But what they can’t teach you is how to care. My heart can’t go to the gym. It’s broken.
*
When I’m dressed I call out for my father. Dad was the first person I saw in the ward when I’d regained consciousness.
‘How are we going to tell her?’ he’d said.
I wasn’t able to turn to see the person he was talking to because there was something hard against my back, stiff like a brace, but I was sure it was Mum by my side. ‘What’s wrong?’ I cried out. I can remember desperately trying to move my feet. ‘I can’t move!’
Mum was stroking my hair and I felt terrified by the gentleness of her touch and what it was trying to tell me.
I wheel myself to the top of the stairs where my father is waiting for me. ‘Good girl,’ he says as he bends down, a hand leaning on my armrest. ‘Are you ready?’ Carefully he lifts me out of my chair and carries me downstairs, saying, ‘It’s going to get better, Cass. I promise.’
I wish I’d died that morning.
2
Dad reaches the bottom of the stairs and Jamie emerges from the kitchen saying he’ll bring the wheelchair down. He must have been out because he’s still in his jacket.
When I’m finally positioned at the kitchen table Dad retreats into his study. He’s an architect and has worked from home since I was nine years old. Before Mum and Dad married they had talked about children, making an agreement that they wanted no more than two and one of them had to look after the family, not hire a nanny or au pair. Looking back, I can see why now. Both Mum and Dad don’t get on with their parents. Mum says they feel this deep void; neither of them was nurtured or encouraged, even loved. ‘They were strangers to me, they still are,’ Mum says. So, when I was born, Mum was the full-time stay-at-home mum.
When I was five, and Jamie was still in his highchair, Mum explained to us, over tea, that Dad was taking on her role. Jamie was too young to understand, but I was worried. Dad couldn’t cook. That same year, Mum launched herself into the property business dealing in lettings. I’ve seen her website. Mum sits on top of the office tree, shoulder-length blonde hair professionally washed and blow-dried, and she’s wearing a figure-hugging grey jersey dress, scarlet lipstick, bronzed cheeks and a beaming smile. Underneath are all her minions in smaller boxes.
‘All right?’ Jamie asks in his deep rumbling voice.
‘Fine.’
‘I went to the post office, bought those for you.’ He gestures to a white plastic bag in the middle of the table. Inside are a couple of glossy magazines, pictures of Hollywood actresses with pearl white teeth gracing the front.
Jamie looks tired, as if he didn’t sleep last night. ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘While you’re up, make me a coffee, will you?’
‘Yeah, yeah, sure.’ He puts the kettle on. The sound of Mum’s Hoover coming from next door in the sitting room is like that of an aeroplane’s engine at high pitch just before it takes off. I find myself smiling, remembering how I used to turn the Hoover on when I was much younger just so I could shout, ‘Bugger!’ and ‘Fuck!’ without Mum or Dad hearing me.
‘She’s always cleaning, isn’t she?’ claims Jamie. ‘While you were in the hospital –’ he rubs his eyes, and for a moment he looks much younger than nineteen – ‘oh my God, you should have seen her.’ A small smile creeps on to his face.
‘Really? More than usual?’
‘Shitloads. This one time, right, she spilt a whole load of washing powder over the sink and went ballistic. Dad says she’s upset. That we need to give her masses of support.’ Jamie shakes his head. ‘Nothing I do is right, Cass.’
‘Well, I like you being here,’ I say, when he hands me my drink and I take a sip. It tastes weak, reminds me of hospital coffee. ‘You just need to brush up on your coffee-making skills, that’s all.’
‘You’re just like Mum, you are!’ He smiles. ‘Any complaints in this hotel, write to the manager.’
Being here with Jamie reminds me of the time when he visited me in the ward. At this stage I had my own private room. I heard Dad and Jamie muttering in the corridor.
Then Jamie knocked on the door tentatively, before walking into my room wearing scuffed trainers and baggy jeans that showed off his Calvin Klein pants. He was carrying a box of After Eight mint chocolates he’d bought from the hospital shop, with the bright orange price sticker still on them. He looked awkward as he glanced at my white surgical stockings. ‘Don’t look so jealous,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they’d have some in your size.’
Next he was staring at the catheter bag that hung under the bed, unable to be hidden. I was desperate for him to look away, and thankfully he did. He checked out the room instead, his eyes wandering over the mini television system.
‘I’m thirsty,’ I said, gesturing to the water jug on my side table.
He hopped off his chair, grateful for the distraction. ‘Don’t get too used to this,’ he said, daring to grin as he poured me a glass.
‘Sorry, but you have to be extra nice to me now.’ There was another long uncomfortable pause. ‘Open the chocolates then,’ I said. ‘And pass me that magazine, would you?’
‘Oh man, this really stinks. I never liked you much before but now you’ll be a real nightmare.’
I found myself smiling, and I could see Jamie’s shoulders relaxing.
I look at my brother now. He’s tall and handsome, like my father, though slighter in build, like Mum and me. He has dark blond hair and blue eyes, an open face, big nose and a wide smile that puts you at ease immediately. He’s looking tanned right now. We both have skin that tans easily. Dad called us his ‘little gypsies’ when we were on family holidays abroad. Jamie’s attractive because he has no self-consciousness, despite the attention he receives from the opposite sex. ‘Come on, Jamie. Why are you still at home?’ I pick up the cereal box. ‘You were loving Madrid. You’d saved up for months, working in that old people’s home.’ All the residents fell for Jamie, of course. Morag was his favourite. Every evening she’d ask for half a banana with her meal, with the peel still on, and when Jamie brought it to her on a tray she’d tuck it into the drawer of her bedside table, and never touch it, but Jamie didn’t laugh at her or try to get her to explain. When the boss said this banana charade had to stop, Jamie snuck in his own.
He shrugs. ‘I can go back any time.’
We hear the Hoover right outside the kitchen now. ‘Anyway, I like being here,’ he continues, the hesitancy in his voice giving him away. I throw the magazine at him. ‘Jamie Brooks, you can’t tell a lie, not even if someone paid you a million quid.’
He scratches the back of his head. ‘I’ll go back when I’m ready. Madrid’s not going anywhere.’
I am touched by what he really means.
After Jamie and I have cleared up breakfast he tells me he’s meeting a friend in town. ‘Want to come?’
‘Are you meeting a girl?’
‘No.’ He blushes. ‘Why?’
‘You’ve brushed your hair.’ Jamie has thick hair with a life of its own. ‘And you’re wearing aftershave.’ I pinch my nose and laugh. The Hoover stops. Mum rushes into the kitchen, as if to make sure that that laughter was really coming from me.
3
Mum is back at work and I have been at home for six weeks now. Jamie has moved to London and found a job in an IT company, but he visits regularly at weekends. We all need him. When Jamie comes home, he brings with him a ray of sun.
It’s strange being here. Everything is familiar yet offers little comfort. It’s as if I’ve been at war and returned the injured soldier. It’s taken some time for Mum, Dad, Jamie and me to get used to the sound of wheels in the house. Wheelchair obstacles such as rugs and coffee tables have all been removed. With planning permission, my father has installed ramps in and outside the house. He’s adapted the bathroom, building a sliding door and repositioning the sink so that I can wheel myself alongside the bath to get to the loo. He’s built some low glass shelves in the kitchen so that I can
reach plates and mugs. I still flinch when I see my jackets and coats on silver pegs halfway down the wall, and my pair of wellington boots that remind me of cliff top walks by the sea, hair blowing in the wind.
As I sip my coffee, I hear the sound of hooves. Cautiously I look out of the shuttered windows. It’s one of the neighbours, Emily, riding her horse, Gus.
My fantasy to own a pony started when Mum and I saw two policemen riding horses through Hyde Park. I was ten at the time and thought the horses looked magnificent, their coats as shiny as Dad’s polished shoes. That night I made a plan.
We lived in a terrace house. Dad could design and build me a stable in the garden. I could ride Smartie, the name I gave my dream horse, in the park, feed him carrots, and in the winter he could come inside and sleep by the fire. I showed Mum my plan, which included lots of pictures, boxes and arrows.
‘Cass, darling, our garden is the size of a sandpit and what am I going to do with Smartie when you’re at school? Take it to the office?’
‘Well, I have thought about this,’ I replied, redirecting her to my diagram, showing her how I’d decided that the best option was for Mum to give up work. I’d drawn a picture of Mum in the kitchen, wearing a frilly apron and high heels. Often I’d ask Dad when it was Mum’s turn to work from home again. ‘You burn our sausages, like, all the time.’
Mum looked up from my masterpiece. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I can’t give up work.’ She ruffled my hair. ‘We have a mortgage to pay. Anyway, I love my job.’ I started to doodle on my diagram, not wanting Mum to see my tears. ‘One day, Cass, when you’re a successful hotshot doctor, you’ll understand. Not all women are cut out to stay at home.’
‘But—’
‘No buts! All you need to think about right now is A, getting dressed and B, going to school.’
However, the day did come when I thought I’d won the battle. ‘When you get home there will be a surprise for you in the garden,’ she said over breakfast. ‘It’s not a horse, but you’ll love him.’
Dad picked me up from school. I was so excited to get home. I’d told all my friends that Mum and Dad had bought me a puppy. ‘His name’s Henry,’ he said, ‘and he’s very handsome, but he’s not quite what you’re expecting.’
There was a tortoise in our garden.
When I was in my teens, I kept on asking Mum if we could have a dog. I promised I’d walk him or her but Mum kept on saying no. She’s asthmatic and allergic to animal hair. ‘Anything with fur, Cass, that moves, makes me sneeze and come out in splotches.’
When I was eighteen and had finished my A levels, I travelled to the south of Spain, to a donkey sanctuary, where I volunteered to help out on the farm. There were other abandoned animals too – dogs, cats, rabbits, pigs, chickens, goats, hens and uninvited rats. It was a cheap way to travel, and at last I could be with animals. Every year, until my accident, I’d returned to this sanctuary; it was my fix.
I hear the sound of hooves once more. When Emily glances towards the window I move away quickly, as if she’s seen me naked.
*
I’m on my own this morning. Dad’s doing some work for the council, designing a new office block or something. I decide to write an email to my friends Dom and Guy. They were both in hospital at the same time as me. Dom’s injury is similar to mine. He’s a paraplegic. The consultant had told me I was a T12.
‘Rings of bone called vertebrae surround the spinal cord,’ he’d explained. ‘Together, these bones form the spinal column. The seven vertebrae in the neck are called the cervical vertebrae, the top one being C1, the lowest C7. The twelve vertebrae in the chest are called the thoracic vertebrae, T1 to T12. Below that are the lumbar nerves, L1 to L5, and the sacral nerves, S1 to S5. If the spinal cord is damaged at any level, it means you are paralysed below the level of that injury. The higher the injury, the worse off you are. If you had been unfortunate enough to break your neck, Cass, with a high cervical injury, say C3, you would have no movement in your arms, trunk and legs. You are a T12 complete, meaning the spinal cord has been severed completely and you won’t be able to feel or move anything below your waist. An injury like yours, complete and to the thoracic root, only leads to loss of movement in the legs. You are a paraplegic,’ he announced as if I had won first prize in a disability competition. ‘You’re one of the lucky ones.’
When I didn’t clap my hands with gratitude, finally he put his notes down. ‘I am sorry, Cassandra. In terms of suddenness of onset and extent of impact, nothing compares to spinal cord injury. All I’m trying to say is it could have been a lot worse.’
I send a message to Dom first. ‘What are you up to? As weird as this sounds, I miss the hospital, especially you and Guy, even Georgina!’ I stop typing, remembering how Georgina would turn me over in bed like a slab of meat to examine my backside for pressure sores.
The thing about hospital was we had structure to our day, and everyone was in the same boat. To my amazement the time went quickly too. The motto was ‘keep them busy’. I woke up early to the comforting sound of the breakfast trolley rattling into the ward. Mum turned up later on in the morning, bringing us both a cappuccino or latte from the café because she won’t drink instant. By ten o’clock I was in the gym. My physiotherapist, Paul, had given me a tough rehabilitation programme. I had to do hours of stretching on my front and back, lifting weights and doing resistance work with stretch bands. One time, I was so tired that I’d lost my concentration and fallen straight out of my chair. Paul would only put an arm out if I were going to fall awkwardly or catch my skin on something. As I struggled to get back into my seat he told me he wasn’t going to help me; the only way I’d learn how to control my balance was by making mistakes. I asked him if he’d been a sergeant major in a former life. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That means I’m doing my job well.’
If I wasn’t in the gym I was playing table tennis with Dom or Jamie or I was in the hydrotherapy pool. During my first hydrotherapy session, three weeks after the accident, all I could do was lie in the water supported by floats and armbands, Paul holding my head. It was frightening because I’d realised just how helpless I was. By the end of the four months I could swim lengths, even if it was with a lot of thrashing and flapping. Paul called my style ‘Brooks Stroke’. ‘You’ll be at the Paralympics next,’ he’d teased, before adding that the first Paralympics had been held at Stoke Mandeville back in 1948, inspired by a German-born British neurologist. ‘A genius called Ludwig Guttmann established the National Spine Injuries Centre here. He realised sport was vital to rehab, so come on, Brooks, another length!’
‘I don’t know what to do, Dom,’ I type. I look outside. It’s a lovely summer’s day, but the trouble is I want to go out biking or to the beach, play tennis or go for a run – all the things I took for granted. ‘This morning Mum and I argued. She suggested I go back to King’s. I know she’s only trying to help but … Do you know what else drives me mad? I’m twenty-three and being told to tidy up my bedroom! How are you? Let me know how you’re getting on, and love to Miranda.’
Miranda is Dom’s wife. She used to come into the ward with fruit and energy drinks and dark chocolate. Seeing them together made me think of Sean. I can’t do this … I’m so sorry, Cass, he’d written in his letter.
‘PS,’ I type. ‘Tell me a funny joke, Dom.’
‘Knock knock …’ comes the quick response.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Colleen.’
‘Colleen who?’
‘Colleen up your bedroom!’
I giggle, before replying, ‘That’s terrible, even for you.’
The first time I’d met Dom was when I’d moved to the rehabilitation ward. It was a mixed ward, most of us young, and Mum was sitting by my bedside, knitting me a pair of socks, as we waited to meet my new physiotherapist. I found it disconcerting because Mum had never even sewn a nametag in a school shirt.
‘Good day, I’m Paul Parker,’ said a very fit-looking man with a strong Aussie accen
t.
‘All right, Parker!’ called out the man from the opposite bed.
‘Thank you, Dom,’ said Paul, picking up my notes that were pinned to a clipboard at the end of my bed. ‘Para T12 complete,’ he muttered.
I wanted to say, ‘My name is Cass,’ but instead I confided that I’d tried to get up the day before but had fainted.
‘Well, the sooner we try again, the sooner you can leave this place.’
‘But I want to walk out when I leave,’ I said, somehow hoping that I could defy the rules, that there could still be hope.
‘Darling, please try to cooperate,’ Mum urged.
‘Mrs Brooks, do you mind if I see Cassandra on her own?’ Paul asked.
Mum picked up her knitting bag, wool trailing out of the back of it as she left. Paul alerted her to the trail. ‘We don’t want our patients tripping up on the ward,’ he joked, helping her gather it back into the bag.
‘Ah look,’ he said, turning back to me, ‘do you want me to help you?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Speak properly.’
There was no room for weakness in this place.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s get you into this chair so we can start working on your muscle tone.’
‘Bonne chance!’ shouted the cheerful, nosy man called Dom. His hair was short and showed specks of grey, which gave away his age. I guessed he was in his late thirties, early forties. He looked sporty, as if he were training for the Olympics. The scary man in the next-door bed told him to shut the fuck up, that some people were trying to get some sleep. ‘And what’s with the French all of a sudden?’ he continued.
‘Stop being so miserable, Guy,’ he replied. ‘Come to the gym.’
‘Get stuffed.’
‘The day goes by much more quickly if you’re busy,’ he persevered, not taking the slightest offence. He wedged a water bottle into one side of his wheelchair and slipped on a pair of fingerless gloves.
Paul drew the beige flowered curtain around my bed, blocking them both out of sight. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘No nonsense, otherwise you’re wasting my time. Are you ready?’
By My Side Page 2
