Something Like Love

by Catherine Dunne

  It hadn’t ended there, of course.

  There was the morning the police had come. Rose had become suddenly aware that someone was shaking her by the shoulder roughly, almost painfully. Lisa’s small, pinched face was all she could see as she’d struggled into consciousness. Her instincts were already firing, ready for trouble. Lisa’s blue eyes were staring directly into hers and Rose could see a tiny version of herself reflected in the dark, frightened pools.

  ‘Mum, Mum, wake up! There’s a policeman and a lady downstairs. They want to see you now, Mum!’

  Rose had thrown back the duvet, grabbed her dressing gown from the end of the bed, shoved her feet into rather raggedy-looking pink slippers.

  Jesus, she thought. What now? Turning to Lisa, she said: ‘What time is it, Lisa?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  Eight o’clock on a Saturday morning: and already the police were at her door? Damien, Damien, the voice inside her head had kept repeating. Dear God, just don’t let him be dead. That’s all I ask. Please don’t let him be dead.

  She made her way downstairs, conscious of the effort it took to put one shaky, reluctant foot in front of the other.

  ‘Mrs Holden?’

  Rose hadn’t bothered to correct the young, blue woman standing in her hallway.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Sergeant Finlay, this is Sergeant O’Connor. May we have a word?’

  Her eyes had glanced over Rose’s shoulder. Lisa was still hovering at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Of course.’ Her voice was close to breaking; the catch at the base of her throat suffocated all the other words that lay there needing to be spoken. Not in front of Lisa, she thought. Not like this.

  She led the way to the kitchen, kissing Lisa on the forehead as she passed. The child’s face was grey with fear. ‘It’s okay,’ Rose told her. ‘I’ll be out to you in a few minutes. Go into the living room and wait for me there.’

  Lisa obeyed instantly.

  Once inside the kitchen, Rose turned to face the two Guards. My God, she thought, they look about twelve years old. Wasn’t this yet another one of the irrevocable signs of ageing? When doctors, policemen, firemen all looked like children in their dressing-up clothes?

  ‘Is he dead?’ Rose’s hand made its way to her mouth, covering the trembling it had discovered there.

  ‘Damien Holden is your son?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose.

  She’d said ‘is’ – not ‘was’. Damien Holden is your son. Could it be possible that the worst had not happened, not yet, after all?

  ‘Please, Mrs Holden, sit down.’

  The woman has a kind voice, thought Rose, kind but firm.

  Rose held her ground. It was her son, her kitchen, her home. She was damned if she was sitting down until they’d said what they came for. ‘Not until you tell me.’

  ‘Damien has had an accident.’

  Rose thought her words were deliberately slow, careful, and still she felt that some other event, something worse, was looming in the background, waiting its turn.

  ‘It’s nothing too serious – it just looks worse than it is. He’s in Beaumont Hospital for observation. He’s going to be fine, Mrs Holden. Now, will you sit down?’

  Rose hesitated. If she stayed standing, was that the worst of the news that these two uniformed people would deliver? If she sat, would they then reveal what no mother should hear while on her feet? Was that how they did these things, waiting until they caught you unawares? Her knees made the decision for her, giving way just at the crucial moment. She sat heavily onto one of the kitchen chairs, burying her face in her hands, not capable of stopping the sobs that escaped hoarsely, wetly, between her fingers.

  ‘It’s not a serious accident, Mrs Holden. Your son will recover completely.’ That measured voice again, slow, compassionate words.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Sergeant O’Connor’s voice was brisk, gruff almost. Rose took a surprising strength from it – its blunt, no-nonsense ordinariness in the midst of chaos. It was a pull yourself together kind of voice. But young. Far too young to be so full of no-nonsense.

  ‘Tea. Yes, why not? Let’s have tea.’

  The sense of absurdity that Rose was already feeling began to grow as she watched the young man’s large frame lumber its way to the sink, grasp the kettle in its left hand, turn on the tap with its right. There was a rush of water; the figure stepped back abruptly. Rose almost laughed out loud: she’d forgotten to tell him that that was a particularly splashy tap.

  ‘Mrs Holden?’

  Somehow, Sergeant Finlay had sat herself down on the chair beside Rose’s. Rose hadn’t seen her do that; she was surprised to find her at her side. Somehow, too, her hand was on Rose’s forearm. A pale hand, Rose noticed, freckled; the sort of skin that went with red hair.

  She seemed to be speaking again. ‘Damien is all right, Mrs Holden. His injuries are superficial. He is not in any danger. Do you understand?’ Gentle tones, soothing ones. The sort parents used to calm their children’s night-time terrors.

  The woman’s face swam suddenly into focus in front of Rose’s eyes. She did have red hair, and pale green eyes. And she was telling her that Damien was alive, not dead after all. Rose felt a great wave of love for this young woman sitting beside her, an urge to kiss the pale freckled hand, to show gratitude for the gift she had brought.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she whispered.

  And then there was a cup of curly-steaming tea in front of her. A cup with a saucer. Rose tried hard not to smile at that. She must tell Jane. But the twisting sensation around her mouth as she thought this did not feel like a smile, not like a smile at all. She felt something mould itself around her features like warm plastic. A murmured conversation between the two Guards resulted in milk from the fridge, spoons rattling from the drawer, sugar from the bowl at the end of the kitchen table.

  Rose looked at the teapot, now hugely unfamiliar in its familiarity. Everything else around her felt dislocated somehow, curtained in spots of black light. Even the table was different, shifting away from her as she tried to reach for her cup of tea.

  ‘I think she’s going to faint,’ were the words she heard from a very great distance before everything around her slipped from her grasp.

  Rose’s last thought was that this kind young woman would look after her.

  There was something cold pressing down on her forehead. Rose tried to fight it off – she felt cold enough already: why was her forehead insisting?

  ‘Take it away, Lisa,’ she heard herself saying. ‘It’s too cold.’

  ‘Mrs Holden?’

  Something snapped in Rose’s mind. Suddenly, her memory was perfectly clear: the police at her door, Damien’s accident, the untasted cup of tea. She tried to sit up. Strong hands kept her down.

  ‘Mrs Holden – can you hear me?’

  Rose opened her eyes. ‘Yes . . . what happened? Did I pass out?’

  The pale face with the green eyes nodded. ‘You did indeed. Now, if you want to sit up, I’ll help you do so – but slowly, very slowly.’ The woman – Finlay, wasn’t it, Sergeant Finlay? – took the cold cloth away from her forehead and hooked her arms underneath Rose’s.

  ‘Is that better? Feeling any steadier?’

  Rose nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. I’m sorry. I’m not usually given to fainting. Where’s my daughter?’

  ‘We sent her upstairs to get a blanket. You were only out for a minute. Ah, here she is now. Good girl.’

  Lisa brought the blanket over to the sofa and tucked it around her mother’s knees. Rose smiled at her. ‘I’m fine, love – just got a bit weak, that’s all.’

  Lisa nodded, biting down hard on her lower lip. Rose could feel herself fill with love, guilt, the dull ache of tenderness. This child is only twelve. She’s had far too much grief in her young life. I’d do anything to make that go away. She pulled Lisa down onto the sofa beside her, put one arm around the slender frame. Lisa rested her head on her
mother’s right shoulder. Rose took a peculiar comfort from that childlike, trusting gesture.

  She turned to Sergeant Finlay. ‘Thank you for looking after me. Now, can you tell both of us how Damien is?’

  ‘He’s fine. He had a fall outside a club last night, or rather, at two o’clock this morning, to be exact. He’s got a lot of cuts and bruises to his face and arms, but otherwise he seems to be absolutely fine.’

  ‘Then why’s he in hospital?’ asked Lisa, sharply.

  Sergeant Finlay turned to her. ‘Some people there thought that he might have hit his head when he fell. They called for an ambulance because they were afraid he might have concussion. It’s something that can happen after a blow to the head, and it can make people feel very sick.’

  ‘I know what concussion is,’ said Lisa. ‘Does he have it?’

  ‘In a minor way, yes. They want to keep him in hospital for observation, just in case. The doctors want to make sure that no damage was done.’

  ‘Was he drunk?’ Lisa was meeting Sergeant Finlay’s gaze, eye for eye.

  There was barely perceptible pause. ‘I can’t say. The hospital contacted us because all he had with him was his passport, no address. We had to track down his home.’

  At that moment, the phone rang.

  ‘Lisa, will you get that upstairs in my bedroom? Take a message and say I’ll call back later.’

  Lisa ran from the kitchen.

  ‘Well,’ said Rose. ‘Was he? Was he drunk? You might as well know that I threw my son out six weeks ago. I felt he had a drinking problem that he wasn’t addressing.’

  How cold that sounds. Hard and cold. Mothers shouldn’t behave like that. I’m supposed to be the responsible one, the eternally loving one. I should have kept him here, close to me, kept an eye on him. This might never have happened.

  ‘There was alcohol involved, certainly. But you’d need to talk to the doctors about the amount. Can we give you a lift to the hospital?’

  ‘Was he fighting?’

  ‘No – as far as we can tell, it was just a fall. The bouncer saw him sort of lurch forward and then fall down the steps. It’s conceivable that he was pushed, of course, but not certain. We’ve no evidence of that, no evidence at all.’

  ‘We can bring you to see him straight away,’ said Sergeant O’Connor. His deep voice startled Rose: she had almost forgotten he was there. ‘You shouldn’t drive for a while, not until you’ve recovered from the shock.’

  Rose stood up. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, with a firmness she didn’t yet feel. ‘I’ll have some breakfast and a bath and I’ll make my own way up later. I won’t go just yet, thank you. I need to spend some time with my daughter. She’s very upset.’

  She met the Guard’s level gaze and he nodded, a little abruptly. ‘If we can do anything else to help, just call the local station. Here’s the number.’

  Rose accepted the card from his outstretched hand and put it in her dressing gown pocket without looking at it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sure you’ll be all right? Is there anybody here with you?’

  Rose thought that Sergeant Finlay had put the question very delicately. No, indeed, Sergeants Finlay and O’Connor, there is no Mr Holden here.

  ‘My daughter, Lisa. And my son Brian will be home very soon. He’s almost eighteen – a sensible adult. I’ll be fine, thanks.’

  Both Guards shook hands with her and moved towards the front door.

  ‘Thanks again,’ said Rose.

  ‘You’re welcome, Mrs Holden.’

  And then they were gone. Rose felt surprisingly calm. So, Damien, she thought, this is what we’ve been leading up to, is it? And you’ve got away with it. You’re alive, a few cuts and bruises, nothing serious. If you don’t get your act together after this, I’ll do more than throw you out of the house.

  I’ll throw you out of my life.

  Later that morning, Rose and Lisa had pushed their way past the groups of people in the hospital garden, all dragging deeply on cigarettes. Rose wondered what calamities lay behind the faces there, some haunted, some resigned, some convulsed into spasms of grief.

  I’ve been lucky this time, she thought gratefully. Either way, it’s such a very fine line.

  The corridor was long and sterile, a faint but identifiable smell of illness lingered everywhere. Lisa had been grimly determined: she didn’t care what Damien looked like, she wanted to see her brother. Rose checked her mobile one last time before she switched it off. She hadn’t been able to contact Brian, so she’d left a non-committal voicemail about contacting her as soon as he picked up his messages.

  She still wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him. Sometimes she felt that Brian actively relished his elder brother’s fall from grace. Oh, what a good boy am I.

  At least with Lisa, things were still comfortingly straightforward: the child was angry with her big brother, but more than that, she wanted to see him safe.

  I can cope with that, Rose thought, that’s all reassuring, free from ambiguity. I can help her with that.

  In the large hospital lift, there was no chance of conversation: packed uncomfortably close together, the vertical travellers looked up, or down at their hands, or stared straight ahead. Once the lift doors opened, they spilled out onto the second floor as though escaping from some nameless pursuer.

  ‘Okay, Lisa – your call. Do we go in together, or one at a time?’

  ‘Together.’

  At the nurses’ station, they were directed to Damien’s ward. Rose could feel her knees, and her courage, begin to weaken.

  Bed seven.

  The ward was full, hot and heady with central heating. Lisa tugged at her mother’s sleeve.

  ‘Over here, Mum.’

  Rose looked down at the boy in the bed. She was about to say – no, no, no – that’s not Damien, that’s not my boy, when something about the forehead gave it away. There it was, that unruly lock of hair that would never lie flat, no matter how much it was persuaded into submission.

  ‘Jesus, God,’ she said aloud, her eyes drawn to the pulpy flesh that had once been her son’s face. Superficial? she raged. They call this superficial? One eye was badly swollen, crushed to a dark slit by the pressure of the black flesh all around it. The chin was criss-crossed with raw, angry grazes.

  Lisa pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. ‘Sit down, Mum.’

  Rose obeyed, unable to draw her eyes away from the sleeping form in front of her. Her eyes filled. She needed to cry, but not here.

  ‘Will he be okay?’ Lisa’s voice was suddenly very small, all the determined courage of earlier evaporated.

  ‘I’m going to find a doctor, love. Will you sit here and keep him company? I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Lisa nodded.

  Walking towards the nurses’ station, Rose wiped away angry, impotent tears. What a waste. What a dreadful, awful, savage waste. She would not allow him to throw his life away like this. She would fight like a lioness to save him. Gloves off. She’d hound him and challenge him and fight him until she was no longer able to draw breath.

  Twenty-three years of her life – and his – would not end like this, with a slide into drunken wastefulness. She’d pull him back from that brink with every ounce of what was left of her strength.

  Dr Keane was, to Rose’s relief, somewhere in her mid-fifties. Surrounded by all the cheery youthfulness of nurses, Rose felt that she had strayed onto another planet, one where the signs were different, confused, alienating. How could any of these people help her handle her son? They were barely older than he was. At least Dr Keane looked as though she might have picked up some of life’s experiences along the way.

  ‘I know the injuries look bad,’ she was saying, ‘but actually your son has been very lucky. All the damage will heal, in time. I don’t believe that there will even be any permanent scarring.’

  ‘How drunk was he, Doctor?’

  Dr Keane looked at her notes. ‘Not drunk at all – he’d had maybe
the equivalent of three pints of beer over the entire night: quite a modest amount, in fact. You should see what comes in here most weekends: seventeen, eighteen pints, shots of tequila, you name it.’ She looked at Rose quizzically. ‘Why, has alcohol been a problem?’

  Rose nodded, barely trusting herself to speak. She could feel her lower lip begin to betray her again. ‘Yes, for almost three years now. Not enormous at first, but kind of . . . incremental, if you know what I mean.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘The curse of sudden affluence, I’m afraid. He’s not alone in that.’

  Rose looked at her in surprise. ‘I thought I was the only one to feel that. He used to get so mad at me – called me old-fashioned, Victorian, whatever. He said I should “get a life” – he was only having a “good time”.’

  ‘Yes, well, a good time with all the brakes off. There’s a lot more pressure around these days – none of the certainties of other generations.’ She leafed through her notes. ‘Young people have trouble coping. I have twin boys myself; well, they’re not boys any longer.’ She smiled. ‘They’re almost thirty, so they’ve settled, in all senses. But I do understand your concern. The wild phase is particularly difficult to deal with.’

  A wild phase? Was that all it had been?

  Rose felt that she’d be profoundly relieved if she could believe that: that her son was not following some imprinted behaviour that would lead him towards inevitable desolation, loneliness, all the isolation of the drunkard. She’d never done this before: been mother to a twenty-three-year-old. How did parents know whether their child’s trajectory was a normal response to twenty-first century adolescence, or whether it was an intimation of self-destruction?

  ‘I threw him out of home before Christmas. I feel desperately guilty about that, now.’ Rose could feel the tears gather. She gulped, her nose ran and she searched uselessly for a handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry. The past year or so has just been so awful.’

  Dr Keane handed her tissues. ‘You probably did him a favour – gave him a wake-up call.’

  ‘But how is he so cut and bruised if all he did was fall? I mean, you can’t really fall flat on your face if you’re sober, can you? You’ll put your hands out instinctively to break the fall, surely?’