by Marian Keyes
Bethany and Tod were there again. Time after time, Bethany ran behind the bike, holding tightly as Tod pedaled a few yards. Back and forth on the same strip of boardwalk they traveled until, unexpectedly, Bethany let go and Tod careened away. When he realized that he was cycling alone, with no one to support him, he wobbled briefly, before righting himself. "I'm doing it on my own," he screamed with exhilaration. "Look Mom, it 's just me."
"It 's all a question of confidence." Bethany smiled at Ros.
"I suppose it is," Ros agreed, as she freewheeled gracefully. Then crashed into a jogger.
As Bib helped her to her feet, he was undergoing a realization. Of course, he suddenly understood. He 'd been Ros's training wheels, and without her knowing anything about it, he 'd given her confidence— confidence to do her job in a strange city, confidence to break free from a bullying man. And just as Tod no longer needed his mother to hold his bike, Ros no longer needed Bib. She was doing it for real now, he could feel it. From her performance in her final meeting to deciding to go Rollerblading without any prompting from Bib, there was a strength and a confidence about her that was wholly convincing.
He was happy for her. He really was. But there was no getting away from the fact that the time had come for him to leave her. Bib wondered what the strange sensation in his chest was, and it took a moment or two for him to realize that it was his heart breaking for the very first time.
LA airport was aswarm with people, more than just the usual crowd of passengers.
"Alien spotters," the check-in girl informed Ros. "Apparently a little yellow man was spotted here a few days ago."
Aliens! Ros thought, looking around scornfully at the overexcited and fervent crowd who were laden with geiger counters and metal detectors. Honestly! What are these people like?
As Ros strapped herself in her airline seat, she had no idea that her plane was being watched intently by a yard-high, yellow lifeform who was struggling to hold back tears. Big boys don't cry, Bib admonished himself, as he watched Ros's plane taxi along the runway until it was almost out of sight. In the distance he watched it angle itself towards the sky, and suddenly become ludicrously light and airborne. He watched until it became a dot in the blueness, then traipsed back through the hordes of people keen to make his acquaintance to where he 'd hidden his own craft. Time to go home.
Ros's plane landed on a breezy English summer's day, ferrying her back to her Michael-free life. As the whining engines wound down, she tried to swallow away the sweet, hard stone of sadness in her chest.
But, even as she felt the loss, she knew she was going to be fine. In the midst of the grief, at the eye of the storm, was the certainty that she was going to cope with this. She was alone and it was okay. And something else was with her—a firm conviction, an unshakeable faith in the fact that she wouldn't be alone for the rest of her life. It didn't make sense because she was now a single girl, but she had a strange warm sensation of being loved. She felt surrounded and carried by it. Empowered by it.
Gathered her bag and book, slipping on her shoes, she shuffled down the aisle towards the door. As she came down the plane 's steps she inhaled the mild English day, so different from the thick hot Los Angeles air. Then she took a moment to stand on the runway and look around at the vast sky, curving over and dwarfing the airport, stretching away forever. And this she knew to be true—that somewhere out there was a man who would love her for what she was. She didn't know how or why she was so certain. But she was.
Before getting on the bus to take her to the terminal, she paused and did one last scan of the great blue yonder. Yes, no doubt about it, she could feel it in her gut. As surely as the sun will rise in the morning, he 's out there. Somewhere . . .
First published in That's Life magazine, Summer 1999
Under
It 's so peaceful down here. Muffled and calm, and empty, empty, empty. No one but me. Countless fathoms of empty air above me is another world, the one I came from. I'm not going back.
Not that that's stopping them. My husband, my parents, my sister and my friends are determined to make me come round. Someone told them that people in a coma respond to stimulation, that hearing is the last sense to go, that music and conversation and the voices of my loved ones might haul me up from the depths.
They have me fecking well badgered.
They're nearly in competition over it, showing up at my hospital room, day and night, telling me the deathly dull minutiae of their day, from the dreams they had last night to how many red lights they broke on their way to work this morning, determined that they will be the first one to reach me. Or, worse still, playing music that they insist is my favorite but so isn't. It 's the stuff they like. They can't help it; it 's the rule; it 's why people always buy presents for others that they'd like themselves.
The way Chris, my husband, insists I like Coldplay. I don't. He 's the one who likes them, but persists in buying their CDs for me. But I see no need to disillusion him, it 's only a small thing. The music I really love (seventies disco, for the record) is in my car because driving around on my own is the only time I can be myself.
My dad, mum and sister Orla have just arrived. Orla launches into a complicated account of a blowdrying disaster at the hairdressing salon she runs, where some woman said she was going to sue them for giving her whiplash of the eye with her fringe. Then Dad and Mum give me a blow-by-blow account of a film they've just been to see. I have a strange, sad little feeling that they only went so they'd have something to talk to me about—half confirmed when Dad suddenly sighs, "Is there any point to this? Do you think she hears us at all?"
Yes Dad, I can hear you more than you'd think. It's coming from far away, like from a distant galaxy, but I can still hear you.
"We 'll try a bit of James Last," he suggests. "She loves that."
You mean you love it, Dad.
"We used to dance to it every Christmas," he said. "Me and her. She loved it."
Dad, I was six then. It's nearly thirty years ago.
A Muzaky version of "Waterloo" filled the room. Must be the Abba medley.
Christ, if they're wanting me to return to reality, they're going the wrong way about it.
Gratefully I slip below the surface, down, down, down, down, towards the fathomless bottom. It 's so deeply restful here, like lying for a week on a beach on a perfect tropical island, with nothing to worry me, nothing to fear. Feeling nothing, nothing, nothing.
* * *
Chris, my husband, is here a lot. He sits very close to me and cries, Coldplay whining quietly in the background. He always smells nice, and while he 's here he triumphs over the decay and death of the hospital air. He talks incessantly, in a desperate voice. Today he 's saying, "Laura, remember the first time we met. On the flight to Frankfurt? And I wanted to sit by the window to see the Alps, and you wouldn't give up your seat? I thought you were the feistiest woman I'd ever met. And you said no matter how feisty I thought you were, you were still going to sit beside the window."
Yes, Chris, I remember.
"And remember when you took me shopping for my interview suit, and you got me into all kinds of stuff I'd never have worn before. We had such a laugh."
Yes, Chris, I remember.
"Please come back, Laura, oh please come back." And then—I presume no one else was around—he whispered right in to my ear, "I'm so sorry, Laura, I love you so much, I'm so very, very sorry. I'll make it up to you, just please come back. I'll do whatever you want."
You could knock off the Coldplay for a while, I think.
But it doesn't matter. I'm going nowhere. I like it down here.
I get lots of visitors. Some I'm more aware of than others. The girls from work came and tried to create the atmosphere of the office by bringing countless bars of chocolate and arguing heatedly about how milk chocolate was so much nicer than dark chocolate—a big chorus of "Barf ! Ooh, dark chocolate—puke! I'd rather go without— almost!" broke out.
Lots o
f laughter at this but it was happening a long way away. I
can't always control how conscious I am, I come to and fade out again like a badly tuned radio. Or maybe I just wasn't interested this time. Maybe I was afraid they'd start talking about work stuff. Because I so did not want to know. In many ways, this has been like a little holiday for me. Nicer than a holiday actually, because the only person down here is me.
With a fright, I'm jolted out of my dark nothingness. My room seems to have filled up with irate Cockneys. Several of them shouting angrily: someone has slept with someone else, and the someone else thought the first person loved them but now they're going to effing kill them. Shouty voices and horrible aggression—what 's going on? This business to stimulate me has gone too far! I want them out of my room.
My bed is shaking. Now what 's happening? A Cockney-related earthquake?
"What on EARTH is going on here?" The voice of authority. Some sort of nurse, I'd be bound. "Mrs. Coy and Orla Coy, get OUT of Laura's bed immediately."
More bed shaking and my mum's mortified voice. "Sorry, Sister, we were trying to re-create watching EastEnders at home. When Laura comes over, we watch it snuggled up on the couch."
"But she 's critically ill! Her head must not be moved! And you could have dislodged one of her tubes, that 's the tubes that are keeping her alive, Mrs. Coy."
I'm not sticking around for this. I sink back down, wafting slowly like a feather, waiting to be subsumed by dark comforting nothingness.
But something must have gone wrong when they invaded my bed because I'm not suspended in the balm of nothingness, I'm standing beside a river. This is new.
"Laura, Laura, over here, Laura!"
On the far bank is a collection of people, young and old, and they're smiling and beckoning energetically. Who the hell are they? As I keep looking, some start to seem familiar; they look like my dad, who is prone to roundy-facedness and high color. Cousins of mine, they must be. And there 's more. There 's Aunty Irene, Mum's sister, who died when I was a baby, I recognize her from photos. And there are other Mum look-alikes. I am related to these people.
The whole tableau was strangely familiar. It looked . . . actually . . . it looked exactly like a family wedding. They were all happy and red-faced as if they'd just been flinging themselves around some manky ballroom in their wedding finery to "Let 's Twist Again" and "Sweet Caroline." Any minute now it 'll be time for the rubbery chicken. I shudder.
And then I clock Old Granny Mac, grim and upright in a hardbacked chair. In her hand was her blackthorn stick, the one she used to hit me and Orla on the ankles with when we were young. Well, fuck that, I'm not going someplace where someone else can hit me.
"Get in the raft, Laura," they called. "It 's there, behind the rushes."
I take a look. The raft is a gammy, leaky-looking thing, more like a pallet, there isn't even sides to it. No way am I getting on. I might drown. Although from the looks of things, it seems I'm already dead.
"No!" I say loudly and it seems to boom in the sky overhead. "I'm not going."
A clamor of "But you have to, it 's your time. Your time is up!" reaches me from the other bank.
"I don't give a flying fuck," I say, "I'm not going."
Family above me, family down here. I'm trapped.
" . . . heart rate stabilizing . . ."
"We nearly lost her that time."
"She 's a fighter this one."
"Oh yes? Might explain all those old bruises on her then."
Fiona's been here before, but I've only barely been aware of her. This time I can hear her clearly. "Laura," she 's beseeching, "don't die, Laura, just don't die and it 'll be okay. I will help you fix it."
I can feel her desperation. She 's suspected for ages. She hasn't actually said anything but there have been a lot of meaningful looks and coded suggestions. I should have told her, but I haven't. Haven't been able to. Even though she's my best friend. Because it 's too shaming, you know?
Chris is back. The nice smell and the low, intense voice is beside me. "Laura, remember the time I was looking out in to the garden and I said, 'Laura look at the beautiful red poppy.' But it wasn't a poppy at all, it was just a chipsticks bag. But because I wasn't wearing glasses, I thought it was a poppy. Remember how we laughed?"
Yes, Chris, I remember. And I remember what happened next.
Next person to show up was my bossman, Brian the sweatmeister. Chris thanked him for coming: apparently I'm very conscientious at work. If anything would get through to me, it would be the re minder of how many people I was letting down, while having the temerity to be lying in bed with a life-threatening head injury.
"You sure it 's okay to talk to her about work?" Brian asked, and a chorus of voices assured him it was the Very Best Thing for me.
A bulky, sweaty presence arrives at my bedside and Brian is not comfortable, not one bit, with talking to the closed face of a woman deep in a coma. He 'd never make a children's television presenter; they have to have convincingly vivacious conversations with carrots and flaps of felt and all kinds of inanimate stuff.
Hold her hand, someone urged him. So—gingerly—he did. I'm liking plenty of this coma stuff, but having sluicey bosses who take all the credit for your work hold your hand is a little too much.
"Hello Laura, I don't, er, know if you can hear me. If you can, I'd like to tell you that all the gang at work misses you and is wishing you a speedy recovery." Lifted straight from some crappy greeting card. "And let me see . . . um . . . Janet has hit her target weight on Weight Watchers and . . . and . . . oh, you'll love this! You know that new young fella, bit of an eejit . . . anyway didn't he walk into the car park the other morning, just after a car had gone through and he 'd forgotten about the barrier—which had gone up to let the car in obviously—and next thing come belting down on top of the young fella's head! Broke his nose and cracked his skull. Ah sure, as we 're all saying, it can only be an improvement!"
Thanks for that, Brian. Telling a woman in a critical condition with a head injury about someone else getting clunked. No wonder they no longer let you anywhere near the clients.
"So, ah, Laura. As you know the launch date for Acideeze—sure of course you know—you set it up! Well time marches on and we 're all depending on you, Laura. You're the best we have, Laura, no one charms those doctors like you do. The others are doing their best, pulling all the showcases together, but we need you. Come back, Laura!"
I sensed the others in the room were impressed with his bravura plea. That would surely have me leaping out of the bed and into my work suit, they were thinking.
But behind my blank face I was doing a bit of thinking myself. Hmm, let me consider this, now Brian. So what are you offering me? Going back to work with a broken head and working my arse off on the launch of some new stomach antacid, which if it 's a success you'll take all the credit for and if it 's a bomb, I'll get the blame? Or staying here where it 's restful and peaceful most of the time except when you show up to badger me? Let me just have a little think . . .
You're on your own, bud.
Chris was back at my side. "Laura, remember the weekend we had in Galway and we saw the dolphins. Remember, there were loads of them, maybe twenty, playing with each other, jumping and diving, like they were putting on a show for us. Such a glorious day and had the whole beach to ourselves. Do you remember, Laura. We felt like we 'd been personally chosen for a little miracle."
I remember, Chris, course I remember. Mind you, I remember better what happened next. Remember driving back to the guesthouse, we accidentally went the wrong way and somehow it was my fault and you swung your arm almost casually across my face, delivering such a blow to my nose and mouth that blood spurted over the dashboard. Remember that, Chris? Because I do. I had to tell the people in the guesthouse I'd slipped climbing the rocks. Remember that? And they marveled at how unlucky I was, how only the day before I'd had that accident on the sailing boat that made my eye close up.
; You'd never believe it to look at me, not even when I'm patterned with cuts and bruises. I wear high heels, I'm bossy at work and my hair is always nice (except when clumps of it have been torn out). I manage to explain away my injuries on a sporty lifestyle which people buy because the truth would be so shocking. And, of course, everyone loves Chris. (Well, nearly everyone, I think Fiona has her doubts.) They say what a sweetheart he is. So devoted to me. So devoted that if I'm home ten minutes late, he dashes my face against the wall, or punches me in the kidneys, or dislocates my shoulder.
Looking from the outside in, I should have left a long time ago. But the first time he hit me it was a one-off, a unique aberration. He was in the horrors, crying, begging for forgiveness. The second time was also a one-off. As was the third. And the fourth. At some stage the series of isolated incidents stopped being a series of isolated incidents and just became normal life. But I didn't want to see that.
