, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
‘How far away is she?’
‘Twenty minutes. I wasn’t sure if she’d be collecting me from here or the Parade.’
I give him a quizzical look.
‘I didn’t know if you’d be here, or…’ His voice trails off.
Something has to be said.
I sigh heavily and hand over his tea, then sit back down. ‘I’m sorry about last night.’
He visibly stiffens.
‘I don’t know what got into me. I was drunk. It was a childhood crush, but I’m not in love with you.’ I pull a face, as if to say, obviously. ‘I’m in love with my husband,’ I state assuredly. ‘Can we just forget the conversation ever took place?’ Thankfully he does the gracious thing and allows me to sweep last night’s confession underneath the rug – metaphorically speaking, because the physical rugs are now in the outdoor shed, patiently awaiting a time when my dad will be well enough to step over them again. If that time ever comes.
The next morning, Dad comes home. Liz has taken the day off work, so for the next three days, including the weekend, there will be two of us around to help get him settled. Not for the first time, I find myself feeling thankful for Liz’s presence in our lives. It’s still an alien concept, admittedly.
The journey from the car to the front door is painfully slow. Dad is using a walking stick, but his right side is still weak. It’s hard to resist helping him along, but he’s trying to be independent. We all have to learn to be tolerant.
I open the door, then freeze when Liz says, ‘Morning, Jenny.’
‘Hello, there!’ comes the exuberant reply. I look to my right to see Dad and Liz’s next-door neighbour standing, motionless, on her front doorstep.
Dad shakes with the effort of turning to look at her. He emits a hello.
‘It’s good to see you home, Len,’ she says, her smile wavering.
‘Thank you. Are you well?’ Dad asks, but it’s pretty clear from Jenny’s blank look that only Liz and I are able to understand him.
‘We’ll catch up with you soon, Jenny,’ Liz says firmly, nodding for me to move out of the way.
I quickly open the door and go inside, Dad shuffling after me. The look on his face is difficult to bear. He looks mortified.
Liz closes the door behind us. ‘Welcome home, darling,’ she says with more gentleness and compassion than I’m used to hearing from her. She rubs his arm.
Dad grunts. There are no words necessary.
Later, when we’ve set Dad up in the living room, propped up with cushions to support his weak side, just like his physiotherapist showed us, I get out the photo albums from my teenage years. Reading – even listening to me read – is still tiring because of the levels of concentration it requires. I know this upsets Dad – he loves his books – but he’s still able to enjoy music and art. I’m hoping that these pictures will give him something to smile about, too.
I make my first mistake only two minutes in, when he slowly goes to turn the page with his weak right hand and I take over, doing it for him.
‘Let me do it,’ he says crossly.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ I reply quietly.
People don’t like pauses, generally speaking. If there’s a gap, we tend to fill it. It’s the same with conversation. There’s only one thing more frustrating than having to wait for a person to very slowly finish their sentence when you know what they’re going to say; it’s having your sentence finished for you when the listener is too impatient to wait.
Dad asks what my friends are up to these days, so I fill him in. I point out the PS2 that Ethan brought over yesterday and he agrees to give it a go sometime.
‘Not today, though. Tired,’ he says.
‘Do you want a lie-down?’ I ask.
‘Later,’ he replies, closing the album. ‘Let’s see another.’ He points to the next album, so I pick it up and lay it on his lap.
The first page contains a photo of Mum, with me as a baby in her arms. I must be about six months old.
‘Katy,’ he mumbles, pausing a minute with his hands resting on the cellophane below her face.
‘Did everyone call her Katy, or was it just you?’ I ask softly, wishing I could remember the answer for myself. I seem to recall others referring to her as Kate in the years after the accident.
‘Just me,’ he replies, staring down at his late wife. ‘I missed her birthday,’ he says with some effort. ‘Must go to her grave at some point.’
My heart pinches. ‘I didn’t know you still did that,’ I murmur. Going to the cemetery hasn’t even occurred to me since I’ve been back.
Dad sighs heavily, and turns the next page.
A week into Dad’s time on the Rehab Ward, his occupational therapist asked him to make a cup of tea. It wasn’t so much to check his physical capabilities, but more his sequencing of events. Dad ended up boiling a kettle first, but forgot to put a tea bag in when he a
dded water to his mug. His brain needed to be retaught how to do things in the right way.
Dad’s OT explained this to me using the metaphor of driving to work each day. A person drives to work every day on the motorway, but one day they get stuck in a massive tailback, so they decide to go all around the houses instead. The destination is the same; they just needed to find a different way to get there.
When someone has a stroke, the dead or damaged brain cells mean that a person’s usual pathways in the brain can be interrupted, but the brain has the ability to create new pathways. This is called neuroplasticity. It’s still possible to do some or all of the things that they did before – some people may see only a very small improvement, while others will have an almost total recovery. The key is repetition. Eventually the new sequence should become second nature to the brain. It can take years to get it right, but it’s all down to the individual person and their strength of character.
When Mum died, I came to think of my dad as weak. He totally lost it. He was so incapable of looking after me that, in hindsight, I’m surprised social services didn’t step in. I’m sure he suffered from depression, and I still find it shocking that he didn’t get help sooner.
The man that I see these days, though, is a very different creature. Dad is right-handed, and he’s still very weak on that side. It would be far easier for him to do things with his left hand, but no matter how much more energy is required, he persists. I’m overcome with admiration as he reaches the end of the album.
I gently take it from him and place it with the others, but when I turn back, his eyes are closed.
I touch my hand to his shoulder, but he doesn’t stir.
‘I’ll let you rest,’ I whisper, getting up and going to the kitchen.
Liz is sitting at the table, writing in a notebook. She’s so caught up in what she’s doing that she doesn’t notice me for a moment, but I have a clear view of the page before her and words and phrases like ‘I’m terrified’, ‘not the same man’ and ‘it’s been hell’ scream out at me.
‘Liz?’ I prompt, feeling on edge.
She starts, involuntarily closing up her book.
