The Lives We Touch

by Eva Woods

  ‘So … it’s our last night?’ The hurt in his eyes. Why couldn’t she see that? That he’d no interest in Ingrid? That Ingrid too had only been doing it to make a point, though not the one Rosie thought? ‘I’m not going to see you again?’

  ‘I guess not. I better go and pack.’ And she’d gone to her uncomfortable bunk in the dorm, and cried for hours, and the next morning she’d left without saying goodbye to any of them, and Luke had gone on, bewildered, trying hard to forget about the girl he’d only known for a few weeks, finally fetching up in Thailand where he’d met an Australian girl and moved to Sydney with her, and they hadn’t seen each other again for another five years, when Rosie had walked into that pub and there he was, with his beautiful fiancée, but all the same the thing that was between them didn’t care about that, and so from this moment here, this decision, the rest of her life and Luke’s life had been blown apart. Stupid Rosie. Stupid, stupid girl.

  Daisy

  ‘Ssh, Mum. It’s OK. She’s breathing again. It’s OK.’

  Her mother was doubled over on the green pleather seats of the waiting room, crying solidly, her chest rasping in and out like she could hardly breathe herself. She didn’t even seem to notice or care that people were watching. Daisy couldn’t bear it. Hearing her mother sob like this, it brought back too many memories of the bad time. She was three, and Mummy wouldn’t get out of bed and Rosie was the one who walked her to nursery every day, hand in hand, and read her stories and made up different ones when she couldn’t figure out all the words.

  Her mother sucked in breath. ‘Oh, Daisy. I can’t lose her as well. I just can’t.’

  ‘I know, Mum, but you haven’t. She’s still here.’

  ‘I heard them talking – if she doesn’t wake up soon it’s a very bad sign. She might live on for years like this, Daisy. We might never hear her voice again. Is that what she’d want? I don’t think it is.’

  She patted her mother’s back ineffectually, trying desperately to think of something hopeful to say. ‘People wake up from comas all the time. After years sometimes.’

  ‘Oh darling, they might wake up, but that doesn’t mean they’re the same as before. Oh God. She’s just like me, isn’t she? After … after everything. The way I was, so depressed, staying in bed for weeks. They say it can be passed on. And now look. She’s tried to … hurt herself. And I could have stopped it.’ Her mascara was running now, leaving trails in the smooth mask of her make-up. ‘It’s my fault, darling. My fault she did this.’

  Daisy sat back in the seat, which was broken and torn. Like everything here, including the people. ‘What?’

  ‘Rosie rang me that morning. Early. I found it on 1471 but I … l wasn’t in, I missed the call.’

  Daisy frowned. ‘But … where were you?’

  Her mother turned red. ‘I was … Darling, I was next door. With … John.’

  ‘Oh. Oh!’

  ‘So, you see, she finally got up the courage to call, and I wasn’t there, and so she must have decided to …’

  ‘We don’t know that she—’

  ‘Oh, Daisy. Can’t you see? The doctors think she did it. The police think so too. Everything points to it. She … she wanted to leave us. Oh, my poor Rosie. If only I could go back, Daisy, I would. I’d do everything differently. Everything. Since she was little. You’ve no idea how much I wish that.’

  ‘Mum, she rang me too. And Dad. None of us picked up.’ Daisy didn’t say the rest of what she was thinking. Would that have been a reason, if you weren’t in your right mind, to step under a bus? If you turned to your family and none of them answered? ‘But we still don’t know that she … meant to.’ It was there all the same, horrifying, in the doctors’ eyes, in her mother’s face, in the silences between them all. ‘We have to hope, at least, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course, darling. No one is saying we can’t hope. But if she does wake up, and she did this to herself, well … we have to be prepared for the worst.’

  Daisy got to her feet. She had to get out, find some air, think. ‘I need to go and do something, Mum. Maybe I can find out something that’ll help.’ Although what, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she could actually speak to Rosie about her life, even if she was awake.

  As she walked off, she thought what a strange thing it was her mother had said. When it came to Rosie, Daisy had been prepared for the worst for years now. Prepared for her to fall, and shatter. Trying to be the good girl, so at least her parents didn’t have more worries. Living up to her namesake, the insignificant weed to her sister’s bright, overblown bloom. And now it had happened, and Daisy was realising she’d had no idea about the truth of Rosie’s life. No idea at all.

  Rosie

  She was back. Back to a reality she didn’t want – helpless in a bed, estranged from family and friends, unemployed, a failure – and no Luke. She wondered how she hadn’t felt it before. Of course they weren’t together, of course she hadn’t seen him in years. His absence was like a hole in her middle. That happy, cinnamon-scented time with him had been just a brief burst. Her heart ached. Everything ached, from her feet to her head, but this was a different kind of pain. The pain of knowing you’d ruined your own life.

  And there was her mother bending over her bed, lines of worry etched into her face. Finally talking to her. ‘Rosie? Can you hear us? I know they said to talk to you but I just can’t … I just don’t feel you in there. Please, darling, if you can hear us, give us some sign!’

  Yes, yes, I can hear all of this. I can see you and hear you and this is torture. But my memories are even worse. If only I could get away from myself. Escape … me.

  Rosie seized on the thought, a clear shard of memory: she had thought this very thing before. Stepping in front of a bus, was that a very permanent way of escaping herself? Had it all just got too much, living with her mistakes day in day out?

  ‘I think something’s wrong.’ Her dad’s voice, worried. ‘Rosie, love, do you know we’re here? Can you say anything, or move a finger or anything?’

  Say something. Make a noise. Any noise. With all her might, she strained every muscle in her body, finding a puff of air deep down in the bottom of her deflated lungs and trying to force it out of her slack mouth. AAAAAAHHHHHHHH.

  Nothing. What would Mr Malcolm have said? Come on, Rosie, enunciate. The lips, the teeth, the back of the throat.

  I’m here. I promise, I’m still here.

  ‘Oh Mike, it’s no good. She can’t hear us. Rosie is … she’s not here. We have to admit that.’

  TRY, GODDAMMIT, TRY. I’m here. I’m still here, and I don’t want to die. I don’t!

  The sound of her parents crying. ‘Maybe this is … maybe this is what she wanted, Ali. Just to go.’

  Rosie was exhausted. The effort it had cost her to try to speak was immense, worse than when she’d climbed that mountain in Wales that time (when?), and she still hadn’t managed to do it. They thought she was already gone, dead inside a technically breathing body. And now – now, the black was reaching up to pull her down, the edges of the room fading and blurring. No. I’m not ready. I’m not! She focused on the faces of her father and mother – please, I love you – trying to cling to them like a life raft, but she was sinking back down, the waters overwhelming.

  ‘Mike. Mike! Something’s wrong! Rosie. ROSIE!’

  Rosie was gone.

  5 February 2011 (Six years ago)

  ‘Well. That was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?’ It was Darryl, his voice in her ear as the memory warmed to life.

  ‘What happened? I didn’t see any dials this time.’

  ‘Dunno. You sort of blacked out. I mean, more so than usual. Mate, I think you’re getting worse. They said this would happen, didn’t they, that you’d have to go onto long-term life support. You need to try and wake up.’

  ‘I am trying! Where are we?’ The flat they were in was cosy and modern: wood flooring, colourful cushions, the radio playing low music. The kind of place Rosie would have li
ked to live, instead of that nasty little room she called home. She could see her past self standing by a window, looking out over the illuminated city. She wore a navy dress with a white collar, as if trying for a demure look. It didn’t suit her and Rosie remembered it had shrunk in the wash, so she kept having to tug it down. In the living room of wherever this was stood several young people, twenty-something, the men in beards and lumberjack shirts, the women in skinny jeans and with flat, straightened hair, except for Rosie’s, which curled and corkscrewed of its own accord. Who were these people? She counted: six including her. A dinner party, then. Two couples, and in the kitchen a woman she recognised. It was Luke’s fiancée. Soon to be his wife – Rosie caught sight of a pile of hand-lettered invitations on the desk in the corner, in the process of being addressed. A hollow feeling settled in her stomach, and she could see that in the memory her past self was smiling with the kind of desperate jollity you only put on when your heart is breaking. Although she was in her own home, the fiancée was wearing leather trousers, enormous heels, and a loose floaty top. Her back was turned as she chopped something on the counter, and her hair was long and shiny. Rosie remembered how out of place she’d felt beside this seamless beauty, awkward, too tall, dressed once again in something ill-fitting and unfashionable.

  And … then, coming into the room with another man in tow, perhaps from answering the door, was Luke. He took her breath away, the beloved lines of his face. So why weren’t they together? He wore a blue buttoned shirt that he seemed uncomfortable in, fiddling with the cuffs. Perhaps the fiancée had bought it (what was her name? Rosie’s mind seemed to blank on it). And in the memory, Luke was walking straight to Rosie. She watched herself smile, tug down her dress. ‘Hey!’

  ‘Rosie, this is James from next door.’ The other man wore a pink polo shirt, collar up, and chinos. Definitely not Rosie’s type, not in a million years, but she shook hands gamely. Clearly, this was a set-up. She was remembering now. After the drinks in the pub at Christmas, the first time she’d seen Luke in over five years, and the shock of realising he was engaged, she’d been surprised to receive a message from the fiancée inviting her over for dinner. Perhaps it was that classic move, befriending the ex (though Rosie was not that, of course), neutralising the threat. And she’d gone because, clearly, the chance to be around Luke was worth the heartache of seeing him with someone else.

  ‘So, then, Rosie,’ said James, as Luke handed him a bottle of beer, ‘how d’you know Luke and Ella?’

  Ella! That was her name! Of course. Rosie watched as Luke and her past self fumbled over the answer to this question – how did they know each other? What were they to each other now? ‘Er, you know, we met travelling years ago.’

  ‘Thought you met Ella travelling, mate?’

  ‘We did. Later on the same trip.’ Ella came over, holding a plate in each hand. ‘Shall we sit down?’

  Rosie gaped at her. There was no mistaking the fullness under the floaty top. Her mind did the maths … so they’d been engaged at Christmas, and that was two months ago …

  There was no denying it. Ella was pregnant.

  ‘Hope you all like Thai food.’ Ella was an effortless hostess as well as being glamorous. She’d not even broken a sweat serving up the pad thai with assorted side dishes. Taking her seat at the top of the trendy glass table, she put her hand over Luke’s. ‘It’s our favourite. When we were out there we ate it all the time, didn’t we, honeybunch?’

  Honeybunch. Rosie could see herself beside Luke, opposite James, a rictus smile on her face. Of course, she remembered now. Luke had eventually fetched up in Asia after they parted, which was where he’d met Ella. That could have been Rosie, going round Thailand with him, eating spicy food that burned her mouth, riding on elephants (there were many photos on the wall, framed in a selection of shabby-chic frames no doubt sourced from vintage shops. Ella seemed the kind of woman who would source things rather than buy them). If only she’d been braver. If only she’d told him how she felt, taken that risk, opened up. But she hadn’t. And here they were.

  ‘Pad thai,’ said Darryl, who’d been hovering, silent. ‘That’s got peanuts in, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. And I’m allergic.’ She watched her past self, remembering now how she’d weighed up her mild childhood peanut allergy against the social faux pas of not eating Ella’s dinner. Don’t do it, you idiot, she urged herself, but it was no use. Past Rosie took a small bite, forcing it down her throat. It had been delicious, of course. Everything was done so well. There were little glass bowls of lime and coriander to sprinkle, matched Thai beers – Rosie had brought a not-expensive red wine, which she noticed Ella spirit away to the back of a dark cupboard – water in antique crystal jugs, some middle-of-the-road unthreatening music in the background. Mumford & Sons, she thought.

  The other two couples – she had no idea what their names were, could not recall anything about them – seemed like faceless blurs. She remembered there was some vague chat about politics, the new coalition government, but Rosie had paid no heed, focusing instead on not spilling things down herself. Luke tried to get her and James chatting. ‘So, Rosie’s an actress.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ James was attacking his pad thai. ‘Been in anything I’d have seen?’

  Rosie hated that question. How was she to know what people had seen? ‘Um, mostly stage.’

  ‘I never go to the theatre. Waste of money, isn’t it? Your average theatre ticket, right, what is it? Twenty quid?’

  ‘More, usually.’ Rosie had set down her fork and was surreptitiously fanning her lips.

  ‘Right, and I can stream films at home for free. Just need to know the right site.’

  ‘You’re talking about pirating?’

  James winked. ‘Well, who’s it hurting, eh?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, just everyone who wrote and directed and acted in and made it? It’s people like you taking money out of the industry.’

  James was frowning. ‘Easy, love. You should get a real job if you’re worried about cash. Teaching, law, something like that. Everyone knows acting’s not a proper job.’

  Rosie scowled at him. ‘I don’t think it’s fair that only posh kids can afford to do jobs in the arts. What about passion, and joy, and creating something meaningful? That shouldn’t just be for rich people.’ There was a short silence round the table, and to cover her embarrassment, Rosie took another bite of her treacherous dinner. ‘Mm, it’s lovely.’

  ‘James is an estate agent,’ Luke said, struggling on.

  ‘Foxtons. Got my own car and everything, it’s a sweet deal.’

  ‘We’re looking to buy, actually,’ said Ella. Oh, how that ‘we’ had stung Rosie, a worse burn than the chilli in the food. ‘Moving out of London, even. The prices are getting so crazy.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Where?’ There followed a long discussion about house prices, which Rosie could not join in on. She seemed to be in some discomfort, drinking a large glass of water, swallowing with difficulty. Only Luke noticed.

  ‘You OK?’ he said, with concern, under the general hubbub.

  Rosie was struggling to breathe now. ‘Oh yeah, sorry, it’s just—’

  ‘Shit! You’re allergic to peanuts! Oh my God, Rosie, I’m so sorry. What can we do?’

  ‘I … need a shot …’ She didn’t carry an EpiPen, though she’d been advised to. No room for them in the stupid tiny handbags that were fashionable at the time. She just avoided peanuts and that seemed to work. Until now, when she’d voluntarily eaten a whole plate of them.

  Luke was already leaping up from the table, grabbing his wallet and keys. ‘I’ll take you to hospital. Come on, it’s only a few minutes away.’

  She was waving him away with one hand, while clutching her throat with the other. ‘Oh no, no, you’re having … party … urgh …’

  ‘No arguments. Come on. I’ll call a taxi.’ He bundled her out the door, and the last thing Rosie saw was Ella’s expression, as her fiancé left her dinner party with
another woman. Albeit one who was red in the face and whose tongue had swollen to three times its normal size.

  Then Darryl’s ghostly hand was on her elbow, and the scene was dissolving, the light changing, and there were Rosie and Luke in a hospital cubicle, her with a breathing mask over her face, feeling very silly, while he sat beside her in the plastic chair. Around them the chaos of A&E on a Saturday night, drunks shouting and singing, machines bleeping. Same hospital she was in now, in fact, immobile in the bed six years on from this memory.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Luke again. ‘I remembered there was something, but then you used to love baklava, and that has nuts in …’

  ‘Different nuts,’ she breathed, into her mask. ‘Did you know … a peanut …’snot actually a nut?’

  ‘I did not know that. Always an education, being with you.’

  Rosie took off the mask, and fluffed out her hair. She was feeling better after the shot they’d given her, and she’d be able to go home soon. ‘I’m really sorry I ruined your dinner party. What an idiot, eh?’

  ‘God, no, don’t be, I was glad to get out of there. I can’t believe she invited James. James! The guy would drive over his granny if it meant he got a parking spot for his stupid Foxtonsmobile.’ She remembered that about Luke, his streak of social justice. Everyone had that in their twenties, of course, but his seemed to be surviving better than most. ‘And the rest of them, Ella’s work mates, this will sound horrible, but any time they come around I end up drinking too much just to stop myself slipping into a boredom coma.’

  ‘How come you didn’t invite any of your friends?’

  ‘Oh, mine are all a bit scattered. Travelling or working overseas still. Like I always wanted to be. It’s not exactly fighting the good fight, sitting at home writing articles.’ She remembered now that Luke was a journalist, an expert on international development. Was he not happy, being back in the UK, about to be a dad?

  Past Rosie waited. ‘But a wedding, that’s exciting, huh. And a baby! Big steps.’