Being Alexander

by Nancy Sparling

  I glance at Noreen. I still can’t speak. Do they think I care about material possessions?

  My things, my ruined things, are mere trinkets. Knickknacks. Clutter from someone else’s life. Belongings of another man. They don’t matter. They were Alex’s things. Not mine. Alexander only had some clothing, but I don’t care. None of it feels like mine. None of it feels like me. If I have the urge I can go on a shopping spree tomorrow and buy whatever I want. The comics, the old clothes, the books and CDs, I inherited it all from Alex. And now it’s gone. Soon there’ll be nothing left of him at all. Nothing left but for a few memories in my mother’s head.

  Aren’t I glad I’m me? Aren’t I pleased I’m such a winner? I have more money now than I ever dreamed I’d have. I must be ecstatic. Is that what these feelings are?

  “Amber wasn’t even here, she went to her sister’s, she didn’t know what I was doing. She was so sad, she was crying so hard when she left that I just had to do something. I’m sorry,” says Noreen.

  I realize she’s been speaking, explaining why she did what she did, but I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  Noreen looks guilty. “But—”

  “I just want to be alone.”

  Noreen nods. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  She walks to the door, turns and waits for Amber, but Amber shakes her head and motions for Noreen to go.

  Noreen does.

  At last I’m alone with Amber. I’ve wanted to be alone with Amber for hours, but not like this. Never like this.

  “I’m really sorry, Alex,” she says. “We were trying to clean it up before you came home.”

  Doesn’t she know that I’m not Alex? Can’t she tell the difference?

  “I’ll replace everything,” says Amber. “We can do an inventory and work it out and I’ll buy you new things. I’ll replace it all.”

  That’s really sweet, but I could never take her money. It’d take her years to pay me back. She could never afford it.

  She stares at me and I stare at her. I love the sound of her voice, I love the sight of her cute face. I don’t care what’s happened here. It means nothing to me.

  At last she speaks. “Please say something. Say you forgive me, that you’ll forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. You did nothing wrong.”

  Amber blinks away tears. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave now.”

  She passes near to me, unable to avoid me as I stand by the door and as she passes she places her hand on my arm and says, “I’m so sorry.”

  I catch her hand. I hold her hand and I stare down at her slender, artistic fingers for a moment before I meet her eyes. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “I know.” She smiles at me through her tears. “Oh, don’t mind me,” she says. “I cry about everything.”

  My eyes drift to the daisies, I need to see the daisies, I need to count the daisies.

  “I’ll leave now,” says Amber. And then she’s gone.

  I close the door behind her.

  I’m alone in my room.

  I stand there for a moment, head pounding, clammy and hot all at once, and then I go to my bed, sweeping the ruins of my life on to the floor, not caring if I’m doing more damage, knowing there’s nothing left to save.

  I lie on my back and count the daisies.

  i am not worthy

  Can I forgive those who’ve wronged me? Even those I’ve yet to repay in full? Those who may wound me in the future?

  I don’t see myself as a forgiving man. I don’t believe in forgiveness. Not for them. And not for me.

  Certainly not for me.

  I stay in bed and stare at the daisies. I toss and turn, I twist from side to side, I kick off the duvet, I pull it up again, I shiver, I sweat, my head hurts, my body aches, I see spots of light, my forward vision is obscured by the start of a migraine and I have to turn my head to the side so I can see the daisies out of the corners of my eyes, I blink and I blink and hours pass and finally the lights are gone and I can see normally. I lie on my back, I lie on my right side, my left side, but never on my stomach, for that would mean I couldn’t see the daisies and I have to see the daisies.

  I spend the next two days in bed, thinking, trying not to think, lying there, staring at my sky of daisies.

  I don’t eat, I don’t bathe, I don’t shave, I don’t go to work, I don’t unlock the office so the temp can get in, I don’t go and retrieve my car, I don’t leave my bed. I lie there. I’m hot and sticky, I’m dripping with sweat, I’m weak but I feel no hunger.

  Once or twice I hear voices outside my door, they may be calling to me, they may be talking about me, but I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m in my own world now.

  If I stay here long enough will my muscles atrophy? Will I slowly fade away and die, sinking down into the mattress, my dead cells sloughing off and merging with the bed so that a part of me will be here, staring up at the daisies for years to come?

  It’d be a nice way to spend eternity.

  Nice. I don’t deserve nice.

  Friday night, I think it’s Friday night from the number of times the sun has come and gone, but I couldn’t say for sure, I wouldn’t bet money on it, there’s a gentle rap on my door and then it opens.

  “Alex?” says a soft voice.

  It’s Amber.

  I turn my head. I can look away from the daisies for a moment, I know they’re there, I know they’re close, I know they’re waiting. I’ll have to remember to tell someone I want daisies planted on my grave. Or my ashes to be strewn in a field of daisies.

  Amber enters my room, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup on it.

  Should I tell Amber about the daisies?

  I can see her shock at the continued mess of my room, at the state of me.

  “I was worried about you,” she says.

  I cannot speak. I don’t know what to say.

  “I’ve brought you some chicken soup,” she says, smiling, indicating the tray. “I thought you might be hungry. Noreen said you didn’t leave your room all day.”

  I stare at her. She is like a Disney heroine. So lovely, so perfect. Like Sleeping Beauty. Do woodland creatures flock to her side when she sings?

  Amber hesitates, I can tell she’s unnerved by my silence, but I can do nothing to help her. I don’t have it in me to speak. I don’t want to speak. What would I say?

  She isn’t turned away by my lack of words, she walks forward, then she sits on the edge of the bed. “Come on, Alex, please eat something. Eat something for me.”

  For Amber? Amber wants me to do something for her?

  I blink. Amber doesn’t hate me? Does Amber care?

  Amber looks at me, her eyes full of concern and then she touches my forehead, smoothing my brow. “You’re burning up. You have to eat something, you need your strength.” She fiddles with the soup, scooping up a mouthful with the spoon. She holds it in front of me like I’m a child. “Eat,” she says.

  And I do. I open my mouth and swallow. I let Amber feed me the entire bowl of soup.

  When she’s done, when I’ve finished, she sets the tray and the empty bowl on the floor and then she takes my hand and looks deep into my eyes. “Talk to me,” she says. “Talk to me. I want to help.”

  Amber.

  I open my mouth, try to speak, but no words emerge.

  “Please,” says Amber, “talk to me.”

  And then it all comes gushing out, it’s like a dam has been blown in my mind and I can’t stop the torrent of words. I tell her about my last week as Alex, I tell her the story in all its Technicolor horror and gory details, I tell her about walking in on Sarah and Jed, about Jed sabotaging my career, I tell her about the night in the cinema, I tell her about my point of breaking and punching that man on the nose, about the next moment of perfect clarity. And then I’m ashamed. I start to tell her about my revenge. I tell her about my revenge against Jed and K
enneth. I don’t want to tell her about Sarah and Kate, I don’t want to see a look of revulsion in her eyes, I don’t want her to hate me, but I have to tell her, I have to tell her everything. And as I utter the ugly words I can see her withdraw, I can see her recoil away from me, but I clutch her hands and don’t let go. I have to tell her, she has to hear, she has to know everything.

  I tell her about me, about Alexander, I tell her how I was determined to reach the top and be a success, about how I thought I needed a woman like Camilla, about how I was going to marry Camilla when I don’t even like her, when in actuality I can’t stand the woman.

  And then I tell Amber about how wrong I was to sleep with her, about how much I liked her, about how much I like her still, about how it was never my intention to hurt her, about how I was coming home to apologize. I tell her about the roses. And then, finally, I tell her about the Oi Man. She was there the night the glass was thrown in my face, but she doesn’t know what I did, what I’ve done. I tell her the truth. I tell her about the photos. I tell her about Clare Johnson. I tell her that Clare is in a coma, that Clare might die because of me.

  It all spills out. I try and explain how I was fed up with horrible people, how I became a horrible person myself. I tell her about the predators and the prey, I try to explain and I can see that she’s listening. She’s nodding and she’s listening to me. She hasn’t pulled away, she hasn’t stormed from my room in disgust even after what she’s heard, she’s holding my hands and listening.

  I talk and talk and talk and then I’m crying and she’s crying and she’s holding me in her arms and I’m sobbing against her chest like I’m a little boy and I’ve found the only safe place in the world.

  Eventually she falls asleep and I wrap my arms around her. It’s innocent, we could be children, we’re both fully clothed, there are no inappropriate touches, I merely give her one chaste kiss on the lips before I close my eyes and join her in the Land of Nod.

  the morning after the night before

  I wake to the sensation of Amber in my arms and I realize that I’m no longer hot and sweaty and that my fever, if fever it was, body fever, mind fever, whatever it was, has broken. I’m weak, I need food, I have a horrible taste in my mouth and I’m in desperate need of a shower, but Amber’s still asleep and I don’t want to wake her. I want this moment to last forever. I want to stay here, right now, holding Amber in my arms for the rest of my life. I press my nose into her hair and I inhale. I breathe in the fresh, clean smell of her.

  Amber opens her eyes.

  I smile at her, a soft, gentle smile filled with tenderness. She starts to smile back, but then her expression freezes, her smile slips and she frowns and pulls away. I want to do nothing more than to hold tight, to cling to her, not let her go, but I open my arms and let her roll away from me and stand, leaving my bed. Leaving me.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks. Briskly, as if she’d rather not remember last night’s tears, last night’s confessions.

  “Better,” I say, sitting up. I study her face, but her expression is not the friendly Amber face I know: she’s stern, hard, even, and that’s not a word I ever thought I’d use to describe her. “Thank you. For everything.” I needed to tell someone, I needed someone to understand, or if not to understand then to know. I needed her. I don’t think my mind could have coped with all the knowledge on its own, I needed to share. Amber saved me. She’s my salvation. But I don’t tell her that. I don’t think that’s something she wants to hear.

  “Yes, well, I didn’t like to think of you in here all on your own.” Amber studies the daisies on the ceiling, her eyes scan my ruined belongings still scattered across the room. She looks anywhere but at me.

  “That’s what friends are for,” I say, half joking, half serious, knowing that there’s nothing in the world I want at this moment more than Amber. How could I have been so blind? How could I have been such a fool?

  “Friends?” Amber’s eyes swivel to mine and we stare at one another. “I don’t know if we can be friends. I don’t know if I want to be your friend. I can’t just forget what you did to me, what you’ve done to others. You’re not the man I thought you were.”

  “I know. But I’m sorry. You can’t even begin to imagine how sorry I am. Can’t we start over? Give it another try? It’ll be different this time, I swear it.” And I mean it, I really do. I’ll never be cruel to Amber again. I’ll never take her for granted. I want her to be with me. We’d be wonderful together—we were wonderful together, I was just too blind to see it before.

  “I don’t know,” says Amber. “I look at you and all I can think of is what you’ve done. And it’s not even all the other women, though that alone makes me feel sick to my stomach, it’s everything. Even if I could forgive you I don’t want to be with you. I want to be treasured for who I am. I don’t want someone who’s embarrassed by me, who’s ashamed of my background or my dress sense, who thinks he’s settling for me when he knows in his soul he could have done better. I want to be my man’s dream woman. However corny that sounds, that’s what I want.”

  She makes me sound so petty; she makes it all sound so simple. I think I should say something, that I should protest, but she’s in full flow and I don’t have the heart to stop her. I want her to speak the truth of what she’s feeling, I want her to get it out of her system so the hurt and sorrow don’t fester inside of her and grow worse over time. I let her words sink into me, knowing I deserve them, wishing I hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of, wishing that I didn’t feel like the world’s vilest scum with her looking at me like that.

  “I don’t want to be the woman you’ll hate in a year or two when you read about Camilla’s father and his latest business venture and think that you could have been involved if only it weren’t for me, if only you’d stayed with Camilla,” says Amber. “I want someone who wants me for myself. I deserve that.”

  “I do want you for yourself,” I say. I do want her. I know I want her.

  Amber’s lips are trembling and I wonder if she’s about to cry. Please don’t cry, Amber.

  “For how long?” she asks. “What makes you think you won’t change your mind again?”

  “I won’t. I know what I want now. And it’s you. Please give me another chance.”

  “I don’t know, Alex.”

  “Please. I’ll make it up to you. Oh, Amber, I’m so sorry.”

  “I know you’re sorry,” she says. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. Not really. I know you didn’t mean to hurt Kate or that poor woman in hospital, but you did. You hurt us. You, no one else. You.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’d take everything back if I could? I’ve made mistakes. I know that. I’ve made terrible mistakes, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve changed.”

  “Have you? What about Clare Johnson? She’s in a coma because of some stupid bar fight when you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It didn’t even involve you. Getting that glass in your face was an accident. An accident.”

  Is that how it seems to Amber? Does she see me as some kind of insane seeker of retribution? It wasn’t like that, I want to shout. It wasn’t. At the time I felt the world was conspiring against me. I didn’t want a bastard like the Oi Man to have such an easy ride in life. He deserved to suffer as I was suffering. He’s an animal. But, then, so am I. I, in all my pride and glory, am no better than the Oi Man. I can’t even plead ignorance, for I thought it through. I knew Mrs. Oi Man, Clare, would suffer when the photos came to light. I just didn’t care. I made some sorry excuse to myself about her having good grounds for divorce and I didn’t let the tattered shreds of my conscience bother me again.

  But I’m not like that now. I’m not. I’ll change. I have changed. It’s different now. I’m different. I’ve learned my lesson.

  But then I think of Clare. I think of her in her hospital bed surrounded by tubes and wires, hooked up to countless machines, keeping track of heart rate, blood p
ressure, and temperature.

  How could I have been trying to woo Amber? How could I think everything would just go back to the way it was? I have to face this, I have to face reality, I have to face what I’ve done. “She might die,” I whisper. “She might be dead.”

  Amber, her face full of sympathy, sits beside me on the bed. She takes my hand and squeezes.

  Does this mean she still cares for me? Does she not hate me, then? Does she know she’s giving me hope when I don’t deserve it? That she’s letting me know there’s still a chance for me?

  I turn to her, my eyes wet. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

  Even to my ears I know I sound like a child who’s broken his sister’s favorite toy, that the words I’m using cannot even begin to describe the guilt I feel. The guilt I deserve to feel.

  “I know you didn’t.” She touches my cheek briefly, so briefly I might have imagined it were it not for the warm imprint left behind on my face. Amber stands then and clears her throat. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Don’t go.” The words are out before I can stop them. “Please. Stay for a few minutes. I’m going to phone the hospital and find out how she is. I want you here. I need you. If Clare’s dead then I’m a murderer and I don’t think I can face that alone.”

  “I’ll stay, but just for that.”

  Before Amber can change her mind, I dig out my mobile, dial Directory Enquiries, then phone the hospital. I claim to be a nephew and ask about Clare’s condition.

  Clare regained consciousness last night. She’s no longer in a critical condition. She’s going to recover.

  She’s alive. Clare is alive. I didn’t kill her.

  I didn’t kill her.

  is to know one’s self to love one’s self? that is the question

  My body feels like it’s run a marathon, I’m stiff, I ache, I feel like a feeble old man who hasn’t risen from his sickbed in two decades. Amber leaves—I let her use the bathroom first while I sort through my room, searching for some undamaged clothes.