So is anyone in San Francisco burning books? Rita thinks Salman should have known better than to offend a whole faith and culture, but I feel a bit sorry for him and wonder if having a fatwa is worse than having ME.
Well, ‘baffled one’ that is my news. Get your flashy new job to send you to Europe so you can visit me!
Lots of love,
Helen
Can’t sleep. I keep worrying about my family being wiped out. I’d have to sell the house and live in a caravan, on sickness benefit. I’m like a Victorian woman, I need to find a lovely man to look after me, or be supported by my family forever.
19
Bees and Vitamin C
I’D NEVER BEEN in a private clinic. The doctor in charge was from Denmark. (Call me Helga, please!) She claimed to have made a full recovery from the mystery illness, although she still couldn’t ski. Nab chatted to her in Danish. The other staff were serene and blonde and wore trendy white overalls. It was like being in some kind of Scandinavian heaven: New Age music ebbing and flowing, everything calm and white.
Helga was going to test my food allergies and design a special diet for me.
You got an infusion of twenty grams of vitamin C on alternate days over two weeks. One infusion was equivalent to two hundred oranges.
And a magnesium infusion for the muscle pain. (No skimping here.)
You were hooked up to the vitamin C drip for about an hour and a half with people on either side of you, also hooked up. The nice blonde people brought you tea and Cosmo and Vogue.
The woman sitting next to me was a Christian. She told me how God had been a shining light throughout her illness. I told her how sore my legs were.
At the end of the fortnight, Helga told me I was allergic to everything except black tea, potatoes and lamb. (I’d given up coffee and alcohol almost completely in the first year of being ill. A sip of either and my muscles burned.) She wanted me to cut out yeast and sugar (not that old chestnut! – you couldn’t open a magazine these days without reading about candida and ME), and she prescribed nystatin, an antifungal agent that tasted like rat poison. I was to go back in a month to be reviewed by the blonde angels.
Verdict on infusions: I got a whoosh of energy in my legs while I was hooked up, but don’t tell Helga that I never stuck to the diet!
I also got some handy hints on vitamin C.
Cats (unlike humans) make their own vitamin C – Agnes obviously wasn’t making enough.
Always buy vitamin C that contains bioflavonoids to help with the absorption.
And remember, large doses of vitamin C turn your urine bright yellow and your shit black.
I have to get back to university this autumn. I have five months to rest, rest, rest. Ivan’s coming for dinner tonight. He was sceptical about the drips at first but is really happy they’ve helped. I think I’ll get dressed up. Last night, I dreamt that I strangled myself with pink velvet ribbon.
Nab and I were watching a documentary about polar bears. They can smell baby seals from a mile away. In springtime, they sneak up on them and kill them.
The tension was unbearable. They kept cutting from the bear to the baby seal: the seal was clueless and minding its own business, you knew it was going to be swiped by the polar bear any minute. I covered my eyes. I just couldn’t watch the blur of mauling and skin and blood.
How can the camera crew stand by and let it happen? I said. It’s brutal to let that wee thing be murdered.
You’re too emotional, said Nab. It’s not, after all, as if it wouldn’t happen if they weren’t there. It’s going to happen anyway. The camera people are like war photographers. They’re waiting for it to happen, not making it happen.
Well, I can’t watch, I said.
Arctic foxes also kill the baby seals.
Nab, don’t tell me these things!
It’s just nature – no seal, no meal.
I’m away to make Mum some tea. D’you want some?
No, thank you. The polar bears are not really evil, Helen. You must not judge them.
They are evil, I shouted through, gushing the kitchen tap on so I wouldn’t hear his reply.
Rita’d slipped her disc, lifting a big plant pot. She’d been in bed for nearly a week. Nab and I were just about holding the fort, but with our combined energies we couldn’t do nearly as good a job as Rita – the house had a forlorn air about it as if someone had gone away for a long time. I’d caught her in her dressing gown the day before stirring the bolognese and wincing. Mum, you have to go back to bed – I can manage! I’d said. I wanted to look after her perfectly and be a bustling, efficient nurse but there was no one to help in the mornings when Nab was at work and I was still sleeping. She said I was doing a great job. Not really, I said – what kind of nurse is in bed as much as the patient? A nurse with very short shifts, she replied.
I took the tea into her and sat on the side of the bed. What are you reading?
Computers and Libraries.
Sounds boring.
It is. What are you and Nab doing?
Watching a documentary about polar bears. They’re so cute when they’re babies, and then they grow up to be big bastards.
Just like children, she said.
I can’t watch, it’s too violent.
I bet Nab’s enjoying the scenery.
He is—but he’s being a bit crabby.
Poor Nab, she said.
He was ten years older and I think she was beginning to feel the age gap.
He’s tired, she said, he was ironing ‘til after eleven last night. I told him only to do his work shirts but he did all my clothes too.
I know, I said, he’s a star.
He’s a New Man, she said.
The only New Man in this family.
That’s not fair, she said. Sean tries. He’s under a lot of pressure just now.
My brother had come home at the weekend with his laundry and we’d argued because he’d been hogging the washing machine (he’d been using Nellie’s before), and I didn’t think he was concerned enough about Rita. All he’d done was mope. It’d been five months since Nellie had dumped him, but he’d bumped into her in Byres Road with her new boyfriend. Why don’t you make yourself useful and get your arse down to the supermarket? I’d said. Nab and I are knackered. I’m knackered too, he said. He’d made a face and snatched the shopping list I’d given him. At least you’ve got no studying, he shouted on his way out – you don’t have to write a thesis on the impact of introversion-extraversion on a job interview! He’d been gone for ages and come back without the stock cubes. I’d begged him to go back and get them. We’d shielded Rita from the whole drama and he’d taken her roast chicken and new potatoes on a tray, lovingly prepared by her children, with a single tulip on the side.
Richard and Clare were having a cheese and wine. I hadn’t seen Richard for ages. It was mostly going to be her friends. I’d asked if I could bring Callum, but she’d said no, the numbers were high enough and he wasn’t officially my boyfriend. I was excited to be going to a social event and fantasised that I would meet a new shiny knight. Instead, I met Clare’s new trainee, a big dollop of a girl, who told me with the conviction of a consultant neurologist that you could cure yourself of ME by drinking your own urine (pronounced yoor-ine). She also told me that my skin looked like it needed re-hydrated. Come into the salon, she said, I can give you a half-price facial.
Why has Clare taken that awful girl on? I asked Richard in the kitchen.
He rolled his eyes. She’s her mum’s cousin’s daughter and she failed all her exams, he said. She needed a chance, but Clare’s ready to stab her after two weeks.
No fucking wonder, I mouthed.
He smiled back and there was flirting in his eyes. I could’ve kissed him.
How’s married life? I asked. Are you happy?
Sort of, he said.
Sort of?
Is anyone really ever happy? he said.
Clare’s trainee is. She seems to think the wor
ld’s her oyster.
It’s good to see you, he said.
It’s good to see you too.
With the wine warming my head, I wished I’d just married Richard. I would be safe – there could be worse things than living in a bungalow with top-quality carpeting and Ercol chairs.
Can you drink now? he said.
Not really – I’ll feel crap tomorrow, even after half a glass, but it’s nice to have a wee buzz, I said.
I don’t think it’s a good idea, said Rita.
We were lying in the garden on a beautiful July day. A bee was stuffing its head into a flower – occasionally the breeze would cause the flower to sway, and the bee would cling on, fastened in like it was on a fairground ride.
It’s perfect, Mum, I said. I can stay in Rez’s boxroom rent-free, and Ivan’ll be there if I’m ill, and he can help me with my groceries. The flat’s on the first floor, right on Gibson Street – three minutes’ walk to my class. I couldn’t have a better set-up!
I’m just afraid you’ll end up getting hurt. You think you’ve armoured yourself against Ivan hurting you but you haven’t. What if he brings a girlfriend back to the flat?
He wouldn’t do that, he’s not insensitive. And what if I bring someone back? It works both ways.
You’re still in love with him, it’s obvious.
I’m not! It’s over two years since we split up – I love him as a friend, that’s all. Anyway, how could I not love him? Everyone loves Ivan. He’s great.
Two years is nothing, she said, frowning.
I don’t have the luxury of choosing who I live with, Mum. Who wants a flatmate with ME? I need people who understand.
Can you definitely stay on sickness benefit if you go back?
Yup. I’m only doing two lectures a week and one tutorial a fortnight. I just need to keep sending in my six-monthly sick notes.
Myra shouldn’t have a problem with that.
No…they really are busy, aren’t they?
Who are?
Bumble bees – they’re so focused on what they’re doing but so relaxed at the same time.
They’re much less aggressive than honey bees, she said – they’d sting you as quick as look at you.
I think the phone’s ringing, I said.
The sun’s too gorgeous to answer.
Just leave it then.
It might be important, she said.
It’s probably just Granny. D’you want me to go?
No, I’ll get it, she said.
Don’t run, you might trip in your flip-flops.
She was gone for a while and came back out with a jug of orange juice.
Who was it? I asked.
Finn looking for his father.
He was on for a long time, I said, cursing myself for not answering.
He wanted advice about the engineering company he’s applying to in Saudi.
Did he not want to speak to me?
Afraid not.
Did he even ask for me?
No.
See if I care, I said, trying to be bolshie. I was embarrassed by the sudden lump in my throat.
He seemed a bit agitated, she said.
I didn’t think he was serious about Saudi, I said. He seems a bit flighty, always changing his mind about his career. He reminds me of Ivan in that respect.
Maybe, she said.
He shouldn’t be going to Saudi anyway. They behead people there.
I think he wants to get as far away from Denmark as possible, get over his broken heart.
I watched the bee – suspended over the gladioli, undecided where to go next – and wished I hadn’t sent Finn the luxury photo-card of Loch Lomond to remind him of his visit. I poured some orange juice, and too many ice cubes tumbled into the glass. I fished them out and threw them on the grass, cursing myself again for not being the one to answer the phone. The bee hovered around the jug and tried to land on the rim. I brushed it away. It persisted for a bit before flying off and poking itself into another flower.
20
Wendy and Storm
CAN’T WAIT! MOVING in with Ivan and Rez at the weekend. Rez’s flat is lovely, all magnolia, and cream carpets. I’ll have a couple of weeks to settle in before term starts. I’ve decided on social anthropology. I’ve got the reading list already and have bought Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande. The Azande are so cheeky – they believe that certain people have witchcraft in them and they send you a chicken wing if they suspect you. I can think of a few people who should get one: Granny Fleet would be first in line.
On 9th October 1989, I matriculated again. I was twenty-six. It was like my first day at school. I laid out all my clothes the night before.
Ivan had lain beside me on top of the quilt in our strange limbo, platonic way – I didn’t even know if I fancied him anymore. I’d kicked him out for breathing too heavily. The bed’s too small, I said, and I have to sleep. He’d got up and kissed my forehead, Enjoy your first day back.
I had diarrhoea when I woke and could hardly eat.
I waited until late afternoon to matriculate so that the queues had gone down. After enrolling, I went to the union and got my diary. I was ecstatic not to need my sickness benefit book for ID anymore: I was a student again (albeit a student with a secret, a student with a pension book)!
My first lecture was the next day. It didn’t start ‘til two, so I could sleep ‘til noon. I took ages getting ready. I had a new navy beret and spent twenty minutes getting it to sit at the right angle.
Anthropology was on the eight floor of the Social Sciences Department. I wondered what I’d do if the lifts were ever broken. Most of the class were just out of school, seventeen, eighteen. A lot of the girls were wearing jeans and short black military-style jackets. They’d already made friends, bonded at Freshers’ Week, getting pissed and throwing up in the union, crying mascara down their faces. You could spot the mature students a mile away – they were old and had anoraks or flowery skirts. I was trendy with my beret and baby Doc Martens (I loved them, they made my legs feel supported) but I felt like I didn’t belong: I wasn’t a new student and I wasn’t a mature student. I was a recently released hostage trying to get back to normal. I scanned the lecture theatre for nice men but there were none.
The lecturer appeared and apologised for being ‘bunged up’. He said he’d had a severe sinus infection and was on his third course of antibiotics. He still had his bicycle clips on. I wanted to tell him he shouldn’t be cycling in his state unless he wanted weak legs for the rest of his life. He said he’d keep things short and sketched out the year’s coursework. I was disappointed, I’d wanted a proper lecture – I was dying to take notes in my new pad with my deluxe rollerball felt pen. I thought of my first day at secondary school when I’d been gutted ‘cos we got no homework, just a tour of the buildings.
A short guy in his late thirties came in, unfazed by the attention latecomers get. He looked like a male version of Lulu and was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a denim jacket and a red and white Palestinian scarf. He sat beside me and smiled. I smiled back. He stank of smoke and his roots were showing.
By the end of the lecture my head was numb, my neck caned. See you next time, said Lulu. Yeah, I said, grateful for the camaraderie. He shot his hand out. I’m Mo, by the way.
I love having the place to myself. Rez is hardly here and when he is he’s knackered with bloodshot eyes (he’s a senior houseman, about to specialise in paediatrics). I love the thick carpets and central heating. Jana and I only had a gas fire in the living room when we were students. I feel so safe. I want to stay here forever. Me and Ivan and Rez. All I need is a cat – and the boys to put the toilet seat down – and things would be perfect.
My wee sister had a beret like that for school, said Ivan. We were slumped on the sofa, my leg flung over his. Does it make you sad to see it? I said.
Not really, he said. Can I try it on?
No, you’ll stretch it.
You suit it, he said
.
I think I look better with a hat than without one. It would be good if you were born with a hat.
As long as it wasn’t a bowler hat. Are you hungry?
Don’t know, I said. I’m too tired to know.
Will we get an Indian?
If you want, I’m skint though.
I’ll get it.
Are you sure?
Yup.
I’ll make spaghetti tomorrow, I said. Rez should be here.
Would be good to eat with him, said Ivan.
That nurse he’s seeing left a toothbrush in the bathroom. It’s got a peanut skin in the bristles. It makes me feel sick.
Run it under the tap then.
I can’t, I said. I’ll throw up.
Can we eat late tomorrow? I’m going swimming after work.
If you want, I said.
Why don’t you come to the pool?
Nah, I’ll need my energy for cooking.
You don’t have to swim, he said, you can just float. Wendy might come.
Who’s Wendy?
Girl in my lab. She’s depressed, her boyfriend’s gone to London.
Why?
Research post in colo-rectal cancer.
Lovely.
Move your leg, he said, I’m going to get the food.
Maybe we could just lie on our stomachs instead.
What are you on about?
Sean had a flatmate who lay on his stomach when he was hungry and his grant had run out.
I think I’d rather have a chicken korma, said Ivan.
I wake up feeling as if I’ve been rolled up in a heavy blanket and can’t move my limbs: my punishment for swimming three lengths yesterday.
Wendy is plain (I am thrilled), but she has delineated calf muscles, and sliced up and down the pool in her Speedo costume and goggles while I stayed at the shallow end, hooking my ankles to the side, stretching my legs and floating. Ivan kept coming up to me and peering, Is that you? (he won’t wear his contacts in the pool, he lost one before). You’re like Helen Keller, I said. Why aren’t you wearing your glasses?
The State of Me Page 18
