The State of Me

by Nasim Marie Jafry

  There are lots of Irish accents, Ivan’s mum’s side over from Dublin. Everyone assumes I’m his girlfriend. (I held his hand during the whole service and wept with him when her coffin disappeared.) I overhear an old woman, her twisting mouth full of sandwich, telling another old woman, her face marbled with lilac broken veins, that ‘Liam’s schizophrenic but he’s well read’.

  Later, Nab and Rita ask if I’m going back with them, but Ivan wants me to stay.

  Are you sure? I say – I don’t want to intrude on your dad’s grief.

  I want you with me tonight, he replies.

  For seven nights, Ivan’s dad has slept alone. I wonder now if he’s lying awake, touching the empty sheet beside him with a flattened hand, wondering stupidly and pointlessly why his wife isn’t there.

  Across the landing, Ivan and I make love, soundlessly, and I am happy, inside his sadness.

  I keep asking him if he’s okay. He says he is. He has no mother now, but there are things to be done, things to sort out.

  Everything’s accelerated.

  Ivan’s gone back to San Francisco ‘til October to finish his contract. Then he’s coming back. He says California’s lala land, he’s tired of it. He applied for a post at Dundee Uni when he was home, he got his application in just before the deadline. They’re doing lots of Alzheimer’s research there. He’s in with a good chance.

  I’m moving into his flat, Wendy and the other girl are moving out. Rez will be glad to be rid of me. I don’t blame him. He can be all cosy with his girlfriend now.

  I don’t know if Ivan and I are really back together, but I don’t want to question him too much, he wants me in his flat and that is enough. Maybe he’s just being sentimental – he won’t know what he wants ‘til his mother’s sunk in.

  I so much want to help him. I have a second-hand book on grief from my counselling course, but I never actually used it. The previous owner had highlighted sections in pink, but they make no sense.

  I can’t read someone else’s highlights.

  31

  Fizza and a Swollen Eye

  WHEN I MOVE into Ivan’s, the fridge light isn’t working. I replace the bulb and feel manly, and proficient in DIY. The fridge reminds me of Fabio, our first conversation. I’ve been meaning to phone him – I don’t know if he knows from Wendy that I’m moving back with Ivan. When I was moving in, she was still moving out. We were polite and walked around each other like traffic islands.

  After three years of tenants, the flat is shabby. I wonder if Ivan’ll want to decorate and imagine us going to Habitat together. His mother helped him gloss the hall. Sometimes I shudder and feel she’s watching me. I get up to pee during the night, and run through and run back, scared shell be in the mirror when I look.

  I’m woken by journals thudding through the door, redirected from San Francisco. Ivan gets more post than me and he doesn’t even live here yet.

  He’ll be home in a week. He’ll have two weeks before he starts the job in Dundee.

  I’m counting the days.

  Rita’s been giving me the same advice she gave me seven years ago when he came home from India – Don’t put all your eggs in one basket! – and as I mark his new job on my Egon Schiele calendar, I realise that nothing has really changed.

  I don’t sleep the night before, I’m far too excited. He’s due at four. I’ve made bolognese sauce and bought a single pink gerbera. I’ve put it in a glass in the living room.

  I’m brushing my teeth when I hear a black cab pull up. I look outside. Ivan is paying. He has two suitcases and a rucksack and his guitar. He looks forlorn.

  My legs are shaking. I spit out the toothpaste and rush out to meet him.

  We hug for a long time. He has a stale smell from travelling.

  I didn’t realise how much I’ve missed you, he says, pressing me to him.

  I take his guitar from him. I try to pick his rucksack up too.

  That’s too heavy for you, he says, leave it.

  You’re worth it, I say.

  Leave it. I’ll come back for it.

  When we get inside, he kisses me and tells me I have toothpaste on my face.

  I’ve noticed changes I didn’t notice before. He has American intonation. He says ‘garbage’and ‘backpack’ – without irony – and ‘yeah, right!’ all the time. He doesn’t leave the toilet seat up anymore. I think his American girlfriend(s) must’ve rubbed off on him. Jana says American men don’t leave the toilet seat up as much as European men. They’re too polite.

  He is so busy, he has so much to do. I try to stay in the background, let him settle down – but when he says one night that American women are demanding and talk in baby voices and want to be put on a pedestal, I ask, Are there going to be any turning up heartbroken on the doorstep?

  Of course not, he says. There was a woman at Stanford, it was intense, but it’s been over for months – since before Jana’s wedding. You know that.

  That’s why you sounded sad on the phone on the day of Jana’s wedding – I thought it was because you missed me, but it was because of that woman.

  Let’s not analyse, he says.

  I’m sorry.

  Let’s just be.

  I’ll try.

  I bite my tongue and try to get off the subject, but I have to say my piece: If this awful thing hadn’t happened with your mother, you wouldn’t have come home, Ivan, I’m sure of it – it’s only because of her that you’re here.

  Everything’s because of something, he says, if you think about it.

  But I’m afraid that I’m just a by-product of what happened.

  You’re not a by-product.

  How can you be sure?

  Let’s just be, he says again. You and me.

  But there are practicalities to sort out: I can’t stay on sickness benefit if we are going to be properly living together. I’ll wait ‘til New Year to broach this, I don’t want to assume too much. Maybe I’ll end up in the spare room, applying for rent again.

  We have sex a lot. I am terrified of getting pregnant. I worry when he’s putting the condom on, because he is so short-sighted: I have to check it and re-check it or put it on myself.

  One Thursday, Fizza came to visit. She’d had to cancel the last time.

  Her dad brought her – he was coming back for her in an hour. She was wearing lipstick, but I knew how weak her legs had been when she’d been in front of the mirror applying it.

  Lie down, I said, if you’re too tired to sit up.

  The sofa swallowed her up.

  You’re so lucky to have all this, she said. There’s no way I’d be well enough to live with someone.

  I know, I said, I am lucky.

  I hate still being at my parents.

  It must be hard, I said. I hate it when I’m forced to go back to my mum and Nab’s for spells. You just sink back into invalid mode.

  But you’ve got Ivan now, she said.

  Well, things are still very new with us. I don’t know what’s going to happen.

  Is he coming back this weekend?

  Yeah, he’s been coming back on Fridays.

  She sighed. In my community, I’m the strange unmarried girl with the weird illness.

  You’re only thirty-two! I said. You’ve still got time to meet someone.

  It’s not as simple as that.

  Can I cheer you up with some chocolate gateau?

  She smiled.

  I brought the tea and cake through on a tray (I’d laid it out already).

  Does that not kill your arms? she asked.

  They’re trembling, I said.

  She sat up. It’s really good to see you. I’ve been looking forward to this for ages.

  Me too, I said.

  These are lovely mugs. They’re very delicate.

  They’re china, I said, I got them in a sale. The others were old and chipped.

  I wish I could be doing simple things like that, she said, buying mugs for my flat.

  Did I put enough s
ugar in your tea?

  It’s perfect.

  I’m crap at making tea for others, I said, I make it too weak and never know how much milk and sugar to put in. I’ve never taken sugar.

  Even when you were wee?

  I stopped when I was ten, I thought it was grown up not to have sugar.

  She laughed. So are you still doing your voluntary work?

  Only three hours a week. I was doing six hours but it was too much, so I cut it down to two, then three.

  At least you’re doing something, she said.

  It shapes my week, I said, but it’s a struggle sometimes.

  Don’t you get lonely, though, the days you’re on your own?

  Sometimes I get weary if I haven’t seen anyone for a few days.

  I couldn’t handle a whole day on my own, she said.

  My ideal is to have an event or a task every other day – one day on, one day off – even if it’s just going out to buy shampoo or have a cup of coffee.

  I don’t think it’s good to be too much on your own, said Fizza. You go crazy.

  When I was really ill, I used to force myself to go downstairs just to have the comfort of people around me, but I felt as if I was dying and had to go back upstairs after five minutes.

  I’m still like that, she said. I remember when I was really ill I couldn’t even bear the posters in my room, they were too much for my head, and my mum had to take them down.

  That’s awful, I said.

  Sometimes, I still can’t believe that I’ve got this illness, even after all these years it can still shock me.

  I know what you mean, I said.

  I honestly can’t remember what it feels like to be normal.

  I can remember doing normal things, I said, but I can’t remember what being well feels like.

  Do you think they’ll ever get to the bottom of it?

  Not unless they get more money for research, I said. Someone really important has to get it, then maybe they’ll take it more seriously. All the world leaders. All the doctors. All the politicians.

  The world would descend into chaos, said Fizza. They’d have to find a cure!

  Until then all we’ve got is these fucking psychiatrists with their cognitive behavioural therapy and graded exercise.

  They’re evil, said Fizza. Making people more ill, forcing them to exercise. It’s like a witch-hunt – they ‘re the ones that need psychiatrists. Why can’t they just leave us alone?

  Did you see that article in the Glasgow Herald last week by the journalist who diagnosed herself? She’s married now and plays tennis and reviews holiday destinations.

  I saw it, said Fizza.

  It pisses me off when people claim they had ME, but now they’re fine and they can go on safaris.

  I’m sure she did have some post-viral thing for a few months, said Fizza, but to say it was ME is irresponsible. She says she hid it from her friends and family, but how could you possibly hide this illness from anyone?

  People with genuine ME don’t make her kind of recovery.

  But now people will have read her article and think: So that’s what ME is like.

  Exactly, I said. More misinformation.

  Fizza looked suddenly grey.

  Are you okay? I asked.

  It’s just my head, it’s all the talking. My dad should be here soon.

  There’s still tons I can’t do, I said, trying to make her feel better. I missed Jana’s wedding. I was too ill to travel.

  I know.

  That reminds me, d’you want to see the photos or are you too tired?

  I can look at them.

  I dug them out and sat beside her. I handed her the photos, one by one. Her hands were shaking as she took them.

  Your poor hands, I said.

  They always shake, said Fizza. Jana’s gorgeous. She hasn’t changed.

  Do you remember her from all those years ago?

  Yeah, she visited you in hospital a few times. God, I’d love to go to San Francisco.

  It’s beautiful, I said. I fantasise that Ivan and I will go there for our honeymoon.

  Do you think Ivan would marry you?!

  I don’t know, I said. I still can’t believe I am enough for him.

  He wouldn’t get your hopes up again, would he?

  Not deliberately, but he must be all over the place after his mum and moving back here so suddenly.

  I hope I’m well enough for your wedding, she said.

  I hope I’m well enough for my wedding, I said.

  We’ll both be well, she said. Inshallah.

  When Fizza had gone, I wept for her. I knew she’d never lived in a flat or even had a boyfriend.

  We spent Christmas in Dundee with Ivan’s dad. It was my first Christmas away from Rita and Nab. On the way up, we got a real tree.

  Ivan scratched his cornea while he was underneath the tree on Christmas Eve, peering at the gift labels without his glasses on. His eye swelled up; he looked injured and I loved him even more. He had to go to Casualty for a tetanus and antibiotics.

  At bedtime, I kissed his swollen eye.

  By Christmas Day, he looked like the Elephant Man.

  Are you still able to cook the turkey? I asked.

  You only need one eye to cook a turkey, he replied.

  I’d never cooked one before, it seemed complicated and scary. Ivan said he was a dab-hand after spending three Thanksgivings in California.

  Someone must’ve shown you, I said – all those women you ate yams and turkey with.

  You have to keep basting, he said. Every twenty minutes. As long as you baste, you can’t go wrong.

  I’m sure, I said.

  The innuendo was lost on him, he wasn’t really listening.

  When the turkey had cooked and cooled, I started carving it without asking him – I had no idea what I was doing.

  You’re destroying my turkey! he said when he found me. You’re supposed to do the legs and wings first – go and put the crackers out or something!

  His dad smiled when I told him what I’d done. I think he appreciated me being there. Your son’s merciless in the kitchen, I said. I went into the dining room and finished laying the table. We’d bought luxury crackers, gold and white crepe. I’d been dreading the forced merriment and the space where his mother should have been, but it was fine. His dad seemed more gentle than before.

  On Boxing Day, we visited the spot by the river where they’d scattered her ashes. Ivan had joked that we should take tinsel. I knew he was just trying to be brave. On the way back, he said he was thinking about going skiing with Rez in March. You don’t mind, do you? Of course not, I said, of course you should go, but already I was fretting about the gorgeous women with lip salve and navy skiing pants.

  32

  The Silvery Tay

  I SQUEEZE THE washing-up liquid bottle, it coughs like a dog. Nothing comes out. That will be today’s jaunt, going out to buy more.

  We had a big talk in January – since we are living together properly as a couple, I’ve had to come off sickness benefit. We now have a joint account. It feels so strange. I joke with him that I’ll spend all his money on toiletries.

  When Ivan was skiing, I found out that Amber was pregnant. I was glad she couldn’t see my face. I told her it was lovely news and congratulated her. Rita told me later that Amber’d been worried about telling me in case I got upset. I was pleased for them, but it felt odd.

  I was glad Ivan was away.

  I sat up late waiting for a French film, but it wasn’t showing on BBC Scotland. Instead we got curling championships with big grunting women. It was midnight, but I didn’t want to go to bed. I turned over and watched a repeat documentary about a woman who’d survived a plane crash in Chile when she was a child. She’d been asleep and woken up to find herself spinning to the ground like a sycamore leaf, still strapped into her seat. When she’d regained consciousness, she’d seen a row of seats sticking out of the mud and recognised her mother’s feet.


  I went to bed thinking of the girl spinning to the ground, but something else was niggling: I knew it would be hard for me to actually see Amber S-shaped and pregnant. We were supposed to be visiting them at Easter in their new house in Cambridge. I wondered if she’d be showing after four months.

  Ivan was restless when he got back from skiing. How d’you feel about moving to Dundee? he said, a few days after his return.

  Dundee?! Are you serious?

  I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I can’t keep commuting and staying with my dad for the next three years. You and I hardly see each other. The sooner we do it the better.

  Sounds like you’ve already decided, I said.

  It just makes sense. We should move in summer, it’s less bleak.

  Will you sell this place?

  Probably, he said. Or rent it out. Stop making that face.

  Sorry.

  Dundee’s not that bad. There are some beautiful houses by the Tay. I’ve been to see one.

  You’ve been house hunting already?!

  Just browsing.

  I don’t really have a choice, do I?

  I guess not, babe.

  I’m not ecstatic about it, I said, but of course I’ll move.

  You can find interesting voluntary work there, I’m sure.

  Will we have to cancel Cambridge?

  Why would we?

  Seems a lot to do when we’re moving house.

  We’re not moving tomorrow. We’ll start looking properly after Easter.

  Can we have a garden?

  Definitely.

  A cat?

  Don’t get your hopes up, I think I’m still allergic.

  I sighed. Amber’s pregnant, by the way.

  You’re going to be an auntie.

  Yup.

  That’s nice.

  You’ll be an uncle – if you want to be, that is.

  So I will.