Greg offers to walk me home. ‘I’ll get the bus,’ I say.
‘You sure?’ asks Greg. ‘You seem pretty squiffy.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, and then a few steps down the road, I trip on a bit of cracked pavement. Greg catches me by the elbow. ‘I’m fine,’ I say again, and laugh.
At the bus stop Greg says, ‘We showed Bob, then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We were social.’
‘We were totally social,’ I say.
‘We’re fun,’ says Greg. ‘Our exes are idiots, right?’
‘Well, I dumped him,’ I say to Greg.
‘Aw, he still let you go,’ says Greg.
My bus arrives just as we reach the bus stop and I’m still smiling as I take my seat. Even when life chucks you a load of lemons, you can take a slice and make a strong gin and tonic.
31
WHEN I WAS really little, I would wake up almost every day feeling excited. Most days I wouldn’t even know why. I’d have to claw through my memory for the source of my joy until eventually I’d locate it: ah yes, chips for lunch! And the excitement would then be amplified. I wake up today feeling a fuzzier version of that but it’s a good fuzzy, a feeling I want to sink into. It’s so nice, I’m a little irritated when my phone alert sounds, but when I look and see it’s George this dissolves.
Undeterred83: Sorry for the gap, I was moving between cities and had no reception. Good luck for today!
Marthashotbod: No problem, no problem at all. Good luck with what?
Undeterred83: The half marathon.
I shuffle downstairs; somehow I think moving quietly and slowly will make the situation less real. I hear my mother in the kitchen and brace myself before going in.
‘You’re up!’ she cries. ‘I’ve made you porridge – it’s got these seeds from the health shop. I read they’re good for runners. I don’t think you can taste them.’ She places the bowl on the table and looks at me. Her face is questioning; I know she wants me to say I’m not doing it, that I’m failing at yet another thing. I won’t.
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘this is perfect.’ Mum waits until I start eating before making breakfast for Moses.
‘Mummy run!’ cries Moses.
‘Yes, honey,’ I say.
My sports bra and leggings are in the bottom of the wash basket where they were abandoned, so I pull on a tracksuit I bought for sleeping in on cold nights. Dad finds a parking space near the start line in Hove Park. Mum is full of advice.
‘Remember to pace yourself at the beginning,’ she says.
‘I will,’ I say. I stare out of the passenger window. I’m looking for a sign but I’m not sure what I want it to say.
‘I haven’t seen you doing much training,’ says Mum.
‘I’ve been using the treadmill at the gym in my lunch hour,’ I tell her. This seems to please her.
‘You know, it’s very different running on the road. I hope you don’t get injured.’ I try to distract myself from my frustration with her by reading the event welcome letter again. It doesn’t say much – basically, run. Run really far. ‘I read about a woman who did a marathon and tore something in her ankle so badly she couldn’t walk again.’
‘That’s not very useful,’ I say, ‘pointing out the potential for terrible injury just before I do something.’
‘I’m just trying to help,’ says Mum. ‘That’s your problem, you always want to have your head in the sand.’
We pull into the allocated parking and I watch the other runners, clad in Lycra and dripping with anticipation. I can feel a knot starting to tie itself in my stomach. I go to the registration tent and a woman talks me through the process. I recognize what is coming out of her mouth as words but I don’t take in the content. I’m fairly sure it’s just run, run really far.
Mum tells me that she and Dad and Moses will wait for me at the finish line and then I’m by myself. I mean, I’m not, I’m surrounded by hundreds of people, but I feel set apart from them. This isn’t a new experience; I often feel as though everyone else has had an email that I missed. I make my way to the centre of the crowd of runners, where they look a bit more light-hearted than the steely-eyed people at the front. Around me people are folding themselves forward and jumping up and down, so I imitate them, more to blend in than because I believe it will have any benefits.
‘Hey,’ says a petite Asian girl beside me, ‘you ready?’ I recognize her voice but I can’t place her face. She obviously sees my hesitation and explains: ‘I work on reception. You’re in customer care, right? I’ve seen you in town with your son, he’s so cute.’ As she says this she is bouncing from one foot to the other.
‘Yeah, right … uhm …’
‘Nisha,’ she says. ‘Martha, right?’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m pretty nervous.’
‘Me too,’ she says, although she doesn’t look or sound it. ‘Is your boy gonna be at the end?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘How cute!’ I don’t think it will be cute, for a boy to see his mother limp towards him, her fat face contorted with exertion. I think it may well be traumatizing and I wish I had my phone to tell my parents to save him from the horror. ‘It’s really good for him to see you doing stuff like this. What’s it called, modelling?’ Nisha prattles on. I can’t respond to her words because of the screaming in my head. ‘When he goes to school, you’ll be like, “I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom.”’ Nisha looks confused at something she sees in my face and says, ‘Haven’t you seen Mean Girls? It’s great.’ I’m in awe of her ability to casually reflect on teen movies in the face of such a personal trial. ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘see you at the finish … probably.’
She bounces away through the crowd and as I watch her disappear I know that I won’t make it with my current mindset. I can’t see this as a torturous, ridiculous mistake; I must view it as a rebirth. As I stand I am scared, lost Martha Ross, but I will emerge as a cool, single mother who runs half-marathons. Nisha believes this already so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t.
It’s a disarming feeling as an adult to realize that you can’t do something extremely basic, some would say ingrained. I realize, at perhaps the most inopportune moment ever, that I don’t know how to run because I’ve never truly run, not even for a train. I assume I ran in childhood but I don’t recall it. As soon as what I was informed would show up as buds appeared as fully blown breasts, I unofficially retired from running.
In secondary school we had a sadistic physical education teacher who would force us to jog the length of the seafront. We would set off from school and be collected three miles along the coast. If I hadn’t found a creative enough reason not to partake I would duck out early on and use my dinner money to get a bus to the end of the course, such was my commitment to not breaking a sweat; that was when I thought you could get away with taking shortcuts.
I take Mum’s advice to pace myself and move only slightly faster than walking pace. I think of my tentative park runs and Leanne’s words to just keep going. This, I tell myself, is just an extension of that. I think if I stay at this pace, I’ll make it, and I repeat the phrase under my breath – I’ll make it, I’ll make it. I start to believe I can do it; these strangers lining the route believe I can. But dozens of people overtake me – young, old, inconceivably old and at one point a camel. I imagine myself finishing behind such a ragtag bunch and increase my speed. Maybe I accelerate too quickly – maybe every individual has a definitive ceiling to their physical capacity and I have reached mine – because alarmingly quickly my chest starts burning. I stop and lean over, hoping it will ease the pain, but it seems to make it worse. As I straighten up I see a small child waving. He gestures for me to come towards him. When I do, he hands me a sweaty little pile of Jelly Babies.
‘You can do it!’ he shouts. I hobble away with my head held high; I don’t want to let the little tyke down. I try to distract myself from the pain in my thighs by thinking
about George. I believe strongly that there is a finite amount of love in the world and the reason he has come into my life now is because I have created room for him; I have stopped giving myself to people and things that don’t deserve me, like Alexander and Cara. I was just a mirror in which they could see themselves reflected; neither of them really wanted me to succeed because if I had my own life I could no longer be their adoring audience. I feel a burst of anger which helps to power me along for some time. I love the energy that surges from the spectators; I feel more support from them than I have felt from my friends and family in a decade.
I feel like I’m flying. I can hear the blood pumping in my head and little flashes of light appear before my eyes. Trees and people blur into a Monet beside me. I try counting my paces and for a while it makes me feel calmer. The landscape starts to become less green, more urban; I can’t remember the route but I think it means I’m making progress. Then I see a sign that says we have gone four miles, only four miles. I feel all the exuberance drain out of me, exiting through my feet. Also, I really need to pee. I had noticed several toilets along the course but now, obviously, there isn’t one to be seen. Everything I look at is assessed as a receptacle to hold the contents of my insistent bladder.
When I spot the next set of toilets I relax in anticipation a little too soon. I make it, but only just. It’s a desperate scramble to get my tracksuit bottoms and pants past my knees. As I do, relief floods through me. Most of that relief is down to the fact that I am no longer running. I think it might be feasible to stay right here, to sit on this chemical toilet until the whole thing is over, and then there’s a pounding on the door. The urgent banging of someone clearly worried about getting a good time, as opposed to just surviving. ‘In a minute!’ I shout. I hear the hushed, clipped tones of British people grumbling from outside. I get up and straighten myself out. I open the door to a tiny pensioner, still jogging on the spot. She beckons for me to hurry and the instant I’m out, she scrambles up the steps without a second glance at me.
Starting again is even harder than getting going in the first place. I wonder if Mum and Dad and Moses have got to the finish line early to get a good place. When I first signed up I had meant to tell Leanne to come down with James and the kids. For once my flakiness has been to my advantage. Thank goodness for small mercies. Whatever miracle seed was in my porridge has worn off because I’m extremely hungry and my legs feel like lead. I’ve no idea how long it will take me to run the remainder of the course and that thought makes me feel like I’m having one of those dreams in which you’re falling and falling yet never reach the ground. Sweat is pouring in a sheet down my face; I try to claw the moisture from my eyes with my hands and somehow manage to impede my vision further.
‘You all right?’ asks a man passing me. I don’t have the voice to respond and he seems to take this as confirmation that I’m OK. I’m not OK. I’m fairly sure I’m going to have to stop, certainly within the next five minutes. I decide I’m definitely going to stop, I’m making the decision to stop. And then I look up, and leaning over the barrier about a hundred metres ahead I see George. He’s wearing a blue beanie and waving at me. He’s showed up for me in a way that even the list could not predict. I keep going; the moment I am in his arms will make it all worthwhile. As I get closer I speed up and start to push my way past other people. The crowd notice my triumphant return to form and egg me on. This is not how I wanted to meet him – damp, exhausted and wearing a lumpy tracksuit – but even so, he’s the only thing I want to see. I’m less than a few feet away when I understand it’s not him, it’s not even close to him, and it’s the final blow to my psyche. I stop, my body folds in on itself and I find myself heaving forcefully. Everyone around me jumps away in horror, but they needn’t bother because I don’t have enough in my stomach to bring anything substantial up. A light pebble-dashing of oats leaves my mouth before I collapse on to the road.
32
WHEN PEOPLE SAY their life has flashed before them, you imagine this montage consists of poignant moments – wedding days, the birth of a child – but it’s not like that at all. You start thinking that you definitely left your winter jacket at the dry cleaner’s and about how you never got round to watching The Wire. I must have lost consciousness because when I regain awareness of my surroundings I can make out people already in the throes of conversation.
‘Just get her out the way, she’s gonna get trampled on.’
‘We’re not supposed to move them until the paramedic gets here.’
‘Stop being such a jobsworth, Caroline. We’re supposed to make the area safe – having her sprawled out like this definitely isn’t safe.’ I try to speak to reassure them that I’m more or less OK, but I just feel a stream of drool trickle from the corner of my mouth. I sense several sets of hands pulling on me; even in my semi-consciousness I cringe at the sound of the effort they have to make. The hands are removed.
‘Yeah, leave her here,’ says one of the voices. The next voice I hear is one I recognize, that of my mother.
‘No,’ I hear her telling someone. ‘She doesn’t have any health problems, she’s been training for weeks. Someone needs to find out why this happened. Do you think she may have had a heart attack? I’ve read about that.’ I think I probably could open my eyes at this point but I decide against it.
‘She’s unresponsive,’ says a new voice. ‘We’ll have to take her to general.’ They shift me on to something soft and I feel myself rise before being wheeled away. As I move I can hear Mum shouting instructions, I presume to Dad. It feels nice to have someone else in charge of what’s happening to me and where I’m going. I love listening to the paramedics discuss my condition in calm whispers.
The smell of the ward is so familiar. This hospital is the site of my most immense pain and my greatest joy. Perhaps it’s fate that I find myself here, and I’m supposed to come out the other side as yet another incarnation of myself.
‘I’m going to help you move now,’ says a soft voice. I open my eyes and look into the gentle, shining face of a nurse. For no reason I can identify, the African lilt in her voice is a comfort to me. She stands ready to catch me as I shift awkwardly from the gurney to the bed. Even though I’m still in my tracksuit bottoms the nurse pulls the covers over me, tucking the stiff sheets into the sides of the bed so that they stretch across my legs in a tight embrace.
‘I’m Precious. Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asks, and I have never wanted anything more in my life.
Precious leaves and is replaced by my mother. She has a concerned expression and fresh lipstick on her face. ‘They have no idea when you will see the doctor,’ she says. ‘Did you get that private health insurance I sent you the details for? We can have you moved within the hour.’
I shake my head no. ‘Where’s Moses?’
‘Your father has taken him home. I didn’t want him to see you like this.’
I close my eyes again. ‘That wasn’t your decision to make, Mum.’
She tuts. ‘I think it was, because I made it. It was bad enough that he had to see you rolling around on the ground like that, in front of everyone.’ I look at her now and search her face for the warmth I imagine I would exhibit if my child was in a hospital bed before me.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t think to collapse more privately,’ I say. Mum looks around, clutching her bag to herself as if the ward were a city centre underpass.
‘These places are full of disease,’ she says. ‘You know you’ll come out worse than when you came in.’
Precious returns with a plastic cup, which she hands to me. I take a sip and it’s grainy but hot and very sweet.
‘I just need to take your blood pressure, dear,’ she says. She helps me out of my tracksuit top and straps the gauge to my bicep. We all stare at the reading as the numbers rise and fall before settling on something that means nothing to me. ‘It’s a little high,’ she says. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Tired,’ I say, and glance at my mother. Onl
y very briefly but long enough, it seems, for Precious to understand my plea.
‘I think we should leave her to have some rest, Mum,’ says the nurse.
‘No, I—’ says my mother.
Precious places a hand on her back as she says, ‘I need your help with some information about her medical history – it would speed things along.’ Mum allows herself to be led away. I feel that surge of appreciation you only experience when you witness someone being really good at their job. A lot of people don’t like hospitals and I understand this; they house so much suffering. But sitting in this bed I feel sheltered from the world; it’s a similar sensation to the one I have each time the door closes after I’ve boarded an aeroplane. The sense of calm that comes from knowing that no one can expect anything of me is reassuring. I adjust my bed and fall back into the pillows. I am hungry and sore but, for the first time in weeks, I feel safe.
‘Hey,’ someone whispers. I open my eyes and see Greg poking his head through my curtains. ‘Is the coast clear?’ he asks.
I shuffle up in the bed. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘What do you mean?’
Greg steps in and shuts the curtains behind him. ‘I came earlier and your mum started quizzing me about how hard we’re pushing you at work.’
I laugh. ‘I think you’re safe.’
Greg holds out a bright pink gift bag, inside which is a copy of Grazia, a bag of white chocolate buttons and some posh hand cream.
‘The girls wanted to get you flowers but I wasn’t sure how useful they would be.’
‘This is wonderful,’ I say.
‘Yeah, you’re always using that goop on your hands at work,’ he says. Greg sits in the chair beside the bed and starts to help himself to the chocolate buttons.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask.
‘Your mum rang to say you wouldn’t be back on shift for a while. What’s wrong?’
I lean back against my pillows. ‘I’m dehydrated and very, very stupid.’
The Reinvention of Martha Ross Page 21
