by Emma Cooper
‘You’re awake.’
‘Well, I bloody am now.’
‘How are you?’
‘How the feck do you think I am?’ I look at him, my eyes tracking the easy fluidity of his movements, the way he strides across the room and then slumps back into the chair opposite the bed. I need a drink. I hate the idea of having him help me sip through a straw, but the brace around my neck makes it difficult to drink out of a cup.
‘Can you get me a drink, please?’
‘Sure thing, buddy!’
I close my eyes. The painkillers are wearing off; the heat inside seems to rise, the itching writhing around: rats in a sewer.
‘Here you go, mate.’ I hate that it hurts to turn my head towards him, that I can’t see where the straw is.
‘How the hell am I supposed to drink it from here when I can’t even see it?’ I snap.
‘Sorry, mate, I thought you could reach it.’ He moves forward and passes me the straw. The water is warm; more heat inside my body.
‘Thanks.’
He chuckles. ‘Man, I love your accent – “tanks”.’ He laughs again. I close my eyes. Everything about him today is irritating me. ‘Sammy Boy, take a look at this.’ I open my eyes again but can’t see where he is standing. The exasperation grates on my insides, igniting the pain, and stoking the burns until I almost cry out.
‘Jesus! I can’t sodding well see it until you bring it in front of the brace!’ The door opens and closes behind me and I can sense the arrival of yet another doctor.
‘All right, keep your hair on, mate. It is in front of your brace, look.’ He moves further in front of me and I can see the mobile phone screen with the baseball scores on. ‘I’d be on your guard today, doc,’ Bret says over his shoulder. ‘He’s not in a great mood.’
‘Of course I’m not in a great mood! You keep doing things behind my back!’
I close my eyes again as Bret laughs and jokes with the doctor. I gather by the sounds of Bret’s phone that he is showing him something on YouTube. I open my eyes, but they are behind me. Again. ‘For the love of God, can you not keep standing behind me! I can’t turn my fecking neck!’
‘Samuel? Can you see the screen of this phone?’ There is something different about the tone of the doctor’s voice as he asks me. The inside of my skin feels like it is crawling, like my veins are filled with ants scurrying around my body.
‘I’m not behind you, mate.’ Bret’s voice has lost its booming certainty, its wise-cracking lilt, and is replaced with a voice that is edged with anxiety. ‘I’m here, look.’
I can see the tips of his fingers in the top left corner of my vision, but I can’t see the rest of his hand. He takes a few strides forward, concern on his face. The doctor follows his path and begins barking orders at me, shining a light in my eyes and asking me to look up, to look down, to look left, to look right. Bret stands at the bottom of the bed avoiding my gaze until he excuses himself.
The tests come thick and fast. The specialists are called; I’m wheeled into darkened rooms; I’m lifted on to beds and pushed into a scanner. Words zigzag around these rooms like the old computer games that would consist of a small ball bouncing from one side of the screen to another. Boing. Retinal damage. Boing. Peripheral vision loss. Boing. Deterioration. Boing. Tunnel vision. Boing. Beyond treatment. Boing. Eventually blind. Boing. Boing. Boing. I stop listening to Sarah’s questions. I stop listening to explanations. I stop listening.
It could have been worse . . . I have a year of sight . . . if I’m lucky.
Week Eleven
Sophie
I’m meeting Helen in town. The Welsh rain batters the windscreen relentlessly, and as I turn up the blowers, I notice that my nails are different shapes and sizes; they have become brittle. My reflection in the rear-view mirror stares forlornly back at me. The smudge of mascara under my eyes, my wet hair clinging to my scalp, the roots looking even worse in the dim light. My jeans are digging into my stomach and I undo the top button, the flesh beneath the denim exhaling. I picture the English woman with the green umbrella and begin to cry. Where is she now?
A fist knocks on the window, and I wipe my tears away as Helen waves, runs around the bonnet and climbs into the passenger seat.
‘Good to know that Wales is as pleased to see me as I am to see it.’ She turns to look at me, rain dripping from her fringe and on to her glasses, then she takes them off and wipes the lenses with the cuff of her jacket. ‘Jesus, are you OK?’
‘Yeah, just morning sickness again.’ I smile and reach for her as we try to give each other an awkward hug over the seat-belt buckles. ‘Are you hungry? The Rose and Crown has been renovated, we can go there.’
‘OK, if you feel up to it?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine in a bit.’ I blow my nose. ‘Bean likes to keep me on my toes, don’t you, Bean?’ I tap my stomach.
‘Ooh, you’re getting chubby!’ she exclaims, seeing my open button. I nod and smile . . . who knew that someone telling you you’re getting fat could cause so much pride?
The rain has finished throwing a tantrum, the slaps and crashes turning into sniffs and snivels. I blow my nose and open the window a fraction. Rain on dry earth mixes with the sounds of the seaside and damp tourists as they shake off the downpour. I begin the steep climb, my foot pushing down on the accelerator, the engine protesting at my low gear.
‘How are the girls?’ I ask. Mismatched houses stand watchfully as I leave the main part of the town, each one stepping further back from view, as the houses gradually become grander and more hidden.
‘Oh, they’re good. Never give me a second, though. I swear if I make one more playdough My Little Pony I think I’ll go mad.’ I notice that Helen is avoiding the landscape as the grand houses peter out and give way to the old council estates, the corner shops, the pubs with bouncy castles in the beer garden.
I’m distracted by the sight of a woman pushing a buggy up the hill; the way her gait stops and starts, stops and starts. As I pass her, I glance at her tired eyes as she pushes a bottle into the baby’s mouth which is hidden from my view. I pull in to the car park and wonder why the woman hadn’t just fed the baby before she left.
We settle ourselves by the log burner, our drinks fizzing inside the glasses as we scan the menu and order.
‘So . . . how’s the place looking? How are you keeping? Are you having heartburn? Because you can have as much Gaviscon as you want. I should have bought some, I’ll get plenty in next time you come to visit.’ The ice cubes in my glass clink against each other as I listen to Helen’s stream of questions.
‘No, not yet and it’s great . . . the bedroom is finished.’
‘What colour have you gone for?’
‘White.’ She snorts into her glass. ‘What?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. It’s just you’re about to have a baby, and white, well . . . let’s just say baby poo isn’t white, Sophie.’
‘I’ll put the baby in another room.’
‘Right.’ She swirls her straw around the inside of the glass and smirks. ‘Of course, keeping your duvet cover blemish-free will be in the forefront of your mind when you’ve had an hour’s sleep in two days.’
I ignore her and carry on. ‘I’ve just had the kitchen redone. Actually, that’s why I asked you to come.’
‘Oh Sophie, I can’t. I’m not ready to, I don’t think I can go back there. I know you want me to, but I just can’t. I—’
‘I know. That’s not it. I mean, I do want you to come though Hel, it’s nothing like how it was before. But I understand if you need more time. I wanted to see you to ask if you could tell me about this?’ I rummage in my bag and slide the book across the table. The colour drains from Helen’s face and tears fill her eyes.
‘Where did you find it?’ she whispers.
‘It was hidden behind one of the kitchen cupboards.’
She reaches for the tag which is resting on top of the book, and her fingers follow the outline of the pocket watch.
<
br /> ‘I made this. I made it the day before she died.’
‘Why did you never tell me about it?’
Helen’s eyes shift from the tag and begin to scour the room, resting on the bar, the ceiling, the floor, the couple walking into the pub, looking at anything except me. I reach my hand across the table, taking her fingers in mine, but she snatches them back.
‘Sophie, I can’t, I’m not ready to explain. I need to go. I’m sorry.’ She picks up her things.
Her reaction has thrown me. I was just expecting a memory, a forgotten story, but Helen is more than a little flustered. She drops her bag, the contents spilling over the floor. I watch her scrabbling her things together.
‘Helen, stay, we can talk a bit more.’
‘I can’t.’ She shoves the last of her things into the bag, stands and grabs her coat.
‘Let me take you back into town at least.’ I pull out my keys but she shakes her head.
‘I think I’ll walk. I need to think, to clear my head—’ She pulls me towards her, her fingers digging into my shoulders as she folds me into her embrace, an embrace that is filled with the weight of the past.
I’m about to go to bed when the phone rings.
‘Do you remember that KT Tunstall song about the cherry tree?’ she asks, the word cherry sounding like sherry. ‘“Woo-hooo-ooh, woo-hoo!”’ she sings down the phone.
‘Helen, where are you? Are you home?’ I ask, the slur in her words instantly worrying me.
‘I am, safe and sound. Do you know how much faster the train journey goes when you’re drunk? I might do it every time I travel. I went into a bar and drank an entire bottle of wine on my own. Just me and the bottle, no kids, no Greg; I haven’t done that in years. I sat on the beach and watched the whole of the sunset.’
‘Weren’t you cold? It’s April.’
‘I needed to clear my head, and I didn’t stay on the beach that long. I went into a bar and had a pornstar martini. I think I might have had three, actually.’ She burps as I begin making a cup of tea. ‘Do you think he killed my mum too?’ she asks, the switch from pornstar martinis to murder fracturing the air in the room and pausing my movements: the sugar stills on the teaspoon halfway towards the cup. ‘I mean, the death certificate said she died of pneumonia . . . but what if he did something first?’
‘I don’t think you can cause pneumonia, Helen.’ I stir the sugar into the cup and add milk.
‘You can. I’ve googled it. It can be caused by pulmonary contusion,’ she stretches her voice into something official sounding. ‘Chest trauma.’
‘I’m sure there would have been an inquiry, if there were any signs of—’
‘I don’t even have a photo of my mum, did you know that? Not one. At least you have that.’
‘I do.’ I lower myself into a chair.
‘There was flour all over the floor next to her body,’ she whispers. ‘I cleaned it up before I rang the police . . . I didn’t want to spoil your surprise.’
‘My surprise?’ I ask, eager for more but not wanting to break her train of thought.
‘I loved her very much, Soph, but I had to look after you. Everyone was always asking how you were, how sad it was for you, how awful it was for you . . . Do you know that I didn’t sleep more than two hours at a time until I was twenty-five? I was always too scared to let myself rest for too long in case something happened and I missed it. It was my fault.’ Pain grazes her voice, quietening her: she feels so very far away.
‘Helen?’
‘It was all my fault.’ I hear her sniff and then the phone is dead.
‘Just give her time . . .’ Mum says. ‘She’ll tell you . . . just give her time.’
Week Eleven
Samuel
The gauze has been replaced across the right side of my face and it’s healing nicely – apparently. I look down to where the male nurse, who smells strongly of garlic and sweat, is wrapping fresh bandages around my arms, whilst laughing at whatever hilarity the sit-com family are involved in today. I look away. I hate it here. I’m now on a ward filled with the lives of strangers, the sounds of their day-to-day existence, heightened by the restrictions of my vision.
Only Sarah knows the truth of what is happening to me. I’ve asked the doctors not to mention it to my parents until I’ve had a chance to explain. I’ll tell them soon, but not here, not surrounded by unfamiliar people . . . I’ll tell them once I’m home.
So here is what it feels like: raise your hands and circle them into binoculars – just like you used to when you were a kid looking for pirates on the horizon or looking for Prince Charming to rescue you from the tower. Now take them away from your eyes . . . see how the room expands, see how it is filled with colour, see how free you feel. Pop your binoculars back on, but this time use just one hand and close your other eye – it’s easier for me to explain if we do it this way. Now slowly start to close your fist. You should see your world shrinking and disappearing; you have just lost what lies in the corner of your eye. Take your fist away and enjoy the sights around; you don’t have a fist squeezing your life from you. I, on the other hand, can’t twist and turn away from the fist that has grabbed me by the scruff of the neck, like Daniel Byrne did when I was eight. I can’t use brute force to escape it like I did back in the day. This fist has a hold on me that I can’t escape, and it’s only going to get stronger.
I have a song stuck in my head and I can’t get rid of it: ‘Unchained Melody’ by the Righteous Brothers. It’s the one from the saucy clay-moulding scene in Ghost – the line about time going by slowly – it’s like the record is scratched and it keeps replaying the same line over and over again. Time is still going by slowly. My sight is going and I’m wasting it, stuck in this hospital looking at peach curtains and magnolia walls. My sight is being wasted on magnolia. Jesus, I want to go home. I need to see Ireland, then I need to find Sophie. But until my temperature goes down and I’ve fought off this infection, I’m stuck here in the peach and magnolia with the sounds of loud Americans.
Sarah is trying to arrange my flight home. A long flight in a neck brace: now, that sounds like fun.
The itching beneath the gauze and beneath the plaster on my leg is driving me insane. I need to get out of here. A quiet nurse with a soft, whispery voice appears in front of me, making me jump. The pain screeches up my spine and my eyes water. This is becoming a regular thing, people sneaking up on me, except they don’t: I just can’t fecking see them.
Let’s do another experiment, so at least you can ‘see’ where I’m coming from. Take your left hand, keep your fingers together, cross your body and hold that hand – pinkie facing forward – against your temple; now stretch out your right arm, again, like you did when you were a kid pretending to be an aeroplane. Got it? Now slowly bring your arm forward so it’s pointing straight out in front of you . . . how long did it take you to see your fingers? Put your left hand back down and go back to aeroplane mode and do the manoeuvre again . . . see how much sooner you can see the arm moving?
I forgive the nurse because she is here to give me my meds. I watch her flick through a few pages of my chart. I give her a smile and a thanks, but her response is of pity and understanding, a sort of head-tilted, tight-lipped, poor-you kind of smile. I close my eyes and wait for the cool feeling that calms the itches and blows out the fire.
My mind drifts away from this room with the beeps and gasps of the machinery, from the coughs and footsteps of the staff, the hushed discussions of blood pressure being too high, of higher dosages, of let’s see over the next forty-eight hours, of the distant ping of the lift arriving; instead, happiness floods through my veins as I let my dulled senses take me to Sophie.
Week Twelve
Sophie
Gale-force winds are battering the house. I know that this house can take the beating Mother Nature is giving it – after all, it’s been empty for all this time and it’s still standing – but the howling and the shadows outside have unsettled me. A st
ray piece of TV cable is complaining outside my window, tapping at the pane; I imagine Cathy on the moor asking Heathcliff to let her in. My cold fingers reach out of my bed and click on the bedside lamp. Soft light gently touches the corners of the room; shadows that had been scowling and hiding from view are caressed and cajoled into a yawn and a stretch.
I shift into a sitting position and put my hand to my chest where I can feel the scrape of heartburn.
‘So, Bean, you’ve stopped making me sick and replaced it with this instead? That hardly seems fair.’ I poke my stomach. The Book says that if I poke my tummy, Bean will wriggle about in response. I grin down at my pink fleecy pyjama top, imagining Bean frowning and fidgeting into a more comfortable position. I burp and shift again. ‘I get to see you tomorrow.’ My voice resonates and meanders through the air, peeks under the furniture and strokes the walls, awakening the house and giving it life. I rub my chest again and wonder if I have any Gaviscon downstairs. The mattress flexes beneath my weight as I shift and pull my dressing gown around me, noticing the belt ties don’t hang as loosely as they once did.
The smell of fresh paint and treated wood greets me as I open the new kitchen door, made of heavy oak, and step into the room. Gone are the cracks and the mismatched furniture, and instead a creamy-white Aga stands proud like a parent amongst the family of oak cupboard doors. The wall behind it holds an old beam which had been hidden behind plasterboard, and it arches above it like a puzzled eyebrow. Outside, Cathy is still screeching through the hills, whispering her way through chimneys and hissing in the ears of hidden cracks, but in here, the new double-glazed windows are keeping Cathy away, making her presence feel distant. Warmth radiates inside this room, like a heartbeat pulsing inside what was once a cold, dead space.
Reaching for the kettle, I fill it, add a tea bag to the cup and then sit down at the table which I found in town. It’s been ‘up-cycled’ and still has scratches and stories beneath the varnish. I run my finger along one of the cracks. It feels smooth, the texture of the original scrape now healed and treated; hidden almost. I think of Helen and how hard she has tried to hide her scars; how my asking her about the past has made her begin to pick at the varnish.
