If I Can't Have You

by Charlotte Levin

  Returning to the reception, I swallowed hard to keep down the porridge Dale had made me eat. Not only because of the unimaginable fear of seeing her, being found out, but her coming to the surgery at all. Needing to have the baby checked. The harm I must have done. Such concern you couldn’t set her mind at rest, as you’d probably spent the weekend delighting in each other’s company.

  My pulse was so fast it felt devoid of gaps between each beat. I stood in front of Linda, waiting for her to finish her call with Mr Jacobson. She was taking her time. Flirting in the most inappropriate fashion as she rearranged his appointment, explaining that Dr Short had left for the day as his little girl had fallen at school and hit her head. Finally the receiver went down.

  ‘Can I go to lunch a bit earlier today, please, Linda? I have to take my medication at a specific time and need to have it with food.’

  I cannot adequately explain the terror that enveloped me for the rest of the morning. As I awaited my escape, trips to the toilet increased. Lunchtime loomed and I remained so quiet I had to announce to Linda and Alison, ‘I’m sorry for being strange. I . . . I still don’t feel a hundred per cent.’

  At twelve forty the danger was so close I stood and said, ‘I’ll be going now, Linda—’ but I’d barely spoken her name when the phone rang.

  While picking up the receiver, she held out her arm to signal me to wait. I gathered my bag and put on my coat and scarf to prevent her stopping me. I could barely use my shaking fingers. They had a life of their own as I urgently worked on each button. I stood there. Claustrophobic. Sandwiched between Linda’s faux concern for the patient she was speaking to and Alison’s prattling.

  ‘I hope it comes tonight. I love snow, you know . . . Hey – snow, you know. I’m a poet and I don’t know it . . . Kevin and I had our first kiss when it was snowing. He was walking me home from the party that we—’

  ‘It’s not snowing, Alison,’ I said as Linda put down the phone. ‘I’m heading off now, Linda, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Did you call Miss Keller to tell her about Dr Short?’

  ‘No . . . Sorry. I—’

  ‘Well, you can’t go without doing it, Constance.’

  I slapped my bag onto the desk and pressed the digits into the phone with the same force I wished I could apply to Linda’s face.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . Thank you, Miss Keller . . . Apologies once again . . . We’ll see you tomorrow at three, then.’ It took two slams to replace the receiver. The noise resonated around reception.

  ‘Happy now, Linda?’ It was five to one. I didn’t ask her permission, just grabbed my bag and stomped towards the door.

  As I pulled the handle, there was a push from the other side.

  Only her shoe was visible at first.

  Patent. Perfect height. Not slutty, not frumpy.

  The gap widened. Camel wool and the smell of jasmine spilt into the room. Head dropped, I pulled my scarf up to my eyes. Violently coughing, to make her turn away in disgust. She raised her arm high to open the door for me. I dipped under.

  ‘Hello. I’m here to see Dr Stevens.’

  The door slipped between us, then slammed shut.

  The rest took place only in my mind as I walked to Edward’s. Your excitement at seeing her. Touching her belly. The child you now loved and feared for so much. The slipping of her wrist under her sheet of hair to manoeuvre it out of her perfect face. The kiss. Introductions. The love that emanated from you both that everyone would say was so romantic.

  It was hard to tell if it was the gift of tinned prunes and posh cheese or seeing me that made Edward so elated. But as we scoffed our sandwiches with a cup of tea, which he complained was cold, he paused, placed his butty down onto the Sixties brown crockery and pulled out a paisley hanky. I presumed it was to wipe off the mustard paint-brushed across his cheek, but he pressed the crumpled silk into his face and said, ‘I didn’t realize how lonely I’d been for so long until you stopped visiting last week.’ He did one final press onto his eyes before returning the now darkened square to his pocket, saying, ‘You’ve gone a bit overboard on the mustard.’

  ‘I missed you too, Edward’ – we simultaneously took bites from our bread – ‘but listen, I can only pop in at lunch again tomorrow. It’s my birthday and Dale reckons he’s making me a dinner.’

  He looked confused. ‘But it’s not your birthday.’ Before I could ask what he meant, he spoke again. ‘Oh . . . sorry . . . I . . . It’s your birthday? My goodness, how marvellous. You must bring cake. We shall wear hats. No, I’ll wear a hat. For you, I have a tiara.’

  Being with Edward meant I forgot everything for a while. I even managed a laugh at his story about Maxine catching him giving her the finger behind her back.

  ‘That’s the problem with being so old, Constance. One’s reflexes aren’t what they were.’

  But as soon as his front door shut behind me, my mood returned to its darkened state.

  Knowing you had an appointment at one thirty with Mrs Towers, I waited until ten minutes after that before returning to ensure Laura’s departure.

  In the staffroom, I encountered Linda, a can of SlimFast and a Double Decker wrapper laid before her on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry about before, Linda. I just really needed to take my medication.’

  She hauled herself up, dropped the foil and can into the bin. ‘Dr Stevens asked to see you after his patients this afternoon.’

  Once she’d left, the cheese of my sandwich tickled the back of my throat, forcing me to retch into the sink.

  The atmosphere in reception was as if I’d turned up to the funeral of a person I’d murdered. Not that I’d do that. Linda misguidedly thought ignoring me was a punishment. Alison was scared to talk, which, again, was a result. But within the stilled hush, it was difficult for me to disguise my fear. My mouth had stopped producing saliva, so I nursed a glass of water. Sipping, sipping, sipping, going over why you’d want to see me. There was no relief. None of the options was good. All of them boiled down to the same origin. The bad things I’d done.

  I gathered the papers I’d copied for Dr Short in his absence and told Linda I was taking them to his room. Diverting to the toilet, I closed the door and pushed two fingers down my throat to empty myself of whatever was sitting there making me swim. The relief wasn’t as profound as I’d hoped as I wiped the specks off my chin and splashed my face with water.

  Dr Short’s office was different to the rest of you doctors’. Especially yours. It looked barely used. Sterile. He usually brought his mug to the staffroom at the end of each day and washed it. The only non-arsehole. Though that day it was still there. Cold black coffee with a white swirling film.

  When placing the file on his desk, I noticed a cupboard hadn’t been closed properly. As I went to press it shut, I was faced with packs of needles and blood test tubes. A memory punched me. Of Mum. Her visible upset whenever they brought the tray. How they failed to penetrate her collapsing veins with the needle. Her no-fuss silent tears as they tried the second time. Third. Fourth. The different nurse brought over to help. The false bonhomie.

  I reached inside. Took one of the needle-tip packs between my fingers. Recalled the suspended bags. Drip, drip, drip. The chatting, flicking magazine pages, eating biscuits. A normal day out. The most abnormal day out. And before I knew it, I’d tucked the needle under my cardigan sleeve and was walking back towards the toilet.

  Door bolted, I pulled down the seat, sat and rolled up my sleeve. My white flesh, delicate, glaring. The wrapper crinkled as it tore. I hadn’t done it since I was a teen. But I needed to feel something else, to release the tension. Feel what she went through. Punish myself in the same way. For her, the baby. To be honest, I didn’t think I could do it. The tip glistened under the harsh strip light. I pinched it between the fingers on my right hand. Brought it down onto the soft skin. Watched the dimple it created first. Like the buttons on her pink velour headboard. Then in it went. Pierced the surface. My eyes screwed. Bit
my lip at the immense pain as I scraped down. Straight line. Amateur surgeon. The blood came. A parting sea. Not gushing, emerging. I watched, yet it didn’t scare me. I’d faced it.

  I pulled and pulled toilet roll off to soak up the blood. Pressing hard to stop it coming. It was shallow but stung, throbbed. I put the needle back in the wrapper, rolled it in toilet roll and dropped it into the sanitary bin. When I removed the wad from my arm, its remnants stuck to the coagulated sections. Like Dad’s shaving cuts. I peeled off the remaining scraps, wincing. Flushed the soiled tissues. It was the shame that made me cry. Not the pain. I pulled more off the roll. The blood was stopping now. Clotting. I ran the wound under the tap.

  Aware I’d been so long, I gathered paper towels this time and patted it dry. Wrapping one around my forearm, before rolling down my sleeve, scanning the room for evidence. The only thing that remained was the arm itself, burning under my cardigan.

  By the time Mr Franks, your last patient, had left, the warm, sticky blood had seeped through my sleeve. But I decided not to prolong my fate any further and went to your room.

  After calling me in, you finished writing in your diary. Letting me stand there, until eventually, you said, ‘I still haven’t found my bloody pen. You couldn’t ring Mrs Carter and Mrs Johnson, could you? Check if I left it there during house calls?’ You turned, looked up.

  I nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Your eyes were flat. They didn’t knock me off balance, make my stomach swirl. Not now they connected to someone else.

  ‘Are you still ill, Constance? You look very pale.’

  ‘No . . . no, I’m fine, thank you.’ I squeezed my arm to stop the sting. ‘Linda said you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Oh right . . . yes . . . I made it sound formal to her, but I just wanted a chat – see how you were feeling?’ You swivelled round and chewed on your biro. Not the portrait of a man worried about his unborn child. ‘Shall I check your chest?’

  ‘No . . . no, there’s really no need. I’m just a bit drained, that’s all. How are you?’

  ‘Me? Yes, I’m good, actually . . . Yes.’ You smirked.

  I pinched my arm, ensuring it hurt. To distract me from the worse pain that you were about to inflict.

  I smiled. ‘That’s good.’

  You dropped your head and shook it. Forced a laugh. ‘To be honest with you, I’ve had a strange day.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘Oh really? Why’s that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing . . . nothing. It’s just funny, life, isn’t it? How things work out.’

  ‘So funny.’

  ‘I shouldn’t really . . . Oh, you know what . . .? I trust you completely, Constance. You won’t gossip, I know . . . So that woman that I said was coming in before—’

  ‘Sorry. I’m a bit tired. Do you mind if I sit?’ I grasped on to the nearest chair to steady myself and lowered my body.

  ‘Of course. Look, it doesn’t matter . . . I don’t wish to bore you, anyway.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m not bored. Go ahead.’

  You twisted and dropped the biro onto the desk. ‘OK . . . Well, it’s nothing, really. It was just that it was Laura – you know, my ex.’

  I gripped the wooden arms of the chair. Were you truly that oblivious to someone crumbling before your eyes? ‘Oh right . . . I thought you hated each other? I mean . . . that’s what you told me.’

  ‘Well, we do . . . did, I guess.’ You turned and wrote in your diary again. Didn’t even have enough respect to look as you destroyed me. ‘And . . . well, basically she’s pregnant.’

  I shut my eyes and dropped my head. Listening to the pen scratch the page.

  You turned again. ‘And her fella came to collect her . . . the one I took her from in the first place – not that he knows – and I met him. He actually seems a decent guy . . . a bit of a dick, but you know, OK . . . and it’s just so . . . I don’t know, funny . . . how things turn out.’

  ‘He’s the father?’

  You laughed. ‘Yes, well, at least I hope so or the poor guy’s being well and truly shafted. I must confess I did wonder when she first told me, but it’s definitely his. Thank God she’s ruining someone else’s life, not mine. No . . . no, that’s unfair. It’s just everything was so, you know . . . intense all those months ago and now . . .’ You leant forward. ‘He doesn’t know, but we met up last week. She wanted to tell me in person . . . I thought that was nice. Don’t you think?’

  I nodded.

  You continued. ‘It’s just strange, life. How you can love someone so much and then not even care they’re having some other man’s baby.’

  ‘The baby? Is it OK?’

  ‘The baby? Oh yes . . . She had a little fall last week and had been fretting. All is OK. I wouldn’t be surprised if she asked me to be the bloody godfather now or something. Jesus, I hope not.’

  I felt faint, bent forward, whispering, ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Are you OK, Constance?’

  ‘Yes . . . I’m fine. It’s been a bit much today, I think. My first day back and that. I should go.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. Do you want a lift somewhere?’

  I shook my head. I couldn’t bear it. What I’d put myself through for nothing. The person I’d become.

  In reception, Linda and Alison were putting on their coats and shutting down their computers. I too dressed to leave and gathered my belongings. The heaviness of the coat material scraped against my wounded arm. It was clear I needed to apply ointment and a dressing, though ironically I had to leave the doctor’s surgery in order to do it.

  The girls left me behind. I was alone. Aware. Not just of the throb of my cut but why I’d done it. It wasn’t right. I wasn’t right. And I knew it was time. To say it. Confess.

  ‘Is everything all right, Constance?’ Dr Franco had on his coat and scarf, and was standing in the middle of his room, briefcase in hand, which he slowly placed down onto the rug. ‘Come . . . sit down. What’s happened?’

  I allowed him to guide me to the chair, gently pressing my shoulders, giving me no option but to lower myself. I was aware of my thumbs circling each other, round and round. Unable to stop.

  ‘Take your time.’ He sat himself, pulled his chair closer.

  I remained silent. Felt stifled. He must have sensed this as he moved further away from me once again.

  ‘Has something happened?’ He handed me the box of tissues. I presume I must have been crying.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then what is it?’ He leant back, allowed me the freedom to talk.

  The clock tick-tocked slower than time itself. The wind rattled against the window.

  ‘I killed her,’ I said.

  The pollen was high, and the trees candied.

  The bus ride from our house to the Christie was long, requiring two changes: one in the overwhelming bustle of Piccadilly, the other in Fallowfield. So near yet so far away without a car or a body strong enough to walk the additional stretch. As usual, she wasn’t talkative throughout any of it. Neither was I. Never was on result days.

  On the last bus, a single-decker, she sat in the window seat, staring beyond the glass etched by youths, holding her mouth to control the nausea. She’d already thrown up that morning. The same noise of retching that rung in my ears from being a kid. Except the source had changed from booze to chemotherapy.

  After rubbing my hay-fevered eyes, I turned away from her to sneeze. No germs. Must avoid the germs. She pulled a screwed-up tissue from her bag and smoothed it out before handing it to me.

  ‘It’s clean,’ she said.

  She hadn’t bothered to wear her wig. Too hot for it, she insisted. In the early days she wouldn’t even go out into the garden without it balanced on her scalp. I’d pretend that the heavy fringe and shiny nylon bob looked natural. We’d both pretend. But you get what you pay for and this came free with the voucher they handed over at her first treatment. Fast-forward to after her last chemo, sick, weak, pains in her feet – ‘I can’t bear it, Constanc
e’ – and she’d stopped wearing it at all. And scarves. ‘I’m not a bloody fortune-teller.’ She wasn’t completely bald. Clusters remained. I told her to shave it off. ‘I will. We’ll do it tomorrow . . . Remind me to get the clippers from next door,’ she said, every day.

  The place was rammed, as usual. The cancer farm. More wigs than a fancy-dress shop. More scarves than a football match. Yet it was loud, upbeat. The powerful energy of people’s determination to survive.

  She took a seat, and I pulled a number from the ticket machine for those waiting for bloods. Like when we’d treat ourselves to a small wedge of our favourite Gouda from the deli instead of adding a few quid to the holiday fund.

  We still didn’t speak. Only exchanged knowing glances about the atrocious wig on the woman sat opposite. Telepathically knowing we were both saying, ‘Dolly Parton.’

  It was difficult to look at Mum at all by this point. I’d avoid it. Focus just past her like a blind person. Her teeth protruded from her skeletal face. Her sunken eyes were further away from me than ever. I’d turn away when able. Imagining I was addressing her round, ruddy cheeks and warm, tipsy, chestnut eyes.

  She emerged from phlebotomy rolling down her sleeve.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘That bit’s easy, isn’t it? It’s on the bloody hand that’s impossible.’

  I changed the subject, to something worse. ‘I think we need to get you some new leggings. The Lycra’s gone in those.’ It hadn’t, of course. They were now just so baggy they hung like trousers.

  We waited in two different seated areas before being called in by the nurse.

  ‘Hi, Angela. Let’s pop you on the scales, love.’ She recorded her weight. Seven three.

  Mum looked as though she hadn’t even heard the diminished numbers. For me, tears surfaced and I wiped my eyes. ‘This hay fever’s pissing me off.’

  The consultant, Mr Wallis, tall and bumbling, the type to be bullied at school, didn’t start with his usual small talk.

  I knew.