The Exit

by Helen FitzGerald

‘Gran, maybe it’d help to talk about what happened when you were ten.’ Chris had turned the page to a photo of Rose and Margie at the train station before they left for the farm. Margie was holding a small doll dressed in a pretty pink frock and tiny lace bootees. She looked on the shelf beside the Tilly books – the very same doll, Violet, was there. It was the only memento she had of Margie. And she had none of her parents now, either. Not even any photos, as she’d given the large chest filled with such things to Elena after Vernon died. Rose was moving to her mews house, and had very little room. She trusted Elena to look after them. Alas, Elena had emigrated to Canada, culling ruthlessly beforehand, and had given the chest and its contents to a charity shop somewhere in York. Elena apologised. She hadn’t realised she’d left the photos in the chest. Rose forgave her, and tried not to be angry. But what she’d do to see her father’s face. In it, perhaps she’d see kind eyes that told her stories at night, and not the eyes that said: ‘You’re a selfish girl, Rose Price.’

  The doll was her most precious possession. So pretty, with a shiny little face and rosy cheeks. She took the doll from the shelf and settled into bed.

  ‘Maybe it’d help to talk about it, Gran?’ Her grandson was repeating himself. He did that a lot.

  Rose nestled Violet into her shoulder, turned on her side, put her knees up to her chest. ‘I want to be by myself.’

  Chapter Seven

  I was taking a selfie by the river when Rose snuck up behind me and pushed me into the water. I don’t know where her strength came from, but it took ages to get back out. I was too cold and shocked to move when she sat me against the tree, running off to steal matches from the kitchen. After they saw the smoke from the fire she’d lit, Nurse Gabriella and another young care assistant called Molly raced over, got her out of the river, and restrained her – well, that’s what they called it. They pinned her down and carried her to her bed, and tied her there till Chris came. Although I’d earned more in three days than most of my mates would in a month, I was starting to realise this job was hard and stopped feeling guilty because I deserved it.

  At least once a day, Rose relived a two-hour event from her childhood, Chris explained after Rose had fallen asleep. She’d run away from the farm with Margie to get medical help, tried to get her across the river, failed, left her by the tree, stolen matches from the farm’s kitchen, lit a fire, left Margie, and swam across the river to get the doctor. Once in town, Rose had tossed a rock through the doctor’s window because he wasn’t answering the door. When they finally got back to the tree, Margie was dead. Run, river, matches, rock, dead. She didn’t always relive the whole thing, didn’t always start from the beginning, or go in order. Run, river, matches, rock, dead. Matches, river. Dead, run. Rock, river, dead, run, matches.

  ‘The illness seems to make her fixate on the worst things that happened to her,’ Chris said. ‘Her dad telling her she was selfish, and Margie’s death. If only it made her relive my mum’s first steps, or getting her first book published – apparently she skipped all the way to the pub after her agent phoned!’

  I spent the rest of the morning helping with tea and getting people to the activity room to watch some local pianist play badly for an hour while tubby Harriet danced badly in the middle of the room in order to encourage joy.

  There were seven bedrooms altogether After lunch was cleared up. I decided to check them all out. At the very front of the house were two large bay-windowed rooms: the kitchen/dining room to the right, with a disabled toilet off the back of the dining room, and the office to the left. Behind those rooms were six bedrooms, three on either side. They varied in size, but all smelt and felt the same: a hospital bed on wheels in the centre, one landscape painting above the bed and one on the wall opposite, handrails and alarms everywhere. They all had an en-suite bathroom with a seat in the shower and a raised toilet-seat frame with handles over the normal one. Rose’s room, Room 1, was the first on the left behind the office. Opposite her: the catatonic woman, Nancy, and her depressed husband, Gavin. Jim the ex-rocker was in Room 3, behind Rose. Room 4, opposite Jim, had been Emma’s, and was now empty. A twenty-one-year-old with leukaemia was in Room 5, behind Jim, but he’d gone home for a few days, so I hadn’t met him yet. Room 6, which lacked an en suite, was used as a television room. And the activity room was at the rear, adjacent to the back door.

  But it was Room 7 that I was interested in. It was hidden away down to the right off a badly lit corridor, all on its own. The water cooler was outside the door. To look purposeful, I pulled out the rubbish bag, which had ten or so empty paper cups inside, checked to see if anyone had noticed me, and turned the handle to Room 7 slowly. It was locked.

  ‘You looking for something?’

  Nurse Gabriella scared the shit out of me. ‘Yes . . . no.’ I held up the small bag of paper cups. ‘I was just getting the rubbish.’

  ‘You were trying to get in there.’

  ‘Okay, I was curious.’

  ‘It’s not in use.’

  ‘Why do they bring people to this room when they die? Why not just leave them in their rooms till the undertaker comes?’

  ‘What a morbid question.’

  ‘Isn’t that why Rose is scared of it?’

  ‘Rose is scared of everything. And you, young lady, are wasting my time.’

  Sticking out of her chest pocket was a black and gold fountain pen. So, maybe she was the anonymous weirdo in the logbooks. Creepy bitch.

  ‘Go check on Nancy. She fell out of bed earlier today.’

  As I made my way to Nancy’s room, I wondered how this place was a viable business. Marcus obviously earned a fortune, but there were only seven rooms, four of them currently empty. Maybe he was doing it for the love of it. No! No one could love this job.

  I’d spotted Nancy several times. In the activity room that first day, staring ahead, not even blinking (How weird is that, not even blinking), mouth slightly open, not moving a muscle. Then later that day in the garden, her husband wheeling her down the path, same face, no expression. And this morning, being fed a scone, her husband pushing her mouth open to pop a piece inside, then chewing in front of her in the hope that she’d copy him, and she did, but she still looked dead. Honestly, if her husband loved her, why didn’t he crush twenty paracetamol into that scone? I would.

  Maybe I should have knocked on Nancy and Gavin’s door. Promoting dignity should include knocking. I wish I had. Gavin had his shirt on, but no trousers or pants. His bony arse was bobbing up and down on top of Nancy’s naked yellow flesh. Holy shit, the image of her face would never go away. It would stop me sleeping at night. Her eyes were wide open, not blinking. Her lips slanted downwards, slack. She wasn’t moving a muscle. And her husband was having sex with her.

  I shut the door and put my hand over my mouth in horror. What was that? Was it rape?

  Nurse Gabriella was heading towards me. ‘Is Nancy all right?’

  ‘Yes. Well. Is Marcus around? I need to talk to him.’ I didn’t tell Nurse Gabriella. I realised by now there was no point talking to her about anything.

  ‘He’s writing upstairs and doesn’t want to be interrupted.’

  I waited till she was in the office then raced round the back, opened his door and yelled: ‘Marcus! Marcus, are you there?’

  ‘I’m in the office – come on up.’

  When I blurted it out in a panic it didn’t sound like something that required blurting or panic: ‘I just walked in on Gavin having sex with his wife!’

  Marcus was working at his PC on a huge polished walnut desk. This room was like the others – smooth and sterile, everything hidden.

  He saved what he was doing. ‘And?’

  ‘And she’s a vegetable! It’s not right to have sex with a vegetable!’

  He scratched his head. ‘I see where you’re coming from. I do, but they’re married, and in her advanced care planning statement she said her sex life with Gavin was important to her.’

  ‘In her what?’r />
  ‘Advanced care planning statement. Like a death plan. And she said no matter what, that her sexuality was the thing she didn’t want to lose.’

  ‘But—’ I didn’t have my thoughts in order, but if I did, it probably would have sounded wrong anyway. She’d lost her sexuality, had she not? It had gone the way her blinking had gone.

  ‘She was very clear about it. Look, I do understand where you’re coming from. It’s tricky. I’ll check on Nancy. I’ll talk to Gavin about it and I’ll make a note of your concern.’

  I felt nauseous but I wondered if I was just being stupid. The idea of any old married couple doing it made me slightly queasy, the queasiness increasing with the age of the couple in question. Maybe it was just my ageism that made it so horrific to me. Maybe all old people having sex looked like that. Blah . . . All I could say was: ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’ll deal with it. Leave it with me. Are you okay?’

  ‘Sure, just a bit shaken.’

  ‘How ’bout a drink after work?’

  *

  The day went slowly after that. I watched Gavin wheel his wife around the garden, looking for signs of evil. He was gentle with her, loving. He sat on a garden bench and read to her. He moved a strand of hair that was in her eyes. He shooed a bee away from her arm. He walked her around and around, slowly. He seemed to care for her. But.

  Nurse Gabriella noticed me staring out into the garden and sent me off to do several loads of washing. Ick. I wore gloves to put the clothes in the machine. Huge pants. Smelly socks. Wet trousers. After hanging them out, she suggested I listen to Jim play his guitar.

  I didn’t know any of the songs Jim sang but it wasn’t agonising to listen to him, unlike two boys I dated who just happened to have their guitars at hand and ruined what might have been two perfectly good evenings. One sang obscure songs very quietly, maintaining intense eye contact, so I couldn’t sing along and felt I had to listen. The other wrote a song for me called ‘Feel It’ – not dissimilar to Emma’s rendition of ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’ in that it repeated one line over and over, and was very bad. (I didn’t feel it again after that.)

  Not Jim – he was good, a performer. I laughed, and joined in when required. I liked him. He was the most normal of the bunch, as far as I could tell. He asked me questions about myself and was interested in my answers. ‘Costa Rica! Oh, wow! The grass there is to die for. Roll one for me, won’t you, and dig into a huge platter of seafood after.’ Plus, his life was fascinating. He’d toured with famous bands, although I’d never heard of any of them, and told stories about overdosing lead singers, about getting kicked out of hotels in Prague, about getting rich enough to retire one year, and blowing it all partying the next.

  ‘So did you have groupies, Jim?’

  ‘I had fun! Call me Jimmy. And listen, if you get any draw, will you bring me some?’

  I found myself being professional. ‘That’s illegal. And bad for you.’

  ‘Aw, c’mon, just enough for one joint. I’m on my way out anyway. I could do with a giggle.’

  I promised I would, and made him promise not to tell.

  He was funny, Jimmy – told me three jokes that all made sense and while I’d heard all three many years ago, it wasn’t too difficult to conjure a laugh. I decided to spend as much time with Jimmy as possible. He was old right enough, but not in a stinky, crawls-on-the-ceiling kind of way. He didn’t freak me out.

  *

  I had a lot of questions for Marcus and I didn’t hold back when we got to the Brunswick Bar.

  ‘Nurse Gabriella said you were writing?’

  ‘Oh – aye, but don’t tell anyone. Sounds kind of pathetic, a wannabe novelist. I tell you, I’m Googling some crazy stuff for the story I’m working on. And that, My Lord, is the case for the defence.’

  We were drinking bright green cocktails in fancy glasses. I don’t know what was in them, but they were strong and he was paying. ‘So, where are your parents?’

  ‘Retired to France two years ago. Left me the house and the business.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how does it make money, with so few patients?’

  ‘The house is paid off, so that helps. And it’s expensive, the fees. We get by.’

  He was doing better than getting by. He drove a Mercedes FFS.

  ‘But wouldn’t you rather do something else?’ Looking at him now, drinking cocktails in the bar like a normal young bloke, I could not imagine why he would choose to stay there. It wasn’t as if he gave off caring vibes.

  ‘That’s why I’m writing! Hey, enough about me. Tell me the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done.’

  Maybe if I hadn’t had two of those green drinks I wouldn’t have leant in as if to kiss him, then flicked his nostril: ‘That.’

  He flinched. ‘Ow, I’m your boss, Miss Catherine.’

  ‘And I’m your feisty wage slave, Mr Marcus.’

  *

  He dropped me off at six, saw me to my door, and kissed me like a gentleman, ‘Goodnight, Catherine.’

  Hmm. He was rich, he had a Merc, he was fun, he was my boss (which I found kinda naughty and naughty made me horny), but his kiss had inspired no tingles. That wasn’t unusual, mind. The tingles had only happened once, with Paul, last summer. We were drunk, and alone at my place after a comedy night at The Stand. We were giving each other marks out of ten for certain parts of our bodies and were both being flirtatiously generous.

  ‘Nine definitely!’ He’d touched my legs.

  I touched his chest. ‘Nine.’

  Lips were the last body part we marked. He said ‘ten’ as he moved in and I felt them: the tingles.

  ‘Woah!’ I jumped up from the sofa, scared to death by what had just happened. I felt something, for Paul. I couldn’t afford to do that. He was the only real friend I had, the only one interesting and interested enough for me to be friends with for ever.

  I told him to go, and he did. We never played that game again.

  But I have two confessions. After the almost-kiss, I sat in bed and found myself writing him an email.

  Paul,

  I think I’ll marry you, one day. You know that, don’t you? So please do not attempt to kiss me again until I am thirty-nine.

  C

  The second confession is that I have written him an email every week since. That’s thirty-six altogether. I never sent any of them, they’re in the drafts folder. Some of them get quite soppy. Some of them get quite rude.

  *

  Mum was asleep when I got in. She’d obviously been tidying the house. It looked like there was hardly anything in it. No bits of paper on surfaces, no dirty clothes in the washing basket. She’d done one hell of a spring clean.

  Ping, and Marcus had requested my friendship on Facebook. I deleted all the posts I’d done about work, and pressed Confirm. Yes, Marcus, we are now friends, and I am online and I am ready to chat.

  Ping!

  Ta for a fab night, Mx

  Backatcha Cx

  Sorry to talk work, but can you do 4 to 11 tomorrow instead of 9 to 4? And when you get in, don’t go in the front door, come upstairs first. I want to talk to you before you start.

  Right, so this wouldn’t turn into a sex chat. I was glad – I wasn’t very good at those. Once you start them, there’s no going back so you have to pretend to be getting excited for at least twenty minutes (Yes, I’ve taken my bra off, etc. etc.) and then pretend to come at the same time as the person on the other end does and I’m not very convincing. (Yep, that’s me too. Wow, amazing, seeya.) Okay, I messaged. Everything all right?

  There was a long pause. Marcus was typing. Marcus was still typing. Maybe he was on for a sex chat. I sighed, got into bed, and prepared for twenty minutes of lying. He was still typing . . . Shit, he wasn’t going to get mushy already, was he? Or feel the need to chuck me? I reassured him before his message came through.

  No need to panic Marcus. I’m a laid-back chick.

  After all that typin
g, this is all he wrote back. Must have deleted his first attempt, having seen mine.

  Not panicking! Remember to come upstairs first. Back door. See you at 4. ☺

  *

  Mum had gone to work by the time I woke. While I was making a pot of coffee, I noticed the menu on the fridge. She usually put up a weekly menu on Sundays, but today was Friday, and she’d done a new one for two full months. Eight weeks’ worth, typed and printed and placed neatly under an Oxfam magnet beside the emergency numbers. She’d left a note on the table: I love you Catherine. See you soon, my darling.

  She left notes like this every now again, when she felt guilty. I sat down to choose a cheerful movie that did not involve old people, icky sex or guilty mothers. Blades of Glory – perfect.

  *

  Five minutes into the film and I started thinking about Costa Rica. I could go any day now, which meant I’d have to tell Mum.

  Plan A: Just leave her a note. Bye Mum! Gone to see the world! I’ll call when I can. After all, she left me notes all the time, didn’t she? I grabbed the one she left for me and started composing a similar one: I love you, Mum. See you soon.

  Plan B: Pack my bags and as I’m heading out to my preordered taxi tell her v casually that I’m off to find myself. Nah, she’d tell me she knew exactly where I was and that was 1. At home with 2. A huge credit-card bill and 3. No career prospects.

  Therefore I should unpack those bags immediately and focus!

  Plan C: Ask her to sit down with a glass of red and really talk to her. I could tell her I loved her, but that she controlled me, and that sometimes I felt a bit useless around her, like I was a disappointment and a mistake. I could say I needed some time alone; time to get to know myself, to be independent. Hmm. That might work. Maybe it was true, even.

  I was a mistake, did I tell you that? My dad wasn’t the one Mum married. He was the drug user she lived with beforehand. He died of an overdose in the one-bedroom flat they shared in Partick. ‘He was a great person,’ Mum would say. ‘Creative and spontaneous and clever and funny!’ They first met when he was studying English literature at uni while she was doing medicine. She flunked her final exams and spent the next few years with him as an unemployed hippy – i.e. smoking dope and marching against injusti: that’s plural for any-old-issue. She was twenty-five and studying International Relations when he died. Mum had a small photo album which she’d mope over on his anniversary. One photo is of the two of them drinking in a campus bar. He had messy dark blonde hair and a huge toothy smile. My dad was a cutie pie – and I had inherited several pieces, with a big dollop of ice cream on top. God knows I didn’t get my looks from Mum, ungracefully-grey non-smiler that she was. In another photo, they’re in their living room. Their eyes were bloodshot – not, I suspect, the red-eye of the camera. A few friends were with them, strewn on the floor of what looked like a middle-class drug den (Victorian fireplace, polished floorboards, whisky bottles, bongs). Mum’s drug problem was short lived, and limited to cannabis and the occasional trip. My father’s got more serious. Impure street heroin had killed him. Apparently, Mum found him in the bath. He was smiling, Gran told me, with all those teeth of his. Way to go, Daddy-o. I don’t blame his parents for not wanting anything to do with the bump in my mother’s belly. The owner of that belly had led their son astray and then to death. She and her bump could fuck the hell off.