Six Months to Get a Life

by Ben Adams

  Once we were alone again, Amy sighed and looked up at me. ‘You look tired.’

  I sat on the edge of her bed. ‘I am tired,’ I confessed.

  Amy shook her head and then quickly winced with pain. ‘I feel like shit.’

  ‘You look great. Your hair looks spectacular.’ I really meant it.

  ‘I thought you hadn’t noticed,’ she said.

  ‘The last time I called you gorgeous it all went pear-shaped so I opted not to mention it this time,’ I told her. I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. ‘Did one of the nurses cut it?’

  ‘Does it look like a bloody nurse cut it?’ Amy asked angrily. ‘Just leave me alone, Graham.’

  In my defence, your honour, I had never heard of hospitals having hairdressers attached to them before today.

  Once I had managed to placate the woman I seemed to be doing a pretty good job of turning into my next ex, Amy and I chatted for a while about her operation and her fear of how she would look once the procedure had been completed. Eventually she will get a cosmetic replacement eye but she won’t have that fitted until the swelling in her eye socket recedes. For a while, her eye socket won’t look particularly attractive. I offered to buy her a pair of wrap-around sunglasses to cover the eye up. ‘That’s one way of ensuring you won’t have to look at it I suppose,’ Amy commented. I couldn’t do right for doing wrong tonight.

  Amy asked me how the party preparations were going. My birthday still hasn’t been at the top of my list of priorities so I haven’t done much in the way of preparation. I am not in the mood to celebrate. I haven’t seen much of Lucy lately but I am not sure she will be up for it either. I suppose I should be pleased that Amy is still happy for the party to go ahead. ‘Will you be out of here by a week on Friday?’ I asked her.

  ‘The doctors think I should be out, but who knows.’ It goes without saying that I hope Amy is out well before my birthday.

  Tonight’s conversation hadn’t gone according to plan. As I was leaving, I couldn’t stop myself pushing once more.

  ‘You do know how I feel about you, don’t you?’ I asked.

  Her answer was fairly succinct. ‘Graham, I need some space to concentrate on me. I need to love me again before I can let anyone else love me.’

  I get it. I am just not very good at backing off.

  Friday 19th September

  The operation went as planned. Amy went in to the operating theatre with two eyes and came out with one. And the right one at that. I found this out from Imogen. In our phone conversation this evening, she once again suggested that I didn’t come to the hospital for a few days. This time I listened. Imogen’s advice wasn’t given in a harsh way though. Her exact words were, ‘Just give her a bit of space Graham. Once she has come to terms with her appearance, she will start noticing the things that are important to her again.’

  Let’s hope I am one of those things.

  Amy doesn’t want me seeing how she looks with one eye. From my point of view, I am sure the doctors will have done their best. I am getting my head around the idea. But it is easy for me. Not only does Amy have to get used to how she looks but she also has to get used to how other people will see her. I am determined to make her realise that she looks beautiful no matter what, but I am beginning to realise that it will take time.

  Sunday 21st September

  The boys are staying with me this weekend. It is Lucy’s birthday on Tuesday and mine on Friday, the night of the joint party.

  Jack has been panicking about what to get Lucy for her birthday. I have two boys and reckon there are few people in the world less qualified than me to answer questions about presents for fifteen-year-old girls. I therefore tried to get him to get some tips from his mother. His mother wasn’t prepared to play though, telling him, ‘Your dad is sleeping with her mother. Go and ask him.’ I am not surprised she is a bit bitter after her recent interview with Messrs Bodie and Doyle or whatever they were called.

  We ended up heading to Kingston in search of some inspiration this afternoon. Jack was up for the trip but Sean told me he would prefer to pull his toenails out with a pair of pliers. I had to bribe him with a promise of burgers and chocolate.

  The best idea for a present I could come up with, but admittedly not the most original, was make-up or perfume. We went in to one shop and the assistant offered to spray a few samples on the boys’ wrists to help Jack make his choice. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Sean said as he quickly backed out of the shop. I left with him, leaving Jack to fend for himself. Sean and I went in search of supplies for the party.

  I had written a shopping list before we came out. It read:

  Lager (approx. 20 over 18s – 150+ bottles)

  White wine (6 bottles and then 4 boxes. People can drink the bottles first and then when they are too pissed to care, they can drink the boxed stuff)

  Spirits – vodka for the ladies (2 bottles; no, 3, because Katie will drink one)

  Orange juice – 12 cartons, for the vodka

  Crisps – loads of assorted bags

  Plastic glasses – big enough for vodka and orange but not so big that Katie can drink a pint of it in one go

  Stain-remover for the inevitable spillages (note, Amy says no red wine because her shag pile is expensive)

  We were wandering around the supermarket ticking things off as we went. As we passed the fizzy drinks, Sean asked what the kids were going to drink. Good question. We chucked a few bottles of Coke in. And a big birthday cake. Sean scoffed at the cake (‘Lucy isn’t four, dad.’) but everyone loves a birthday cake, right?

  ‘What am I going to do at this party, dad?’ Sean asked as he was bundling more confectionary into the trolley.

  ‘I don’t know, eat loads of crap and drink Coke?’ I asked. I had thought about Sean’s participation myself too, particularly in light of the ground rules I had agreed with my ex. Sean won’t want to mix with Lucy and her friends. He would be more capable of it than me but he won’t want to do it. I wouldn’t want to expose him to the adults either.

  Even Jack has expressed a few reservations to me about the party. He might be as thick as thieves with Lucy but he is still socially awkward when it comes to girls in general. He is petrified of having to interact with Lucy’s mates. And the dancing thing bothers him too. He really is a chip off the old block.

  In the end I decided I would have to ask my ex to come and pick Sean up mid-way through the party, and possibly even Jack too if he feels he is standing out like a sore thumb. Both boys seemed happy enough with this proposal. I am not sure I should be giving my ex an excuse to be anywhere near the party but I actually feel quite relaxed about the situation. Amy’s battle with injury has helped me put petty squabbles with my ex into context. They are unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

  As we left the supermarket, I couldn’t help thinking we had forgotten something. I phoned Imogen once I had dropped the children off at my ex’s. She didn’t sound too impressed as I listed the supplies I had got in for the party. ‘Graham, leave the party planning to me,’ Imogen said.

  That was music to my ears.

  Music. I had forgotten all about the music.

  Tuesday 23rd September

  Today was a day of contrasts. On the one hand, Lucy celebrated her fifteenth birthday. She met Jack for a pizza after school and then her dad took her to the hospital to be with her mum.

  On the other hand, Mrs F, Dave’s mum, passed away in the night. I had thought about going round there today to call in on her but I was too late. Dave texted me this morning to give me the sad news. Dave and his dad were there when she died. She drifted off peacefully in her sleep. I feel for Dave. He will miss his mum. She suffered a bit towards the end so I bet he is relieved for her that her suffering is over.

  Since I got his text this morning I have been half expecting Dave to phone me. When I last saw her back in April, Mrs F implied that Dave would discover some news after her death that would surprise him. She thought he mi
ght need my support. I still haven’t got a clue what she was referring to but I am here for Dave. I texted him to tell him as much today.

  I hadn’t seen my mum and dad for a while until today. Because I had told them I was busy on my actual birthday (I hadn’t told them quite what I was doing), they invited me over for a pre-birthday tea.

  I walked to their house from work. As I stepped in through the front door and into the kitchen, something felt different. Physically the house hasn’t changed from when I had stayed there. The lamp in the hall was still plugged in to the faulty time switch which keeps it on all day and turns it off just as it gets dark. The fridge did its best to drown out conversation with its annoying hum and the bathroom door wouldn’t shut properly after Jack had kicked it a couple of months ago.

  Yet despite not changing, the house had somehow regained its charm. It felt like a home again rather than somewhere I had lodged while life went on around me. I have been back there a few times since I moved out, but it was only today that I really felt comfortable there again.

  My mum had cooked cauliflower cheese and gammon, one of my favourites. Before the meal we raised a glass to Mrs F. My parents knew her too when I was growing up and would probably put in an appearance at the funeral.

  After an appropriate pause for reflection, my parents turned their attention to me. ‘How’s life in your flat?’ my dad asked. As conversation starters go, that felt like a fairly innocuous start.

  ‘Oh, you know, I can come and go as I please.’

  ‘Yes, but are you doing much coming and going, son?’ he followed up.

  ‘Dad, I’m doing OK,’ I assured him. ‘It is nearly six months since my divorce. In that time the boys have regained their mojo and I am not a grumpy dad as often as I used to be, so they seem happier spending time with me. My new job is more interesting than my last, and I have got my own flat. That can’t be bad going in anyone’s book, can it?’ Counting my achievements off on my fingers like that felt pretty good to me. I glossed over the fitness-related objective though.

  ‘That’s great son, but are you happy?’ my dad countered. He was like Albus when he gets a bone. He wouldn’t drop it.

  And then my mum joined in. The tag team at it again. ‘And what about that woman you mentioned when you came to your father’s seventieth? When do we get to meet her?’

  I told my parents about Amy’s accident and her subsequent recovery. I even told them about Jack and Lucy. They knew about Lucy already but not about her connection with Amy. I thought they would have a field day about that bit of gossip but they didn’t. And I told them about mine and Amy’s current issues - Amy’s low self-esteem because of her damaged appearance and lost sight, my ex’s interference in our affairs because of her jealousy, or to put a positive spin on it, her concern for her boys’ upbringing, and my apparent inability to stop myself from saying the wrong thing.

  ‘Amy sounds like a lovely woman. You should make sure you sort your differences out with her,’ my mum advised. In that sentence, my mum moved on from fifteen years of showering my ex with praise to affirming her allegiance to Amy. That was the social worker in her kicking in, backing the injured victim. In this instance I didn’t mind in the least.

  But my mother hadn’t finished yet. ‘Tell us more about Amy,’ she suggested. ‘What does she do for a living?’

  ‘She writes articles about sex,’ I told my parents. I couldn’t resist it.

  ‘Does that mean she is good at it?’ my dad asked.

  Talking to my parents about Amy was therapeutic. If I can’t talk to Amy, and I still can’t at the moment because she is avoiding me, then the next best thing seems to be to talk to someone about Amy. The conversation made me realise yet again how important Amy has become to me. I have done pretty well in my quest to get a life but I won’t consider my mission accomplished until Amy and I are together again.

  Wednesday 24th September

  Amy’s mobile phone was smashed to pieces in the accident. As a consequence, I haven’t been able to talk directly to her when I haven’t been at the hospital. Most of my communication with Amy over the past six days has been third hand, via her mother. Tonight, Imogen phoned me from the hospital and passed the phone over to Amy. We exchanged pleasantries and then Amy gave me the bad news.

  ‘They aren’t sure I will be out of here by Friday night.’

  ‘Why not? Everything is OK, isn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, everything is fine, but the doctors are still concerned by the headaches.’

  Up until this point it was odds on that Amy would be let out in time for the party. Imogen has even bought a huge ‘welcome home’ banner and Jack and Lucy helped her put it up over the weekend in case Amy came home without much notice. The news that she won’t be home is gutting, for me but also for Amy. She will miss her daughter’s party (I expect that’s how she thinks of it). To be frank, it won’t be much of a party without Amy.

  ‘I want to come and see you,’ I said, almost pleadingly.

  ‘Not yet, Graham,’ Amy resisted, ‘perhaps come at the weekend and tell me how the party went.’ Well, that’s something I suppose.

  ‘Sergeant Atkinson has just been in to see me,” she continued. “They have caught the driver who knocked me down.’ Now this was really news. A small part of me tensed up as she talked. Was I about to hear something that would turn my world upside down again? Was she about to tell me that my ex had tried to kill her as part of some mad scheme to win me back or protect her children? Surely not.

  It wasn’t her. It was officially an accident rather than anything premeditated. Obviously I never thought for a minute that it was my ex.

  Instead, it was just some woman with a bunch of misbehaving kids in the back of her car. She wasn’t drunk, just distracted by a fight between her offspring. The woman handed herself in at Tooting police station this morning. She took her eyes off the road for a moment to shout at her children and that was all it took.

  She should have stopped to do whatever she could do for Amy but I can understand her innate desire to protect her family unit. I haven’t got the energy to stay angry at her. But that doesn’t mean that I have forgiven her either. When I asked Amy how she felt, all she would say was, ‘It probably could’ve happened to anyone but she left me bleeding on that road. Don’t expect me to send the bitch a Christmas card.’

  As soon as I had got off the phone from Amy, I phoned my ex. ‘Helen, I can officially tell you that you are no longer a suspect in the investigation of the attempted murder of my Amy,’ I told her.

  ‘I should hope not too,’ Helen said.

  Helen is my ex. At the start of this diary I didn’t want to name her because the diary was about me. It wasn’t to be about her. That was the excuse I gave anyway. Looking back on it now, I think I was trying to turn my ex in to a non-person. Someone who didn’t have a personality, who didn’t even have a name. It suited me at the time to think of her as all bad, as someone at fault, someone to ridicule even.

  The truth, of course, is less black and white. Helen has got a personality. She is in fact similar to me in a number of ways. She has her strengths and she has her weaknesses. As I have demonstrated over the course of this diary, so have I. We all have our faults. One of mine and Helen’s faults was that we weren’t very tolerant of each other. We took our time to discover that fact, and when we did discover it, we found we couldn’t change. We got divorced. That is the simple truth.

  I now feel confident enough in myself to admit that Helen isn’t just a thing. She was an important part of my life for fifteen years and, as the mother of our children, she will continue to be important.

  Being able to acknowledge Helen as a person again and not just as ‘my ex’ is probably an important step in the process of moving on in my life. Without overdoing it, I do feel liberated now that I have brought myself to share her name in this memoir. Will this mark a stage in our lives when I am not studying Facebook the next time my boys tell me there was a strang
e man in the house? Well, only time will tell I suppose.

  Helen agreed to pick Sean up from the party on Friday night, and possibly even Jack too depending upon how he is finding it. With Amy not being there now, part of me feels that she might as well pick me up and drop me back at my flat too. This party could turn out to be a real damp squib.

  Saturday 27th September

  My forty-third birthday party has come and gone. Some people will remember it forever, some will want to forget it and others woke up this morning not being able to remember what they got up to last night. Needless to say, Katie is in the latter category.

  When my alarm clock woke me up yesterday morning, I wanted to turn it off and go back to sleep. I can’t remember ever having woken up on my own on my birthday before. In the last few years I have had my boys jumping on my bed thrusting presents at me within two minutes of the alarm going off. Not today, though.

  I forced myself to shower and get dressed because I had agreed to help Imogen clean and prepare Amy’s house for the party. The domestic help must have been given the day off again.

  As I drove through Raynes Park and up to the Ridgeway, I couldn’t bring myself to get excited about the events to come. This wasn’t shaping up to be the party to end all parties. When I set out to sort my life out in six months, I had imagined that my birthday party would be a triumphant occasion at which my hordes of new friends would come together to celebrate my spectacular achievements and to toast my new-found conviviality.

  Instead, it was looking like I would be playing second fiddle to a teenage girl, gate-crashing her birthday party, held at her mother’s house while her mother avoids me in hospital. Woo-hoo.

  Imogen was there waiting when I pulled the car on to Amy’s drive. She gave me a birthday kiss on the cheek. When I didn’t respond with a broad grin and a witty remark, she immediately got the measure of me.