From Christmas to Eternity

by Caroline Anderson

  * * *

  He should have expected it.

  He’d been warned. He’d known it was possible that he’d lose his speech for a bit, but it was scary the way the words had just gone, vanished into thin air.

  He was surprised he could think so clearly. Not in words, not really, more concepts. Feelings.

  Frustration, relief, impatience.

  Thirst.

  There was a glass and a bottle of water on the locker beside him, but his right hand was being a bit uncooperative, and he didn’t fancy his chances of getting the lid off.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  He nodded carefully, and Lucy came round to the other side of the bed, back into his line of sight, and poured him a glass of water. He lifted his right hand, changed his mind and took it with his left.

  Bliss. It tasted amazing. Cool and sweet and clean. He drained it and handed it back, and she put it down and perched on the bed beside him.

  ‘The girls send their love. I’ve spoken to them, told them you’re all right and you’re going to be OK. They told me to give you a cuddle.’

  She leant forwards with a smile and put her arms round him, and after a second he lifted his arms and slid them round her, easing her closer so her head was beside his, her cheek against his right temple so that his nose was buried in her hair. It smelt of her shampoo, soft and fragrant, achingly familiar and oddly reassuring.

  He only let her go when Kate North came into the room, and as Lucy straightened up he could see moisture under her eyes.

  ‘Hi there,’ Kate said, pulling up a chair as Lucy moved away to stand by the window, surreptitiously swiping the last trace of tears from her cheeks and staring out into the gathering gloom of the early evening.

  The nights were drawing in, the days shorter and shorter.

  Would he be talking by Christmas?

  And would they still be together?

  Yes. He loved her. He’d said so. She hugged the thought to her heart. Whatever was coming, they could deal with it together...

  Kate gave him a chart.

  * * *

  He hated it. Hated having to point, but it beat lying there trapped in a silent prison where everybody else could talk except him. He could manage some words. Simple stuff, greetings and so on, meaningless things, but to ask for a specific thing seemed infinitely harder and absolutely beyond reach.

  But he was alive. He told himself that, again and again, over the course of the next few hours, but when the morning came the little bit of speech he’d had seemed to have slipped away and even thinking was harder. And his right arm was even less useful, so that Lucy had to help dress him when David said he could go home.

  Her father came, and he sat in the front with the seat reclined, dozing most of the way, and then he heard the crunch of gravel and opened his eyes.

  ‘Home,’ he said, after groping for a moment, and Lucy smiled at him, her eyes misting.

  ‘Yes. Home. Come on, let’s get you inside and have a cup of tea.’

  And then the girls were running out, slinging their arms around him and hugging him, the dog pushing in and licking his hand, and he felt his eyes filling and welling over.

  Odd, because he actually didn’t really feel any emotion, just a curious numbness. ‘Tea,’ he said, and the girls led him inside, one on each hand, towing him through the door and into the sitting room with Stanley at their heels, then Megan was climbing up on the sofa beside him and peering at his head.

  ‘Careful, darling,’ Lucy said, but he didn’t seem worried, just put his arm round her and hugged her, Emily on the other side and the dog stuck on his leg, gazing at him adoringly. So far, so good, she thought, but not for the first time she wondered exactly what it would be like living with a man who couldn’t communicate.

  He wasn’t the most long-suffering, and she didn’t imagine for a moment that he’d be a good patient, but he was alive, he was going to stay alive, and he should get better.

  One step at a time, she told herself. One day at a time, one hour—one minute.

  ‘Tea?’

  He nodded. ‘Tea,’ he repeated, but there was no answering smile, and she turned away before he could see the tears in her eyes.

  Her mother was in the kitchen boiling the kettle, and without a word she put her arms round Lucy and held her. When she moved away, her mother searched her face and tutted.

  ‘He’ll get better. Isn’t that what David said? That this is temporary?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. It’s just—I know it’s crazy, but I wasn’t really expecting him to be like this. Not speaking, maybe, but—he’s not reacting to things, not responding, really, and his right hand’s uncooperative—Mum, it’s almost as if he’s had a stroke.’

  ‘Don’t forget that the surgery itself is the equivalent of a brain injury,’ her mother pointed out gently. ‘It’s tough. His brain is irritated, swollen, it needs time to recover from the insult. It’s like concussion. He will be all right. He just needs time. Give him a few days.’

  She sucked in a breath and nodded. Her mother was a nurse, and she’d worked in a head injuries unit for years. She knew what she was talking about, and these weren’t just platitudes. She knew that, just as she knew everything her mother was telling her. But...

  ‘Where’s Lottie? I could do with feeding her to take the pressure off.’

  ‘In her buggy in the utility room, sleeping. She dozed off on the way back from school and I thought I’d leave her, but she’s had over an hour. Why don’t you have your tea first and get Andy settled in, then you can feed her when she wakes up?’

  She nodded again, picked up the tea tray and carried it through to the sitting room.

  ‘Come on, girls, give your father a bit of room,’ she said, setting the tray down, and they went and lay on the floor in front of the television. Stanley would normally have been there with them, with Megan draped over him, but he stayed by Andy’s side, his head rested on his master’s knee, eyes fixed on him.

  Andy’s right hand was lying on the dog’s head, and she put his mug down in reach of his left hand, out of Stanley’s way.

  He just looked at her, meeting her eyes expressionlessly before picking it up. They didn’t look like his eyes, she thought in surprise. They were just flat slate, dulled, without any of their usual expressiveness.

  And then she thought of his eyes on Monday, when they’d gone out for dinner to the little Italian restaurant and his eyes had burned with that curious intensity. Now, it was as if the curtains had been closed on his soul, shutting her out, and she couldn’t even tell if he was in there any more.

  And she wanted to weep for him. For herself. For the children. For all of them.

  Please, David, be right. Let him get it all back.

  The alternative was unthinkable...

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS odd, how little he felt.

  No pain, no anything, really.

  Except tired. He was ridiculously tired, and after he’d finished his tea he got up and walked towards the stairs.

  ‘Andy?’

  Lucy was there, catching up with him in the hall and looking at him in concern. He wanted to tell her he was tired, but the chart wasn’t around and he couldn’t find the word for sleep, so he just closed his eyes. He could feel himself swaying, and her hand wrapped around his arm and steadied him.

  ‘Do you want to go to bed?’ she asked softly, and he sighed with relief and nodded, and she tucked her arm around his waist. ‘Come on,’ she murmured, and went up with him to their bedroom, helping him out of his clothes. His overnight bag was there, and he found his wash things and took them into the bathroom, and by the time he came out she’d closed the curtains and turned back the bed.

  He crawled into it, closed his eyes in relief and crashe
d into oblivion.

  * * *

  ‘Is Daddy all right?’ Emily asked, snuggling up beside her when she came back down, and she nodded and hugged them both. Lottie was stirring, and her mother brought her through and put her on Lucy’s lap, and while she fed her, she sat there with her three girls and talked quietly to them about their father.

  ‘He’s going to be fine, but he might not be able to speak very much for a few days.’

  ‘Did they cut his tongue off?’ Megan asked, looking ghoulishly fascinated, and she laughed and shook her head.

  ‘No, darling, but the bit of him in his head that tells his mouth what to say is very sore, and it just needs to rest for a bit and get better. You know when you fall over and get a bruise, it hurts for a bit and then in a few days it’s all gone? Well, it’s like that, as if his brain’s got a bruise on it, and it just needs to get better.’

  ‘Then will he be able to talk to us again?’

  ‘Yes, he should be.’

  She crossed her fingers behind Lottie’s back as she said it, hoping she was right. ‘So, tell me what you’ve been doing at school today. Did you have a fun time?’

  ‘No,’ Emily said, snuggling closer. ‘I cried. I was worried about Daddy.’

  ‘I cried, too,’ Megan said, but Lucy wasn’t sure if she was just copycatting. ‘But we did painting, and it was fun. I did a picture for Daddy but it was wet so I had to leave it there.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be really pleased when you can bring it home,’ she said, leaning over to kiss her. Lottie was standing on her legs and jumping now, and she held her baby firmly and smiled at her.

  ‘You look happy. Did you miss me?’ she said, but her mother just laughed at her.

  ‘Of course she missed you, they all did, but they’ve been as good as gold, haven’t you, girls? And they helped me cook last night. They were good girls.’

  ‘They are good girls,’ she said, hugging them all, and Lottie snuggled into her neck and blew a nice wet raspberry.

  Her father looked at his watch. ‘Lucy, darling, I hate to do this to you but we really ought to head off, if you’re OK now? We just dropped everything and walked out, and I can’t remember if I locked the back door, so we really should go home.’

  ‘Of course you can go,’ she said guiltily, putting Lottie safely on the floor and getting up to hug them both. ‘Thank you so, so much for all your help.’

  ‘Don’t mention it—and keep in touch.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  They hugged and kissed the children, and then her father patted her cheek gently, as if she was still his little girl. ‘You take care of that man of yours. I know he’s not always the easiest, but he’s a good man, and I know how much you love him. You’ll get there.’

  She swallowed. How did he know there was anything wrong? She hadn’t said a word—but this was her father, and maybe words just weren’t necessary.

  ‘Ring me when you’re home,’ she made them promise, and shutting the door behind them, she shepherded the children back into the kitchen, scooping Lottie up on the way, and set about cooking supper.

  She was exhausted herself, more than ready to call it a day, and by the time she crept into bed beside Andy two hours later, she could hardly keep herself awake.

  ‘Andy?’ she whispered, and he turned his head and just looked at her. ‘Are you OK? Do you need any supper?’

  He shook his head. ‘Y-you,’ he said haltingly, and he reached for her, pulling her into his arms and resting his face against hers. ‘Better,’ he mumbled, and then she felt him relax again, his body slumping into sleep, and she snuggled down under the quilt, her head on his shoulder, and fell instantly asleep.

  * * *

  She was woken at eleven by Lottie crying, and she stumbled out of bed and went into her room, to find Andy standing by the cot stroking her and crooning softly.

  ‘Come here, little one, it’s all right,’ she said, lifting her out and hugging her.

  Andy handed her the feeder cup of water she’d brought up earlier, and she flashed him a smile and offered the baby a drink, then settled her again. She went down without fuss, miraculously, and they went back to bed, but Andy paused, sitting on the edge looking thoughtful.

  ‘Are you OK? Do you need painkillers?’

  He shook his head and pointed to his mouth.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I’ll go and raid the fridge. I’m hungry, too, I haven’t really eaten.’

  So she went downstairs and made ham sandwiches and tea and took them back to bed, and they lay propped up against the headboard, eating their midnight feast and sitting in companionable silence.

  There, she thought. We don’t really need to

  talk. Not all the time. And they snuggled down again under the duvet, curled together like spoons so she could feel his chest against her back, his arm warm and firm and heavy over her waist, his fingers splayed across her abdomen.

  The last time they’d been in this bed together they’d made love, she remembered sadly, clutching at each other in desperation, one last frenzied reaching out before it might have been too late. How good it felt to be back here with him, warm and safe and on the mend. Right then, nothing else mattered.

  She closed her eyes, slipped back into sleep and didn’t stir till morning.

  * * *

  ‘Luce.’

  She prised her eyes open and saw Andy standing over her with Lottie grinning and reaching out to her from the safety of his arms.

  ‘Hello, little one,’ she said, pushing herself up the bed and taking the baby from him. ‘Are you all right to carry her? Don’t overdo it.’

  He just raised an eyebrow and disappeared into the bathroom, and she turned her attention back to the hungry baby.

  ‘OK, OK, I’m here. There you are.’

  She’d been surprised that her milk hadn’t dried up while she’d been away, because her expressing hadn’t been astonishingly successful. Maybe nature was cleverer than that, and in times of such stress it knew when to shut down and when to start up again. She’d been relieved to feed her last night, though, and again this morning, and she sensed that Lottie was relieved, too, to get her mother back.

  Andy came out of the bathroom, disappeared down the stairs and came back a minute later, and in the distance she could hear the kettle.

  ‘Is that a hint for early morning tea?’ she said with a smile, and for the very first time since the operation, his mouth quirked.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she said, and changed the baby’s nappy and put her back next to him. ‘Don’t let her fall off the bed,’ she warned, and he rolled his eyes, so she grinned and walked away, her heart lighter than it had been for days.

  When she went back, Lottie was sitting on his chest, holding his hands and beaming at him. He blew a raspberry at her, and Lottie grinned and said, ‘Da-da.’

  She stared at the baby, astonished. ‘When did you learn to say that?’

  ‘Da-da,’ she said again, and Andy’s eyes filled.

  ‘Oh, Lottie. You clever, clever little girl,’ she said, putting the tray down and getting back into bed beside them, delighted. ‘Now, practise this. Mum-mum-mum—come on. Mum-mum-mum.’

  ‘Da-da-da,’ Andy said, and Lottie laughed out loud and grabbed his face, getting dangerously close to his scalp wound, so Lucy prised her off and cuddled her, then found her a toy other than her father to play with and handed him his tea.

  Of all the times for her to come up with her father’s name, there couldn’t have been a better one, she thought contentedly.

  * * *

  Lucy didn’t go to work that day, but she did on Monday because he told her before the weekend that he’d be fine. Somehow. A mixture of pantomime and pointing at the calendar an
d miming using a stethoscope.

  She’d nodded and phoned the surgery and said she’d be in on Monday, and she’d gone, taking the children to school and Lottie to nursery en route.

  ‘It’s only for three hours. I’ll see you soon,’ she promised, and kissed his cheek and went, ushering the children out.

  The sound of the door closing behind them reverberated around the silent house, and he leant back against the sofa cushions and sighed with relief.

  So good not to have to think, or try and speak, or smile. He didn’t feel like smiling. Didn’t feel at all, really. It had been a hectic weekend, the children so pleased that he was there and seemed all right that they’d bounced excitedly around like puppies, and although it was wonderful to be home, wonderful to see them again and be surrounded by the chatter, he was exhausted, and he was glad they’d all gone out, Lucy included. Especially Lucy, maybe, because he felt she was watching him, searching for any slight sign of improvement, and he felt he was failing her.

  At least his hand was improving. He’d been able to do up his shirt buttons today without help, although it had taken ages, but that didn’t matter. What else did he have to do?

  Nothing. So that was what he did.

  The whole time she was out, he just sat there, staring into the garden and doing exactly nothing while outside the house the world all carried on as normal.

  Would he ever be part of it, as he’d been before? Would he ever be normal again? He kept trying to reassure himself, but as the days had gone by and his speech hadn’t returned, he’d grown more and more despondent.

  Had David been wrong? Was the damage to his brain permanent?

  Would he never be able to speak again?

  * * *

  Julie Harding, the local SLT Kate North had recommended, came that afternoon, after Lucy was home.

  She’d been given a report by Kate, and she came armed with exercises and games and a whole bunch of stuff that just scared him because there was so much he couldn’t do.

  He could understand everything she said, could repeat it, mostly, but couldn’t find it inside his own head without a prompt. But she came every day, and every day he got a tiny bit better, and in the meantime he had homework.