‘The musings of an old man,’ you’ll say.
I read a leaflet from the Alzheimer’s Society that says when people are getting dementia they’re blissfully unaware of what’s happening to them. Maybe that’s why all of a sudden I’ve started feeling hopeful, who knows? But I like to think not. I prefer to think it’s because I’m looking forward to seeing my wife again soon. During Corrie.
Anyway, that’s not the end of it. Last Thursday I went for a walk, more like shuffle, to the post-box at the end of my road. I don’t know what made me think so but I thought I should post bits of what I’m writing to my nephew in Canada. It’ll take ages to get to him, mind. But maybe, if he bothers reading this, he’ll think to check up on me. My phone never rings anymore, apart from the salespeople. I like to play with them by saying, ‘Yes I really do need a new washing machine so send someone ‘round and I’ll look at what you’ve got.’ Then when the salespeople get here I get them to make me a nice cup of tea, or to fetch some milk and bread from the corner shop. They always go away without Sid’s money though, I wasn’t born yesterday! I can’t help it, I’m a people person, and I always have been. I had a phone call out the blue yesterday from the Age UK ladies. They were just checking in on me and promised to visit again soon. They tried to get me to sign up for a befriending thing, where a volunteer would come and sit with me for a couple of hours every week. But I told them no. I have people who come and sit with me now. During Corrie. At first it was just Gina and Billy, but last week my brother came to visit. He’s only been dead two years, so that was less of a shock to the system. He had me in stitches talking about what we used to get up to as kids! I won’t write it down in case we get reported to the police, mind! He’s got a better memory than me, I’ll tell you that. I can’t tell you how much happier I am these last few weeks. Loneliness can kill a person, you know. It’s worse than cancer.
So, as I was saying, I went for a shuffle to the post-box at the end of my road and then, by the time I’d got back it was time for Corrie. Well, Gina and Billy were already sat in their seat on the settee. I made us both a cup of tea and we had a good laugh at the teenagers and how they like to dress these days. She still hadn’t looked at me yet, but that was alright. I know I’m not going mad because I can see her clear as day. And Billy gets up and walks round in circles on her lap trying to change position every now and then, just like he used to. Gina had me laughing so much that time that I could feel my heart pounding fast, like I was a young man going for a run! I’ve never felt so alive.
I’m sat here now, waiting until the ghosts come. That’s when I live. It’s almost seven-thirty so I turn the telly on to channel three. The theme tune starts and I look to my left. Gina and Billy are there. Frank, my brother, is over in the arm chair. My arm is hurting now but I need to finish writing this. Then, for the first time, Gina finally looks directly at me and makes one of her dry jokes. It makes me laugh so hard that tears are running down my face! I think my heart is about to pack in, but I couldn’t care less.
Familiarity
My alarm clock is telling me quite loudly that it is seven a.m. I get up, without hesitation. To hesitate would be to reflect on how awful my life is and I certainly don’t want to do that. Routine is keeping me alive. To the bathroom I go. My ‘bathroom’ is a yellow-stained sink in the corner of my bedsit, so it’s not actually a separate room, but it helps to think of it as a separate room; otherwise I might reflect on what an awful place this is to be living in. Especially at forty-two years old.
As I brush my teeth I make a mental note of the toiletries I need to replace, because today is ‘shopping day’. A while ago I noticed my toothbrush is old and frayed and it doesn’t remove the food between my teeth anymore so, budget allowing, I will buy myself a new toothbrush today. It feels depressing to acknowledge how excited I am at the prospect of buying myself something. I put this thought to one side and turn to face the ‘living room’. What an apt description for the small, musty, faded area I face. I take a single step into the laundry area. Luckily, as always, my clothes are dry from the hand-washing I did the night before. I take my starched blue trousers off the weary airer and step into them. Next I carefully pull on my old blue jumper, which is slightly damp as the weather has turned cooler overnight. It feels comfortingly cold and harsh against my skin and smells of the moss that climbs my walls.
My small, square, smudged mirror hangs on the back of my front door, the only door in the whole bedsit actually. I take out my black comb and spend the next four minutes combing my hair. Because I do this in the same way every single day it doesn’t actually need combing, it has trained itself to stay put. This doesn’t stop me from doing it, however, as I use routine to keep me sane. I did once consider trying a different parting but immediately realised there was no point. I have no one to look different for. The only person who would notice is that girl who watches me. I hate being watched more than anything else in the world. I want to blend into the background, which is why I don’t change my appearance. The thought that this makes me even more conspicuous to the girl doesn’t occur to me.
Time to go to the café for breakfast. I have a cup of tea and an egg sandwich. I don’t have to speak to the chubby woman behind the counter because she knows I have the same every day, so I just sit in my seat and wait. She doesn’t know my name and I don’t know hers. I’m not interested; I don’t want anyone to know my name. That would affect my routine.
After my sub-standard breakfast I head to the library where it’s warm and free to sit all day whilst reading the papers. I don’t have a TV at home so this is how I catch up with the news. I find it comforting to read stories about people in similar or worse situations as me. I briefly wonder if I shouldn’t think like that; if it makes me sound like a weirdo. I quickly reassure myself that I’m not weird. As I open the Daily Mail I briefly look around the library. It contains the usual suspects; students laughing inappropriately by the computers, hostile looking library assistants ignoring each other, and old people in thick winter coats huddled around a big table watching the students with dismay. That’s when I realise that girl is here again and she’s staring at me. I refuse to look at her because her rudeness shows no boundaries and she wants me to look at her, to notice her. I won’t give her what she wants. Why does she follow me everywhere? She mustn’t have a job to go to because she’s always in town with her friends. She must be a student; she wears student-type clothes and wears her hair in provocative styles. Probably to attract people’s attention. She’s the complete opposite of me. I feel uncomfortable now I know she’s here. I don’t want to go shopping; I just want to go home. I have a book at home I can read. Then I need to wash my clothes for tomorrow.
Weather the Storm
As my subway journey nears its end, I think about how draining the inevitability of my life is. I’ve done this same subway journey from Upper West Side all the way downtown every single lunch time since I stopped work. It’s ironic that I commute more now than when I worked in an office.
‘Why such a big sigh?’
An old black man is sitting opposite me in the unfilled carriage. He’s affectionately holding what I assume is his wife’s hand. She seems drowsy and I notice a walking stick and pharmacy bag on the seat next to her. Before I respond I shake the snow off my hat and gloves, giving me time to shake the despair off my facade. Then I smile back at him.
‘I was just thinking how-’
My breath is taken from me before I finish my sentence as I’m thrown sideways into a young woman who looks even more startled than me. The train’s lights go out and the smell of smoke reaches me. Before I have time to panic, the young woman next to me panics enough for everyone. She’s screaming; an alarming, desperate noise that I would associate with someone who is certain of their imminent death.
‘No! Not again, please!’
I feel for her in the dark, which isn’t hard as I’ve fallen onto her legs and we’re both on the floor. She grabs my hands w
ith a deathly grip, so I rub them reassuringly.
‘Are you hurt anywhere?’ A man slides towards us on the ground. ‘I’m a nurse, I can help.’
‘I can’t go through this again!’ Her screams assault my ears and pierce my brain.
‘It’s okay,’ says the nurse, ‘Just tell me where you’re hurt.’
‘It’s not okay! It’s terrorists again!’
I hear gasps somewhere in the dark, from the old couple. Calmly, the nurse stands up.
‘We don’t know that. Please don’t panic everyone.’
My eyes start adjusting to the darkness. I notice the smell of smoke is diminishing. I can see the old couple being helped off the floor by the nurse. He sits down next to the wife and checks her pulse, probably because her breathing sounds strained. Suddenly I feel the young woman next to me start shaking violently, and not because of the freezing temperature.
‘It’s probably just an electrical fault,’ I say, ‘There haven’t been any explosions and we’re not derailed. It was just an emergency stop.’
‘The London tube bombings,’ she whispers. ‘I was there, in one of those carriages. I can’t go through that again. I came here to follow my dream, not to re-live my nightmare!’
I try my best to console her but she’s starting to freak us out. The old lady is crying quietly while her husband has his arms around her. He’s showering her face with reassuring kisses. If that were my husband he’d be covering my face with bruises.
A few minutes go by in near silence as we let what she said sink in. I’m probably the only person here who sees this as a relief. If it is terrorists, and I die today, I’ll be escaping a living hell; my husband. Up until the recession we had a normal loving relationship and were well-off, thanks to his investments in lots of different businesses. But when the recession hit him, he started hitting me. The first time, he’d just received some bad news about one of his companies going bust. He sat down at the dinner table and just stared at me. Then, without any warning, he threw his whole meal at me; plate and all. He didn’t say a word. Instead of leaving him I obediently cleaned up his mess, in complete shock. I can’t help imagining that if I had reacted differently that day, it would have stopped there. But I let him get away with it, so it carried on. For two years so far. He made me quit my job so that I wouldn’t have any friends to confide in and he thinks I’m going to leave him for someone more successful. That’s why I have to travel downtown to a restaurant near his office every lunch time, so that he can keep an eye on me during his break. For me, every day is now the same. I live in hope that the recession will pass quickly, and his temper tantrums along with it.
The girl’s breathing becomes erratic. The nurse leans across me on the floor to get to her. I notice how attractive he is.
‘She’s having an anxiety attack.’ He squeezes down next to us and bear hugs her. ‘What’s your name honey?’
Panting, she manages to get out, ‘Sam-an-tha.’
‘Well Sammy, you need to relax. Slow down your breathing for me.’
He presses his body to hers and forces slow deep breaths. Eventually it works, she starts mimicking his controlled breathing.
‘Let’s stop assuming the worst. There’s a bad snow storm up there remember? That’s got to have something to do with this. Subway trains break down all the time!’
‘But we could all explode any minute now. That’s what happened in London,’ she says tearfully.
He shakes his gloves off and takes her face in his hands, tenderly, as if he’s her lover. ‘My name’s Daniel. Trust me. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.’
How nice it must feel to have someone be that caring with you. I can’t help but wish he was doing that to me.
Just then, the carriage doors burst open and someone shines a torch in our faces. The combination of loud noise, cold air and Samantha’s prediction of imminent explosions makes everyone jump.
‘Listen people,’ says what could be the train driver, ‘There’s been an electrical fault on the red line because of ice on the third rail. The guys are working on clearing it but it’s gonna take a while.’
He takes a breath, during which time he’s bombarded with our questions. ‘Is it terrorists?’ ‘Will someone crash into us?’ ‘How long will we be here?’ ‘Where have we stopped?’
‘You’re between Rector Street and the end of the line. I’d say an hour; two max. No terrorists down here honey and, no, the whole line is affected so all trains are stuck. You’re all perfectly safe but you’ll be uncomfortable for a few hours.’
He opens a cabinet at the end of the carriage and pulls out two torches and two blankets, which he hands to Daniel.
‘Thanks. Do you have any water in there?’
‘Afraid not. But if I need to, I’ll come back with supplies.’
‘Can’t we all just leave with you now and walk to the platform?’ pleads Samantha.
‘Afraid not. Health and Safety. Don’t worry; you’ll all be home for dinner.’
And with that typical New York straightforwardness he leaves, locking the doors behind him.
‘See Sammy,’ says Daniel with a reassuring smile, ‘We’re all going to be fine.’
I can’t help but feel disappointed. The others will be fine, but what about me? When I step off this train I have to explain why I missed our lunch appointment. He’ll assume it’s because I have a man in my bed, maybe even one of his colleagues. I take my phone from my bag, grab a torch and walk to the empty side of the carriage. Daniel is now giving the old couple one of the blankets and checking again on the wife. I don’t want anyone to hear this.
‘Yes?’ says my husband, probably wondering why I’m calling instead of sitting next to him in the restaurant.
‘I’m not going to make it–’
He doesn’t let me finish, ‘But I’m sat here waiting for you. Are you trying to humiliate me?’
‘No, but my train’s stopped because of the storm, and-’
‘That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard,’ He pauses and I can hear him grinding his teeth. ‘It doesn’t snow underground sweetheart. I’ll discuss this with you later.’
‘I’m being honest! Call the MTA, they’ll tell you! I’m stuck somewhere near South Ferry. This is not my fault!’ My hands have started shaking and my lungs have tightened. He hangs up without responding.
Someone behind me suddenly lifts my ski-jacket and t-shirt to expose my lower back. It’s Daniel. I pull away but it’s too late, he’s seen the bruises, they all have.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Textbook case. Your husband beats you. I could tell from your call.’
Samantha and the old couple are staring. I’m glad it’s too dark to see their eyes. The old man starts shaking his head. I consider launching into the well-rehearsed lines about how my husband has a stressful job and, yes, he has a short temper, but he’s not a wife beater. Instead I crumple to the floor like a wet towel and burst into tears. I don’t normally do this with an audience. Samantha rushes over and sits next to me with her arm around my shoulder.
‘It’s okay. Let it all out.’
Through my tears I notice that Daniel, who was so caring towards the others, looks angry.
‘I see a hundred women like you in my hospital every week. My mother was one of them.’
‘Hey, leave it out,’ says the old man. ‘Doesn’t she suffer enough?’
Daniel bends down and gently lifts my face to meet his eyes. ‘I’m going to tell you what I tell all the victims I treat. It’s not your fault he hits you but it is your fault that you let him. You’re condoning his actions by staying with him.’
I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. I always assumed that if I ever told anyone about my husband, they would wrap me up in cotton wool and treat me delicately. But Daniel won’t. He’s probably sick of repeating himself to women like me. But I didn’t used to be a victim; I used to have a career and friends and self-respect. Am I really condoning h
is actions even though I despise what he does? I consider whether I would stand by and let him hit someone else. I realise that I wouldn’t, that he shouldn’t be hitting me, that it’s not normal. But it’s become normal to me. Then the heavy feeling of dread returns to my stomach as I think of my options. What would happen if I tell the police? I don’t want him to get into serious trouble. I just want him to be the man I fell in love with. Surely he deserves one more chance? But what if this is the real him? Besides, if I told the police, he’d probably just charm his way out of trouble. Not that he’s very charming anymore, just desperate.
Samantha speaks up, ‘There’s a spare room in the flat, I mean apartment, I’m renting. There are two other women living there too, but you can share with us until you sort things out. We were going to advertise it, but, well, it’s yours if you want it.’
End of the Road: An anthology Page 5
