If I Never Went Home

by Ingrid Persaud

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was April before Bea was finally discharged from St. Anthony’s. She looked out of the taxi window as it moved through the city, driving her away from the hospital and back to her previous life. Although she had spent years uncovering and absorbing its secrets, Boston today seemed uncharted, out of step with all she had known. It wasn’t only that when she last walked these streets there were huge piles of dirty snow, the wind whipping through her coat. Nor was it because the city sidewalks were now lined with explosions of vibrant yellow crocuses and tulips in a myriad of colours from milk white to deep regal purple. Something more fundamental had occurred. Bea’s eyes had a new optic nerve, replacing the one severed last year when she said a final goodbye to these streets. Now she registered each skyscraper, each road sign, each passing face, as if for the first time.

  Spring was everywhere as the taxi crawled through morning rush-hour traffic on the main street, past the antique furniture shop and overpriced deli, turning right at the corner with Macpherson’s Pharmacy – landmarks Bea found familiar but today were simultaneously alien.

  ‘It’s the third house on the left,’ she told the taxi driver. ‘That brownstone with the blue front door.’

  ‘Fancy part of town,’ said the driver.

  She got out and stood on the pavement with her battered duffle bag. Last December she should have returned to this apartment for the last time. After teaching the final class of the semester there was to have been one last subway ride. Everything was prepared, waiting in the locked bedside drawer. Untouched.

  That moment had passed. Now, in a different time, she needed to climb the five small steps that led to the blue front door. But even that simple act demanded extensive mental preparation.

  Insert key in lock. Turn.

  Push door open.

  The apartment would be visible at the end of the short inner passageway. A few more rehearsals and she’d be ready. Well, as ready as anyone can be returning to a house that looked like your home but really wasn’t.

  Bea kept reminding herself it was the same one-bedroom apartment. Had the taxi transported her to a twin planet where everything looks the same but feels different?

  Insert key in lock. Turn.

  Push door.

  Walk straight ahead.

  Apartment with letter C on white door.

  Insert key in lock.

  Turn.

  Push door.

  Home again.

  Time paused while Bea hovered on the spot where she had alighted from the taxi. Over and over she rehearsed in her mind the progression from pavement to apartment, but each time her feet refused to budge. Rigid bones collided with a thumping, panic-stricken chest, finally settling in small, tight fists.

  She wondered what would happen if she turned around and walked away. What if she never went through the blue front door? To the untrained eye it was an old building converted into three apartments like many others on that street. Concealed layers of memory silently seeped from the chinks of its honeystone façade, spilling onto the dark wood floors and soaking through cracks in the white ceilings. Home had morphed into a three-storey monument mocking her shame.

  ‘What are you doing here, Bea?’

  Startled, she spun around to find the voice belonged to her landlady, Mrs. Harris. ‘I didn’t know you were coming out of hospital today,’ she said. ‘I could’ve picked you up.’ She put an arm around Bea. ‘Why are you out here, dear? Come inside.’ She took a frayed tissue out of her pocket and thrust it at Bea. ‘Don’t cry. It’s okay.’

  Mrs. Harris took hold of the old duffle bag and marched up to the blue front door.

  Bea shuffled slowly behind. ‘I’m really sorry for this trouble, Mrs. Harris,’ she said, sniffling. She opened her apartment door. ‘I’m fine now.’

  ‘You’re sure? Can I get you anything? Help you settle back in?’

  ‘You’re so kind. It’s a little difficult coming home.’

  ‘Well, I’m only upstairs. If you need anything, dear, anything at all, just bang your broomstick on the ceiling.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Now, I mean it, young lady. I’m only upstairs.’

  Mrs. Harris was barely out the door when Bea hurried to the bedroom and the bedside cupboard. It was still there, untouched. The package of white powder had been in hiding all these months: two ounces of hateful accusations. She perched on the edge of the bed staring at the little plastic bag, unable to decide what to do next. Why so many decisions when today she couldn’t even choose between tea or coffee?

  Bea glanced up at the clock on her wall. Unbelievably, nearly two hours had passed since she had been delivered home from St. Anthony’s, and she had not moved from where she sat on the bed. She was aware of the pressure on her bladder. It was time to pee, unpack, shower and have lunch, but her mind would not slow down long enough to focus on completing any one of these elementary tasks.

  With some effort, she placed the plastic bag of white powder back in the bedside cabinet. A surgical removal was too strenuous. Maybe tomorrow. Besides, if she didn’t get to the toilet soon her jeans would be soaked.

  Too late. As she stood up, warm liquid squirted straight through her panties and jeans, and trickled down her inner thighs. Soon a sticky little golden pool surrounded her feet.

  I can’t even pee properly.

  She rubbed her forehead, groaning.

  In the bathroom the cracked bar of soap from more than four months earlier was still caked to its white plastic dish next to the half-empty bottle of shampoo. There was no reason why it should not be there. Only she had not expected to be in this shower again, rubbing that bar of soap across her body, massaging that shampoo into her scalp. Four months to erase the pain from her body, and now this sour smell of piss.

  She attacked her skin with a loofah, reducing it to a patchwork of brown and red. Grime and urine vanished down the plughole. But the smell of St. Anthony’s had bonded with cells far below the epidermis and remained untroubled by lathers of Camay Softly Scented Bath Bar. Exhausted, Bea went back to her bedroom and lay down. The bed was soft with clean white welcoming sheets, and even though it was the middle of the day she crawled in, naked and damp.

  Slowly she traced the contours of her breasts, then down across her stomach. Here lay a woman surplus to requirements, but written on her body were fragments – moments of connection – that would always exist, even if Bogart never came back. Why did he still fill her thoughts? What about Michael? Could he be the one? They were easy in each other’s company. He did not judge her. But she reminded herself that he did not know the kind of woman she had become, not really. Once he found out, he too would disappear and not look back.

  Could she still feel?

  Closing her eyes, she imagined feeling her heart beat against his lips.

  His tongue seeking her out.

  Her hips reaching for his.

  Her mind swirled with images of his naked body.

  She held his head in her hands.

  She sensed his urgent kisses. All over.

  Sucking. All over.

  Licking. All over.

  His fingers reaching. All over.

  Searching. All over.

  Over, all over.

  Flicking. Dipping.

  The spasms of tight, warm muscles thumped and pulsed rhythmically, clenching wet against her fingers.

  All over.

  *

  The university gave Bea generous paid leave, effectively providing time out until the new academic year. Late spring and a long summer stretched ahead. The dean wrote, reminding her of the contribution she had already made, the research that had received critical approval and the teaching awards she had secured. He knew she would come back refreshed and ready to continue a promising career.

  Colleagues surprised her with their kindness. She had an inbox of emails with offers of places to stay and invitations to break bread. She was at a loss to explain that sharing a family meal or
staying at a house beside a lake would be wonderful but for her inability to assume even the minimum of social graces. She could manage with Michael or maybe Dave, but no one else. Not yet. In a perfect world she would exist in a deaf-mute state, without demands, and only the barest of acknowledgements from others.

  So Bea locked her apartment door and retreated inside.

  But hiding wasn’t straightforward either. Life continued to happen around her. Bills had to be paid, trash had to be taken out and laundry had to be done. During her daily trip to the local grocery, Bea filled her basket with one banana, one Diet Coke, one microwavable meal and one small container of two percent milk. Sometimes she included a tube of Colgate toothpaste or a couple rolls of Charmin Ultra toilet paper.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ asked the cashier. ‘Getting the usual?’

  Bea had seen her often enough. Her air of authority suggested she must be the owner or manager of the store.

  ‘Back for the same stuff,’ Bea replied.

  ‘You know you could save yourself this trip every day. We’ll deliver for free if the bags are too heavy for you to walk home with.’

  ‘Thanks, but I like the walk. Gets me out,’ said Bea. ‘See what’s happening in the world.’

  ‘No problem, but anytime you need a hand I’ll have Ed bring the groceries round. You live nearby, don’t you?’

  ‘Just at the bottom of Mount Vernon Street.’

  ‘That’s no distance. We could do that any time.’

  What Bea could not say was that, while she was better, she had not actively embraced life either. She had thrived in the safety of St. Anthony’s, but in this twilight world of not quite living – with its dry cleaners, trash days, bills and newspapers – it would take time to adjust. So she lurched from one daily purchase to another with no action plan and no future that required a stockpile of daily provisions. Life proceeded with pills, one banana, one ready meal, one Diet Coke at a time. Her only other outings were the required medical checkups.

  But slowly, unrelentingly, the future unfurled into brighter, longer days. The trees regained luscious green canopies. Pink cherry blossom punctured the landscape; people shed heavy clothing and inhibitions as soon as the merest glint of sunshine lit the sky. It was impossible to avoid a sense of rejuvenation. Bea still found it gruelling to do much beyond the daily walk to and from the grocery store. But at least it was a routine anchoring her day. Michael called often and their almost weekly outings for coffee or meals became the high-water mark of her existence.

  After being back at her own apartment for over a month, she awoke one morning to find the darkness had descended again, unexpectedly and completely. It was impossible to get out of bed. Her body knew the sequence of movements but, for reasons unknown, her mind could not be willed into submission. Her heart thumped louder and louder as the minutes turned to hours and she had not left her bed, in spite of wanting to. She shivered in the warm room. Her cotton nightshirt was soaked in sweat. The white powder, still unopened, sprung to mind.

  She held her head in her hands, shaking.

  I’m supposed to be well. I’m supposed to be well.

  For almost a week she stayed in her apartment, existing on bits of food, refusing to answer the telephone or turn on her computer. She could hear Mrs. Harris’s footsteps on the landing outside as she went about life. Bea made no attempt to pick her mail off the floor and before long a mound of flyers, magazines and letters barricaded her in.

  A rancid smell came from under the duvet, and Bea was shocked to discover it was her own filthy flesh. Biting back tears, she reached out and dialled.

  ‘Day clinic, good morning.’

  ‘I’d like an appointment with Dr. Payne please,’ she said in a weak voice.

  ‘When for?’

  ‘Today if possible.’

  ‘He’s got a fairly full diary at the moment. Who’s calling?’

  ‘Bea. Beatrice Clark.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, let’s see what I can do.’

  Music displaced the silence while she held on. It was a familiar Bach piece that for some reason made her even sadder. It stopped as abruptly as it had started when the woman came back on the phone. ‘Sorry for the wait. I spoke to Dr. Payne and he’ll see you at five o’clock. Can you make that?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Have a good day now.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Bea knew the six hours before her appointment would be filled with getting herself ready and taking the short cab ride to Dr. Payne’s downtown office. Six hours to have breakfast, wash, and take a two-mile cab ride.

  *

  ‘Hi! Come on in,’ said Dr. Payne, rising from his desk and gesturing at the two faded armchairs. There was always a deliberate ease in his gait, shoulders back, looking taller than his actual height. A shaft of sunlight fell on his face as he sat down, shifting slightly to his left to avoid the glare. For a moment Bea could see the boy he might have been – thick, light brown hair, almost blond, and smooth skin tautly stretched over chiselled bones. But the eyes would have been the same as now. Time would always preserve the kindness in those pale-blue eyes.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me today,’ said Bea, fidgeting to fit her fragile frame comfortably in the overstuffed armchair.

  ‘This worked out well,’ he replied. ‘Tell me what’s been happening.’

  Bea didn’t answer.

  ‘Has it been difficult adjusting to the big bad world?’ he asked.

  She could not stop the tears from leaking down her cheeks. She finally managed to find her voice. ‘I was doing okay. Really I was.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then out of nowhere it got worse again. I can’t sleep. I can’t leave the apartment. This is the first place I’ve gone to in over a week.’

  ‘But you did it. You got yourself here.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Dr. Payne slumped lower into the chair, interlocked his fingers and waited.

  ‘My heart felt like it was going a million miles an hour and I was soaked in sweat and my jaws hurt. Think I’ve been grinding my teeth.’

  ‘When you were first at St. Anthony’s you had a couple of panic attacks like that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but this is the first time I’ve felt like this since I came out of hospital,’ Bea said, drying her eyes.

  ‘It’s tough when you first get back out there and you don’t have much support. At least, none you will accept.’

  ‘Maybe I should be back at St. Anthony’s.’

  He sighed. ‘No. We can always keep it as an option, but right now you need to try getting into life gently. You can do this. I truly believe this is a temporary setback that we can overcome.’

  Bea said nothing.

  ‘Have you been eating? You look like you’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Not much,’ she mumbled.

  ‘You have to eat with the meds you’re taking, or you’re not going to get better, and you can even get worse.’

  Bea stared at the wall to the left of his head.

  ‘Why don’t we try having you come in twice a week for now, so this kind of low feeling isn’t allowed to fester?’

  ‘Okay,’ she said meekly and took her coat off the arm of the chair.

  ‘What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Try to get out of the apartment at least once a day, even if it’s to walk to the end of the street and back.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Okay, so I’ll see you in two days’ time. I’ll get my assistant to phone you with an exact time. She’s left for the day already.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bea, you will get better. You have to believe that.’

  She wanted to believe, but today it didn’t feel possible.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Summer was Bea’s favourite season. This July was perfect, with none of the unpredictability of June and still some way from the fiery August heat. Her mind drifted to her father. She w
ondered if he’d enjoy this clear Boston sky reflected in the Charles River.

  Alan Clark had travelled some – Barbados, St. Vincent, New York, Toronto, and even London. But he had never expressed an interest in visiting Boston, nor had Bea pressed him. After any trip abroad he would say there wasn’t anything as lovely as the clear blue sky at home. Trinidad was crowned by a canopy of purest blue, uncluttered except for a few apologetic wisps of stray clouds.

  What was he doing now, she wondered? At four in the afternoon there was a good chance he would be sitting in a battered plastic garden chair under the shade of the ancient chenette tree. Taking the breeze. Perhaps he would be checking the latest political intrigue in the Express and chain-smoking his Marlboros. Always chain-smoking.

  Home and work had merged after the divorce, when he returned to live in his childhood house, keeping his lonely mother company. They had always lived above the small family hardware store that Alan managed. For him, the arrangement had the dual advantage of minimal responsibility and minimal costs. As a bonus there was his doting mother, Granny Gwen, tending to his every whim, cooking his favourite stew chicken with peas and rice, even making his bed and picking his dirty clothes off the bathroom floor. His older brother Robin, who also worked in the business, was so efficient that Alan’s role was almost ceremonial, certainly marginal. Granny Gwen was determined never to let this favourite son leave home again. No woman had ever – could ever – look after him, love him, honour him like she did. That Indian bitch Mira, whom he had erroneously married, was confirmation enough if any was needed. But that was all thankfully in the past. Mother and son were reunited and would remain so for ever, at peace under one roof.

  Did he still have a relationship with the woman Bea met last year on her annual summer visit? Alan’s women came and went with slippery ease, their phone calls unanswered if they dared state needs of their own. He lived on his own terms, asking little of others, or indeed of himself. Disappointment, regret, anxiety were all rare occurrences. For as long as he still had his good looks and the stamina to play mas in a Carnival band, and could afford a few weeks holiday abroad, life was sweet.