‘Or maybe they’d just hear your voice and enjoy your music, and not think or even know about the CF,’ Stella says thoughtfully. ‘People probably aren’t as curious about you as you think, you know? They’ve all got their own worries; no one really ever looks too deeply at someone else’s life unless it affects them.’
‘Do you really think that’s true?’ I ask. ‘That’s awful, if it is. I care. I care about other people, and other lives that don’t affect mine.’
‘I know.’ She nods. ‘And I didn’t mean that. I mean that we all have to live and die alone, eventually, even if we surround ourselves with other people.’
‘Bloody hell, you are depressing,’ I tell her. ‘Is that why you are always on night shift, because they’re worried you might push the patients over the edge?’
She laughs then, and her face alters in every way. She looks younger, illuminated, alive.
‘God, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m having a bad night. Didn’t sleep very well today, and … well, it doesn’t matter, but you are right. I need to snap out of it.’
‘That’s not what I said at all,’ I tell her. ‘Life isn’t something you can just snap out of.’
She gives me a look that speaks volumes.
‘I am being a tiny bit dramatic, I suppose,’ I admit. ‘It’s easier, sometimes, than accepting that … well, that I don’t have it as bad as Issy, for one. Or that poor woman opposite me. But if I accept that, then … I have to do something about this life that I am letting tick by, and I don’t know what it is that I have to do.’
‘Maybe all you have to do to begin with is get up on stage and agree to sing a song with your friend,’ Stella says. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if something so simple could be the key to being happy? Amazing – you’re in a band. I always wanted to be in a band. Singing along to Bananarama into a hairbrush was the nearest I ever got.’
‘I think it was the nearest they ever got, too,’ I say, and she nearly smiles. I like to make her smile, to wipe away for a second or two that look of deep sadness she carries around with her. It’s like her outside reflects my insides, somehow. Making her smile makes me feel less immature and selfish, more like the grown woman I am supposed to be.
Growing up with Ben by my side meant that my friendships with other girls my own age have always been sort of distant – friendly, fun, but never deep. There’s never been a girlfriend that I’ve swapped secrets with, or talked about how I feel, like I just have with Stella. It feels nice.
‘So you think it’s a good idea, then?’ I ask her. ‘Because I said yes. I said I’d sing with him in public, and now I’m freaking out.’
‘Yes, it was the right thing to do,’ she says. ‘You are very brave – I could never do that. The idea of all those people looking at me, noticing me. I used to like it, being seen. Being noticed, turning heads. But these days … I think life is easier if you’re invisible. At least it is for someone who isn’t as brave as you. I was brave once but, somehow, I think I’ve forgotten how to be.’
‘I’m not brave,’ I say. ‘Ben keeps trying to make me as brave and as stupid and as certain as he is, but I’m not. I’m not like that.’ She waits for me to say more, and suddenly the words just rush out, tumbling chaotically, barely sentences at all. ‘It’s like there is this unwritten law that if you’re dying, or you have a “life limiting” disease – which, let’s face it, is a polite way of saying that you are dying – then you have to be all chipper about it. You have to be brave and upbeat, you have to be inspiring and strong, you have to be defiant and embracing … and I’m not, Stella, I’m not like that; I’m not brave. I’m afraid all the time – terrified and sad, and angry, and I don’t want to be inspirational. I want to be invisible, like you said. I don’t want life to notice me, because if life does, then so will Death.’
There’s a moment of silence, and then as I stand there watching her, her great big orange eyes fill up with tears.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I know exactly how you feel.’
I don’t know what else to do, so I hug her, putting my arms around her slight body, and she hugs me back, presses me against her. And we both cry, there in the tiny kitchen, with the kettle bubbling and boiling away in the background. The button clicks off and Stella releases me, smoothing away tears with the tips of her fingers.
‘What makes you so sad?’ I ask her, as she turns her back to me and busies herself tearing open sachets of tea and hot chocolate.
‘Honestly?’ she says. ‘I don’t think my husband loves me any more. In fact, I think I make him hate himself.’
‘Really? How do you know?’
‘He can’t bear to look at me,’ she says simply, passing me first one mug of hot chocolate and then the tea for Issy’s mum. ‘And when the person you love stops loving you, stops seeing you, even, you might as well be a ghost anyway.’
Dear Reverend Peterson,
I am not a religious person, you should know that up front. I don’t believe in God. I think it’s a load of twaddle, but my husband likes the idea of a church service. He says it’s more dignified than that humanist lot, and he’s not in favour of a cremation while some bloody song by Barbara Streisand is playing in the background. He says he won’t feel like I’m properly dead unless someone says a prayer over me, which you might think sounds a bit tactless, but that’s the way we’ve always been, me and him. Say it how it is. No one gets hurt, or confused; no one expects anything other than exactly what they are going to get. Which wasn’t a lot, to be honest, but it was enough for us.
You’ll be standing up at my funeral and talking about me as if we’ve met, which we never have, and I thought you might like to know a bit about me, so as not to appear like the deluded charlatan you are. I’m fifty-nine now – I don’t suppose I will see sixty. We never had children, me and him. I wanted them, and so did he, but we just weren’t blessed that way. Truth be told, I like animals more than I like most people. I’ve volunteered for Cats Protection for fifteen years. You know where you are with a cat. Cats don’t believe in God either, now I come to think of it. It’s a good rule of life, I think, not to take anything seriously that a cat doesn’t. Stops you fretting about all sorts of stuff and nonsense and keeps you focusing on what matters.
You know what? If there was a God, if he did exist, I’d like to grab him by the throat and throttle him for finishing me off this way – before I am ready. For making me leave my husband behind, when we both know he won’t cope. If there was a God, I’d have a good old go at murdering him. But seeing as I don’t believe in him anyway, maybe I kind of have. Ancient Egyptians worshipped cats, you know? That seems sensible.
If I have to have a hymn, I want ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’, and someone to do a reading – I don’t mind about what, as long as it’s tasteful. If he looks like he might cry, my husband that is, tell him not to be so soft. We knew it was coming. And remind him, he’s only stood in a church so he can feel better.
We didn’t make many friends – we didn’t need them, not when we had each other. So, maybe you’ll visit him from time to time. I wouldn’t like to think of him being alone and missing me. That would seem like the Christian thing to do, and I have always liked that about your lot.
Yours sincerely,
Lottie Moorecroft
CHAPTER TEN
STELLA
‘Hey, you,’ I say to Issy in a low voice.
She is wide awake, staring at the moon out of her window, as Thea sleeps deeply on the guest bed, exhaustion temporarily excusing her from her vigil. A tired-looking soft octopus is tucked under Issy’s arm, and a book open near the beginning is resting on her lap. This is where Shadow has been visiting tonight, I see – his long, lean body is stretched out along the length of her thigh. He lifts his head and looks at me sleepily for a moment before nuzzling it back against Issy’s leg. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Good, actually,’ she whispers, turning her face, which shines softly in the moonlight, to look at me
. ‘Is that weird?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘that’s good, of course.’ I take a seat next to the bed, and for a moment we both watch Thea sleeping – her mouth open, her face slack. Suddenly she snorts, a deep rumbling noise, and Issy smiles, reaching out and pulling her mum’s blanket up over her bare arm. Once she is certain that Thea isn’t about to wake, she speaks again.
‘But it doesn’t mean … I mean, I’m not getting better or anything, am I?’ She poses the question as if it worries her.
‘Because when the doctors said that things were … you know, nearly over, it was kind of a relief. I don’t want to go through it all again: having more treatment, feeling so ill, trying to stay alive for Mum. And the reason … the reason I asked to come here, instead of being at home, is because I didn’t want home to be the place where Mum and Katy think of as the place where I died. If I go home again, then … I feel OK now, but I don’t want to do it all again.’
I sit down next to her and take her hand. ‘There’s this sort of phenomenon,’ I say, ‘that all nurses know about, but there’s no evidence for it. But it’s this thing we call a surge or a bloom. Just before the end, we often see our patients feeling so much better, as if their body is drawing up all of their energy for one last hurrah. I don’t know what causes it or why it happens, but nurses see it all the time. There’s more going on, you know, in our hearts and minds than those doctors know. Nurses see it every day. I don’t think you need to worry.’
She regards me seriously for a while, and then she smiles.
‘Would be it really naughty if you could take me for a spin out in the garden? I just want to feel the breeze on my face. Just for a little while; I don’t want Mum to wake up and for me to not be here.’
‘Of course,’ I say, opening the patio doors, which each patient’s room has, leading out to the grounds.
‘And Stella,’ she says. ‘Would you write a letter for me? To Mum and Katy?’ Grace’s room is lit very low, and no longer bare. Keris must have brought in the photo that is on her bedside table – maybe from her office, because at its heart is Grace wearing a lilac T-shirt, with the Marie Francis logo printed on, and a wide, wide smile, eyes disappearing into crinkles. Her arms are open but not quite encircling a large group of kids and teenagers – all ethnicities, girls and boys, grinning, their thumbs up, pulling faces, making signs behind each other’s heads. A couple of them are holding one of those large outsized cheques that makes a presentation to charity. It looks like a snap that was taken in a moment of great fun. Sasha from the day team told me that there had been a constant stream of visitors by Grace’s side all day, and the room is filled to the brim with cards, drawings, flowers, pastel-coloured teddy bears holding hearts – there’s even a balloon gently bobbing in the corner.
She is sleeping, her face turned towards the darkest corner. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her since she arrived, but I can see she has a gentle face, recently altered by pain. But it’s a face that has a past, that has lived through difficult times. I can tell by the deep lines that are carved around her mouth and eyes. But for now at least she is relaxed. Pain-free. Her hands neatly folded on top of the bedspread.
Quietly I move around her, checking her pulse, her temperature, her blood pressure and oxygen saturation. I’m comforted by the routine, the certainty in numbers, the peace that fills every corner of the room.
‘Where …?’ Grace whispers the word as her eyes flicker open. Slowly she focuses on me. I take her hand and smile, reassuringly. Often a patient will forget where they are or why, for a few moments. You take their hand, and look them in the eyes, and help them to remember in the least frightening way that you can.
‘It’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘Grace, you’re in a hospice, do you remember? My name is Stella. Keris brought you here, and we’re looking after you now.’
I watch as her eyes glide around the room, taking a moment to focus, and I feel her fingers relax in mine.
‘What time is it?’ she says.
‘Almost two in the morning.’
‘Could I have a drink of water, please?’
‘Of course.’ I pour a cupful and offer it to her with a straw. She shakes her head, and I help her sit up, so she can drink from the cup herself. She’s weak and she winces, but she can grip the cup and bring it to her lips.
‘Are you in pain?’ I ask her.
‘No.’ She shakes her head, but I suspect she is lying. Patients do that; they don’t want you to know how much pain they are in, in case it means something. When you are here, facing the very end of your life, no one wants anything to mean anything.
‘I’ll get the on-call doctor to have a look at your meds, just to make sure.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Did your family come in today?’
She sips the water. ‘No, I don’t have any family. Well, I did once, years ago. But I lost them.’
‘But so many friends, though,’ I say. ‘Lots of people who love you. Just look at all the flowers and cards – it smells like summer in here. You know, you don’t have to have all these visitors? If you find it too much, just say. Sometimes people don’t really think what it can be like for you, having to keep on being brave.’
‘No, I want them to come. I want them all to come, to keep me busy. I don’t like it when it’s quiet, when I can think and dream.’ She rests her head back against the pillow, and I take the cup from her.
‘Do you want to try and get in touch with your family again?’ I ask her. ‘I’m sure the day team told you, we can find people for you, track them down. It’s at times like this when we often find that we want to reach out, resolve silly arguments, things that don’t seem to matter all that much any more. We can try and get in touch with any one you like.’
‘There’s no one.’ She leans back into the pillows, closing her eyes. ‘Thankless job, the night shift.’
‘I like it,’ I say. ‘It’s peaceful, really.’
‘When I was a young woman, I used to stay up all night, even after I was married. Stay up and go out dancing and drinking. Not all the time. Just sometimes. I got restless, you know. So I’d just grab my bag and head out the door. I loved dancing, and loud music and short skirts. The arguments we used to have, poor man. I was an alcoholic, you see. Addict is a better word. Addicted to feeling high, feeling excited. Couldn’t bear normal life.’
‘What happened to your husband?’ I ask her.
‘We didn’t last, weren’t likely to.’ She smiles faintly. ‘Oh, but he was the love of my life. Well, one of them, anyway.’
I smile. ‘It’s always the things you don’t do that you regret,’ I say.
‘Never regret love,’ she says. ‘That’s my motto. I don’t ever regret having loved someone too much, only not loving someone enough.’
For a moment I think of the tears that came unbidden and unwelcome in the kitchen with Hope. Tears that came from love, but I’m not sure which kind. Do I love Vincent too much, or not enough?
‘Rest,’ I say. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
‘I heard about you,’ Grace says, before I can leave. ‘Earlier today, from one of the day nurses. You write letters, don’t you?’
I hesitate but she smiles sadly and says, ‘Tell me more; I want to hear all about them.’
Her accent is pure north London, broad and flat, from the time before a kind of American slang slipped into usage. She sounds like my nan used to, and my mum too – before she and Dad sold up and retired.
‘There’s not much more to tell,’ I say. ‘I just write the words down, for people too tired or frail to write their own letters for their loved ones they’re leaving behind. Things that people feel are important to say: ideas, thoughts, messages …’
‘And post them when? Afterwards?’ Grace watches me intently. Her hair is coarsely textured, still blonde at its tips and a wiry grey everywhere else. I recognise something urgent in her dark grey eyes. There’s something she has to do, and it will keep her alive until it’s done.
We’ve all seen it: patients will keep going when everything medical and scientific says they should be gone; they will live until the person they are waiting for arrives, or until they’ve completed some task, or said something to someone that they must. To families it often feels like some kind of miracle, except that miracles never really happen, not in here. Or at least they’re only temporary. And yet a nurse doesn’t have to be religious to believe with total certainty in the human spirit. We see it, fighting until the very last, burning brightly in the eyes of people who are already dying. And after the moment, we honour it; it’s rare to meet a nurse who doesn’t open a window in the room of the recently deceased to help speed them, their soul, on their way.
‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I make a promise to always post them after a patient has gone.’
‘I’ve got a son,’ Grace says suddenly. ‘That husband I told you about, we had a child. He’s thirty-five now. I’d like you to write to him for me, and you – you’ll post the letter after I’m gone?’
‘You’ve got a son, but …?’
Grace lowers her eyes. ‘I haven’t seen him for years … He’d not thank me now for getting in touch.’
I take her hand, between mine, leaning forward a little.
‘Look, family feuds, falling out, it happens. People make bad decisions and tiny little spats turn sour. They get blown up out of all proportion and, before you know it, years have gone by. But I’m sure if he knew that you were here, that you were this ill, he’d want to come. I’m sure he would. For his sake as much as yours.’
Grace closes her eyes. Some unnamed pain closes down her face for a moment.
We Are All Made of Stars Page 8
