Loving Danny

by Hilary Freeman

  I ignored her gesture. I no longer cared what she thought of me. She was a hateful, bitter woman – no wonder Danny was so messed up.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said. And good riddance.

  When she had gone, I found a bench in the hospital grounds and sat myself down, pushing my fingers in between the slats. The world was topsy-turvy and back to front. It even smelled different, the atmosphere heavier and darker, as if it had been laced with tar. Somehow, I had found myself in a parallel universe where Danny was a sick and needy stranger. However much I wished it wasn’t true, this was the real world after all. The strong, confident Danny – the guy I had fallen in love with – had been an illusion; he had never existed.

  Spiteful as she was, Mrs Evans was right about one thing: I couldn’t help Danny. I wanted to, but what could I do? I wasn’t a doctor or a counsellor, and I didn’t want to be. Danny had been ill for years – what if he never got better? I was going to go to university, to become a lawyer or a photographer, or whatever I decided, one day. I didn’t want to spend my life in dingy pubs, applauding Danny, soothing his ego when things didn’t go well, putting antiseptic on his cuts. If I stayed with him, that might be my reality. And then it struck me: I didn’t want to be his muse, I wanted to be someone myself, and I wanted a partner who could support me and be strong for me too. Danny needed time alone, to figure out who he was.

  If Danny doesn’t know who he is, how can he be my soulmate?

  And if he is my soulmate, doesn’t that make me as damaged as him?

  Sometimes, the more you think, the less you understand. My mind was plagued by interference, like a radio caught between stations. I wished I could shut it up, switch it off.

  I waited until I saw Mrs Evans leave the hospital and then I took the lift back up to the third floor. As the doors opened, I noticed that a slender girl was standing by the ward doors, with her back to me. There was something familiar about her posture, her colouring.

  ‘Debbie?’

  She turned round, startled. ‘Naomi! Your parents told me you’d be here. I was starting to worry that I’d missed you.’

  ‘I was just outside, having a think.’ It was so good to see her. ‘Oh my God, what are you doing here?’

  She hugged me, tightly, and the warmth and familiarity of her embrace made my eyes begin to brim with tears. ‘Your mum called me and told me what had happened. I was in the town centre already, so I just got straight on the next London train. I thought I should come down to be with you.’

  I blinked hard. If I let myself begin to cry now, I might never stop. ‘You came all the way down from Manchester just to see me?’

  ‘Of course I did. You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, definitely,’ I said, pleased that she’d want me to. Not that I could imagine that Debbie would ever find herself in a situation like this. ‘Oh, Debbie, things are such a mess.’

  ‘Do you want to go somewhere to talk?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, please. Just give me a second – I need to say goodbye to Danny first.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  I pondered her offer. While I welcomed her support, this was hardly the time to introduce the two of them. I didn’t want to upset Danny, or embarrass him.

  ‘No, I’ll go in by myself, if you don’t mind waiting.’

  She hugged me again. ‘Of course not.’

  Danny was sitting up in bed, a half-read magazine lying open across his lap.

  ‘You’ve been ages, Omi,’ he said impatiently. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back.’

  ‘I promised I would, didn’t I?’

  ‘I know, but you were so long that I was starting to get paranoid.’ He laughed at his choice of word. ‘Then again, I guess I’m entitled to be, considering everyone here thinks I’m a mental patient.’

  He noticed that I wasn’t smiling and his bravado vanished. ‘I wish you hadn’t gone,’ he continued. ‘My mum was here – I told the nurse I didn’t want to see her.’

  I decided it was best not to mention my encounter with his mother.

  ‘Don’t be paranoid, Danny,’ I said gently. It was best to come straight out with it. ‘But I can’t stay. Debbie’s turned up. I need to spend some time with her.’

  ‘Debbie?’ He looked bemused. ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘She came down to look after me.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ But it was obvious that he didn’t. The thought that I might need looking after because of what he had done was incomprehensible to Danny. I could tell he was thinking, Hey, I’m the victim here. He truly had no idea how much his actions had hurt me, how much I was hurting now.

  ‘I was hoping we could spend some time together, talk about things,’ he said. He looked so pitiful that for a moment I just wanted to forget about Debbie and hold him.

  I steeled myself. ‘We can. Just not today. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ There was desperation in his voice; he feared he was losing me. ‘I was thinking – when I’m better I want to teach you how to play the guitar properly. And maybe we could go travelling together.’

  ‘That would be nice, Danny.’ I didn’t mean to patronise him, but I couldn’t deal with any more confusion – I had to get out of there. I kissed him lightly on his cheek. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’

  As I turned away, he sank down in the bed and pulled the covers over his head. I can’t be certain, but I think he was about to cry. He didn’t want me to see, and I didn’t want to witness it.

  Debbie stayed the night. We locked ourselves away in my room and talked for hours, just as we had always done before she went to Manchester. There was so much to tell her, all the anecdotes and details that I had missed out before, the things that would help her to understand why it was so hard to let Danny go. I took out my pictures, the notes, the song and the gifts he had given me, and we studied them in detail, as if we were collecting evidence for an autopsy of my relationship.

  Some of what I related to her – such as our first date, the picnic – seemed to have occurred so long ago that it was like talking about another couple. It made me sad to realise that my memories and feelings were now coloured by what had happened later and by what I had learned about Danny. Why couldn’t I have read between the lines of his lyrics and seen the anguish behind them? Had he really thought me special at all, or had he just seen in me a need to be wanted? I wept, often – tears of grief for what I had lost and for what might never have been.

  Later, I made up a bed for Debbie on the floor next to mine and we carried on our conversation in the dark. It was easier to be candid when we couldn’t see each other’s faces.

  She asked: ‘How do you feel about Danny, Naomi?’

  ‘You know how I feel – I love him.’

  ‘That’s too easy. I mean how do you really feel about him – now? After everything? Do you still feel the same way you did? Honestly?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘When I looked at him in his hospital bed, he seemed so small and weak, so needy. I felt like I wanted to protect him and look after him.’

  ‘Do you still fancy him?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He’s still gorgeous. But nobody’s sexy when they’re in hospital, are they?’ As I said it, I realised that part of Danny’s allure had been his strength, his mystery. Was he as attractive without them? I couldn’t say it out loud, but I had to acknowledge that he wasn’t.

  Debbie hesitated. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but that makes it sound like you want to be his mother.’

  I bristled. ‘No, not exactly. If you love someone, you want to be there for them.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But what’s in it for you?’

  ‘I get to be with him. And perhaps . . . I don’t know, when he’s better maybe everything might be great again.’ I pictured myself with Danny – saw us smiling and laughing – and, once more, my eyes brimmed with tears at the memory of what we had shared.

 
‘You don’t know that, Naomi. Will you really just be able to forget everything that’s happened? And what if he doesn’t get better? How long will you give it before you finally give up on him? A few months? A few years?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sobbed. ‘I haven’t thought about it. Right now, I just want to help him. Just help him, you know?’

  ‘Oh, Naomi,’ she said, in her sweetest voice. ‘Please don’t be upset again. It’s not your fault. You can’t make him better – he’s the only one who can do that.’

  ‘I know,’ I croaked. I was gulping back the tears now, breathing too fast, my head growing light.

  ‘Shh,’ she cooed. ‘Shh. It’s all right, honey. It’s going to be all right.’ I sensed that she was moving and heard the rustle of her duvet. ‘Budge up,’ she said. She climbed into my bed and snuggled up to me, stroking my hair and smoothing the tear-dampened strands away from my face. Feeling her warm body against mine was such a comfort; for the first time in many weeks I didn’t feel alone. We lay there, silently, until my sobs had subsided.

  ‘I wish you weren’t away in Manchester,’ I said.

  ‘I know. But I’m still here for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That means a lot.’ It meant the world to me. I felt that we had reached an understanding. Even if we couldn’t share experiences first-hand we could still support each other. And, at last, I knew that despite our differences, our friendship could move forward.

  ‘I think I pushed you away, Deb,’ I said. ‘I didn’t intend to.’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s my fault too. I was so caught up with uni and you were so caught up with Danny. It happens.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can cope without him,’ I said. ‘I’m scared, Deb.’

  ‘I know you’ll be OK, whatever happens. Don’t forget that you’d finished with him – you were getting on with your life. You were making plans. You’re tougher than you think.’

  ‘I wasn’t happy, though. It felt like a big part of me was missing. I think I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t really over – that something else would happen.’

  Debbie was quiet for a moment. ‘You know that John Donne poem about the compass, the one we did at school? Maybe that’s how you should think of things with Danny. Maybe you have to let him go. If you really are soulmates, if you’re really meant to be together, then, somehow, you’ll find your way back to each other.’

  Long after Debbie had fallen asleep, I lay awake, thinking about what she had said. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps the only way I would ever find out whether Danny and I were meant to be together was if we were apart.

  If they be two, they are two so

  As stiff twin compasses are two;

  Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show

  To move, but doth, if th’ other do.

  And though it in the centre sit,

  Yet when the other far doth roam,

  It leans and hearkens after it . . .

  By the time I waved Debbie off at the railway station, the following morning, I had made my decision.

  Chapter 21

  Isn’t it weird how the truly significant days of your life often begin as the most banal? Isn’t it? Debbie took the train back to Manchester, Emily got on with her homework and my mother cooked Sunday lunch. My bus took its usual route to the hospital, the traffic was as busy as ever, the other passengers as impatient and uncommunicative. Nobody asked me how I was or where I was going. And no one took any notice of the small rucksack I carried on my shoulder. The sky didn’t fall in and the world kept turning.

  The nurse grinned at me as I came into the ward. ‘Hi, Naomi. I just need to let you know that we’re moving Danny today, to the psychiatric unit.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’m only popping in for a minute.’ Danny’s eyes lit up when he saw me. I noticed that he had washed and shaved and combed his hair, in preparation for my visit. He resembled the old Danny again, and it made my heart skip a beat. I had been a fool to think this would be easy, to believe I could control my emotions.

  I swallowed. ‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘You look better.’

  He nodded and smiled and I looked at him, as if for the first time, taking in his beautiful eyes and the curve of his nose, trying to memorise the detail of his features and the way that he moved.

  And then I kissed him. It wasn’t a passionate kiss – the setting and the situation didn’t allow for that – but it was a deep, slow, satisfying kiss that embodied all the emotions I felt but couldn’t explain: hurt and regret, sorrow and fear, love and affection, loss and hope – all rolled into one wordless expression. I didn’t want it to end.

  Danny was the first to pull away. ‘You’re saying goodbye, aren’t you?’ he asked, his voice no more than a whisper. He looked into my eyes with a gaze so intense that I knew he had read my mind, that our connection remained as strong as ever. It was agonising. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t cry again, but my tear ducts refused to obey. Salty water cascaded down my nose, into my mouth and my hair.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Danny,’ I said, forgetting the long speech that I had prepared. Quoting words from a poem seemed trite, telling him that he was in the best place, that I wasn’t qualified to help him, patronising. Nothing I’d meant to say seemed relevant or important now. All I could muster was, ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  I don’t know whether it was arrogance or delusion, but he would not accept it. ‘You’re seriously giving up on us?’ he asked, with a strange, guttural laugh that unnerved me.

  ‘Yes, Danny,’ I said. But I wasn’t ‘giving up’ – that made it sound so easy. I was fighting every instinct and feeling that I possessed, trying to do what I thought was right.

  ‘What – that’s it? Finito? You’re going to walk out on me when I’m in hospital?’

  He was playing the guilt card. Of course he was – I should have anticipated it.

  Be brave, Naomi, I told myself. You’re not a bad person. You’re doing the right thing.

  ‘Yes, Danny, I’m sorry.’ I couldn’t look at him – it hurt too much. I wanted this to be over now. Clumsily, I unzipped the rucksack that I had brought with me. It contained some CDs, books and a sweater he’d lent me. ‘Look, I’ve brought your things.’

  ‘I don’t want them,’ he said, turning his head away. ‘Hang on to them until I’m out of here and then we can talk about it.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘There won’t be another time. It’s over.’

  ‘You’re kidding yourself, Omi. What we’ve got is too important for you to just walk away. You need me.’

  He still didn’t get it. Why didn’t he get it? Was I going to be there all day, going round and round in circles, until I couldn’t bear it any more and gave in? Why wouldn’t he let me go?

  ‘But I don’t really love you any more,’ I said. I hadn’t intended to say it – at least I wasn’t aware of any conscious thought process – the words just tumbled out of my mouth of their own accord. It was a lie more terrible than any I had ever told, a lie far worse than any of his. I half expected a bolt of lightning to shoot in through the window and strike me down; I almost wished it would. But, at the same time, I knew it was the right thing to say, the only way I could ever put an end to this. Danny needed to be adored; he wouldn’t want to be with anyone who didn’t love him absolutely. The slightest doubt about my feelings would be enough to make him loosen his grip.

  ‘I don’t believe you, Omi,’ he said. ‘I know you love me – I felt it in your kiss.’

  ‘Believe what you want.’

  Lying to Danny – and to myself – had freed me. Now that I was acting, my true feelings buried, I could say whatever needed to be said. ‘The fact is,’ I continued, ‘I don’t feel the way I did.’ I remembered the words Mike had used when I’d asked about The Wonderfulls, and added, cruelly, ‘Being with you is too much like hard work.’

  Danny flinched. ‘Tell me right to my face that you don’t love me,’ he dared, still defiant.
/>   I took a deep breath. It was harder to say a second time. ‘I’m sorry, Danny, but I don’t love you.’

  He began to shake and I couldn’t tell whether it was from fear or anger. He had grown so pale that for a moment I was scared he might pass out. Then his face hardened. ‘Go on, then,’ he said coldly. ‘But remember this: no one will ever love you the way that I love you.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ I said. And that, at least, was the truth.

  I turned and walked away from his bed, as fast as my legs would carry me, but it felt as if the end of the ward was growing further away with each step. Every patient I passed seemed to have Danny’s face, to wear his pained expression. Their eyes bore into me, hating me, accusing me.

  When I reached the doors, I glanced back. Danny was still sitting up, his eyes vacant, his lips parted as if he were about to speak.

  I hesitated. Just call out my name, I thought, and I’ll take it all back. But I knew it was far too late for that. The best that I could hope for was that one day, when he was well, he would understand my reasons and realise that I wasn’t a terrible person. He would see that I did love him after all. Painful as it was, I had to believe that.

  He said nothing.

  So I pushed open the doors and walked out into the cold, brightly lit corridor to see what life without Danny had in store for me.

  Epilogue

  I never saw Danny again.

  Mike kept in touch with me just long enough to let me know that Danny had gone to the private clinic his mother had told me about, and that he had done well there. The last I heard, he was planning to go back to university and finish his degree.

  I hope he is still writing songs and playing, somewhere. It’s possible, I suppose, that he has given it all up and joined the rat race he so despised. Maybe he now wears a suit every day and goes to work for his father’s company. I’d like to think that isn’t true, that at least some part of the person I loved remains.

  For a long time, I would watch music shows on TV with some trepidation, in case the next new band to be featured was fronted by Danny. I know it’s selfish, but to my relief, it never happened. I often think how awful it must be to have loved someone famous, to have constant reminders of them forced upon you every day.