by Paula Daly
‘Exams soon, Alice?’ Eve asks her.
‘Yay,’ she replies flatly. ‘I’m super-excited about that.’
Eve pours more wine: ‘You’ll do great . . . you’ve always had your father’s brains,’ and I bristle a little at this quip. Eve tips the neck of the bottle towards Alice: ‘Are you having some?’
Alice throws her head back and scoffs. ‘Mum won’t let me so much as sniff it. Even though it’s been proven that sharing small amounts of wine, as the French do, stops teenagers from becoming binge drinkers and alcoholics in later life.’ She flashes me her best defiant glare.
‘Plenty of alcoholics in France,’ I counter.
‘She could have a smidge, though, couldn’t she?’ Eve pushes.
I shake my head.
‘Mum doesn’t want me to become corrupted,’ Alice says. ‘She thinks one small sip and I’ll make all the same mistakes she did.’
She says ‘all the same mistakes’ in a way that infers I’ve been going on about it every day for her entire life. Which I’ve not.
‘Mum thinks if I get into drinking I’ll throw away my future . . . that I’ll be pregnant at sixteen.’
I raise my eyebrows at Eve and she smirks back at me.
‘I don’t know why you’re so anal about it, Mum,’ Alice continues unabated. ‘It’s not like it didn’t work out for you, is it? You and Dad are living proof that teenage romance can last.’
‘No wine, Alice,’ I say firmly. ‘Final answer.’
Half an hour later, around eight, when Sean has gone to the hotel and Alice is upstairs finishing the last of her physics homework, Eve and I laze on the sofa. I sense she is more tired than she’s letting on after her week of psychology lectures. Her usual dewy skin is dull and her eyes have that vague quality that comes from not enough sleep. I can also see the beginnings of a set of small vertical lines encircling her lips, visible when she takes a sip. I’m thirty-five, Eve is a little older than me, but I don’t yet have these wrinkles, so I assume she’s taken up smoking again.
‘What happened, Eve?’ I ask, when there’s a lull in conversation. ‘What happened with you and Brett?’
She takes a gulp of wine and gives a sarcastic kind of laugh. ‘He decided he didn’t want children after all.’
‘Oh!’ I exclaim, putting my hand up to my mouth.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘What a bastard, right? I’m thinking of not going home.’
‘To the States?’ This surprises me. ‘But what about your practice?’
‘I could do it here. I could start again. There’s nothing to stop me; the change might be just what I need. It’s not going to be easy heading back there, alone.’
‘But isn’t that running away?’
She looks at me levelly. ‘That’s exactly what it is.’
I don’t have Eve’s skills as a listener. In that sense our relationship is unbalanced. For every one time Eve has needed me, I’ve needed her ten. She has a rare quality, a quality I have found in no other friend. It’s a kind of sixth sense, whereby she knows exactly what I need in the moment. I can cry, panic, be downright aggressive (usually when I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m ashamed of hurting another person’s feelings), and Eve will be gentle, coaxing me along to the point where I am ready to face up to my actions, ready to listen to her advice on how to fix things and stop me from feeling so wretched.
I survey her sad, drawn face and wish I could offer her even a fraction of the comfort she has given me over the years, when we both jump. We’re startled by the sound of the telephone. It’s next to me on the sofa and I check the caller ID. The display reads: INTERNATIONAL.
I apologize to Eve. ‘Really sorry, but I’ve got to take this . . . hello?’
‘Mrs Wainwright?’ says the voice.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Jenny Cruickshank . . . Felicity’s French teacher?’
‘What’s happened? Is she okay?’
And it’s as if the line goes dead.
Total silence.
I go to repeat the question, trying to keep my voice steady, but just as I’m about to speak I hear a faint sniffling sound. It’s barely audible. Then I realize with sickening clarity that the teacher is crying at the end of the line.
‘Please tell me,’ I plead in a quiet voice. ‘What’s happened?’ My stomach is suddenly in freefall. ‘What’s happened to my daughter?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpers. ‘Forgive me . . . Felicity is in the hospital, she’s very ill. You need to come straight away.’
3
AM I OVER the limit? is the first question I ask myself. Am I too drunk to drive?
‘Natty, who was that?’ Eve asks.
‘Felicity’s in hospital. She’s being operated on right now.’
I hear my words spoken from what seems like the other side of the room. I’m shaking. Not just shaking. It’s shock. Where has all the blood gone?
‘They didn’t know,’ I say without emotion. ‘The teachers didn’t know she was even sick.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Eve asks. ‘What did the teacher actually say?’
‘They don’t know what’s wrong. She collapsed. They’re not completely sure she’ll make it.’
Eve bursts into action.
She doesn’t comfort me, or tell me not to worry, or tell me Felicity will be okay. She grabs the phone, uses the speed dial to call the hotel and tells Sean in a businesslike manner that he needs to come home, there’s an emergency.
‘Why did I let her go to France?’ I whisper. ‘She’s only fourteen, too young to travel alone. Why did I let her go? What was I thinking?’
Eve looks at me straight. ‘They’re fixing her, Natty. It doesn’t make any difference that she’s in France. They’re saving her life. We need to get you there as soon as possible. Let me search for flights.’
‘Do you think she’ll die?’
‘Go and pack a bag.’
The shaking is violent now.
Eve repeats slowly: ‘Natty, go and find your passport and pack your bag.’
My guts have become a bucket of eels. I don’t think I can stand, let alone board an aircraft. I stay fixed to the chair. If I just stay here, it will all go away. I put my hands between my thighs and squeeze tight to stop the shaking.
‘Natty! Move!’
‘I can’t,’ I say.
‘You have to.’
I’m shuffling about the bedroom trance-like, picking up bits of underwear, T-shirts, when Sean appears in the doorway. He doesn’t speak. We simply look at one another for an extended moment.
Is this it? we’re both thinking.
Is this the rest of our lives? Do we move from the standard, the typical family of four, petty worries, petty fall-outs? Do we move into that other realm? Do we join the ranks of families who’ve lost a child?
My first thought hearing the teacher give me the news about Felicity was to whisper, ‘Not this one. Please, God, not this child. Then immediately I felt utterly wretched, because did I really want him to take my other child instead?
I’ve spent the last ten minutes bargaining with God. Even though I’ve not really been a believer since – well, since he deserted me, age nineteen. Please save her, I’m begging again now. Please, I’ll do anything. Take everything away from us, strip us of all that we know, but do not let my child die.
Sean strides towards me. Puts his arms around my body, and I begin crying silently. There is so much terror inside my chest I cannot form sound. I’m struck by the realization that this is what it must be like to be attacked. Women, girls, say their voices simply leave them. Their bodies scream in fury, but nothing comes, their larynxes paralysed by fear.
‘There’s one seat left,’ Sean says gravely. ‘Manchester to Rennes. It leaves in two hours. I’ll take it, Natty, you stay here. You’re in no state to travel. You can fly out tomorrow morning.’
‘What if we lose her, Sean?’
He shakes his head as though he’s not about t
o answer that question. ‘We need to decide. One of us needs to get on the road right now if we’re to make it in time.’
‘I’m going.’
‘I’m not sure you can. Look at you,’ he says, and he takes my shaking hands, lifts them for me to see, as if to drive home his point.
‘But if she dies and I’m not with her, then how can I ever . . .’ My words disappear in my throat.
‘You can be there by eleven tomorrow morning at the latest. Stay here, Natty, let me do this.’
I pull my hands away. ‘No. It has to be me.’
And I feel him relenting.
Another moment of quiet deliberation, and he says, ‘Okay. Okay, let’s get your things together. We need to move quickly.’
He pulls the overnight bag from the top of the wardrobe, unzips it and begins gently laying the small stack of T-shirts, jeans and underwear inside.
I watch him, knowing I should be running around, grabbing everything I need, but the thought of Felicity unconscious in the operating theatre without me by her side keeps me rooted to the spot.
Sean lifts his head. ‘Natty?’ he says, a cloud of fear passing over his face. ‘Natty,’ he says gently, ‘which shoes do you want to take with you?’
‘Huh?’
‘Shoes? Which ones?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Hang on,’ and I walk to the wardrobe and stare at the choice, baffled. Then I turn back to Sean. ‘What about Alice?’ I ask him, frowning. ‘If you come to France tomorrow, who will look after Alice? We can’t leave her here alone. Christ, Sean, you know what she’s like, she can’t even open a can of beans. And your mother’s away, and my dad’s housebound and—’
‘It’s all right,’ he says, grabbing my electric toothbrush, ‘Eve has offered to stay.’
So, here I am then. Right in the moment. Everything I have is focused on the here and now.
I shuffle forward, clutching my boarding pass, my passport, thinking: It has taken a disaster to put me in the present. The mind chatter has stopped. All plans I must make for next week, next month, next year, have evaporated. The doubts, the lingering regrets from yesterday, from fifteen years ago . . . are all gone.
I remove my belt, my shoes.
I look ahead to an old guy about to put his belongings in the tray next to the conveyor; he is telling his wife to do the same, to take off her watch, but she doesn’t want to. She’s keeping it with her until told otherwise by a person in authority. This makes him anxious, and he glares at her as if to say: Must you? Must you really do this?
My gaze rests on the woman directly in front of me. She has three clear plastic bags stuffed full to bursting with cosmetics, and it dawns on me I’ve not brought along anything like that. Not a lipstick, not an eyeliner. In my race to reach the airport I’ve neglected to pack the usual things I need to face the world.
But this is not a usual trip. If I reach France with just my credit card, my phone, my driving licence and passport, it will be enough.
I close my eyes, swallow and steady my breathing. I place my bag inside the grey tray. I take off my coat and feel momentarily self-conscious because, in my haste to get here, I’m still in the short black dress I wore for tonight’s dinner with Eve.
Seconds later I step through the metal detector and head towards the gate. My blank stare and purposeful stride belie the extent of my terror.
Three and a half hours later. Even though the satnav on my phone guided my rental car to the hospital in Mayenne, southern Normandy, I feel a small, misplaced sense of achievement. Or perhaps it’s simply relief. I’ve driven on the right-hand side of the road only once before tonight, as Sean always does the driving when we travel, and I always had that nagging voice inside my head: You should really crack this, there will be an emergency one day, and Sean might not be with you and . . .
Well, now there is an emergency.
I pull into the car park. France is one hour ahead, so I’m not completely sure they’ll let me into this small, single-storey, provincial hospital, which looks more like an outpatient clinic at this hour. I have no idea what I’ll do if I don’t get in. Sit and weep on the steps sounds like a plan.
I reach down to grab my handbag and it’s only now that I’ve arrived that I allow myself to cry. For the past few hours I’ve been running on adrenalin. I spoke to no one; no one spoke to me. I’ve been giving off the aura of a wounded animal. Approach me and I’ll give you a nasty bite. Maybe even break your arm like an angry swan. My entire focus has been on getting here fast, here to Felicity.
I make my way across the car park to the front entrance as a light rain falls. It’s much the same as the damp drizzle I left at home, but the air here is less dense, the humidity lower. There is no one around, the place is completely deserted, though I do catch a waft of stale cigarettes. As I walk up the steps the smell becomes stronger: thick, lingering, dark tobacco, Gauloises, Gitanes, indicating it wasn’t so long since there were people where I now stand.
The doors slide open automatically but the reception desk is unmanned.
Did I mention I can’t speak French?
No, didn’t think I did.
An intercom is built into the wall, so I press the button, hoping at least a skeleton staff operates throughout the night. After a few moments a gruff male voice responds.
‘Oui?’
And the best I can manage in return is: ‘Felicity Wainwright . . . Maman.’
And then I wait.
4
JOANNE ASPINALL HAS removed the clear polish from her fingernails, taken out her earrings and has been nil-by-mouth since eight o’clock yesterday evening.
She’s now so hungry she could eat the pillows from her hospital bed.
She’s in a ward with three other women; two are to have breast reductions, along with Joanne, and the other is to have reconstructive surgery after a double mastectomy. ‘Taking some flesh outta me back,’ the woman told Joanne as they waited, and Joanne raised her eyebrows in a gesture of The wonders of modern medicine!
For a while Joanne felt guilty about taking up this bed when there were clearly more needy candidates than she. Again, she wrestled with the idea that it was plain old vanity that put her here, that if she were a stronger person, a more self-confident person, perhaps if she were in a relationship, then this would not be such a problem. Maybe the operation would not be necessary after all.
But now, as she lies propped up on the polythene-covered mattress and the sweat is pouring over her skin, trickling down her armpits where the flesh of her breasts meets her biceps, she has to admit that she can’t go on like this for ever. And, absurdly, she’s gone up another cup size since Christmas – even though she’s not actually gained any weight. She even came off the Pill in the hope it would make a difference. It didn’t.
Much in the same way as pregnant women do for after the birth of the baby, Joanne’s treated herself to some new clothes for after the operation. She’s been told that once the swelling goes down she can expect to be a 36 C/D cup. She googled it and apparently that converts to a size fourteen in blouses and tops, so she can finally do away with shopping in Evans.
She’s bought a finely knitted black rollneck. The assistant gave Joanne a look to suggest: You’ll never get in this. Ridiculously, Joanne muttered something along the lines of how it would make a lovely gift for her Auntie Jackie.
And she’s bought a dress. An actual dress.
Joanne has not been able to wear a dress since – well, since for ever. From adolescence onwards, Joanne’s top half was four sizes bigger than her bottom half, which meant dresses were out of the question. She spent the next twenty years in a succession of black trousers and uninspiring smocked tops.
The anaesthetist is making the rounds. ‘No,’ Joanne is not allergic to anything, ‘Yes,’ she’s had surgery before (tonsils out when she was seven). ‘No,’ she doesn’t have problems with her heart or her breathing.
He asks her if she knows what she’s in here for, and Joann
e eyes him suspiciously. ‘Yes . . . ?’ she answers, frowning.
‘I need you to tell me what the operation is out loud,’ he says apologetically, and Joanne realizes he’s not being facetious, he’s asking her this to prevent a mix-up. Like, she might wake up from surgery with the end of her right thumb missing, or her tubes tied or her ears pinned back neatly against the side of her head.
The four women don’t yet know what order they’ll be in, but they’ve been given a pre-med and as the next ten minutes pass the room becomes noticeably quieter. The chit-chat between them dies out as each patient starts to drift a little.
Joanne’s wondering if this warm, contented feeling is similar to the response to opiates. Because if it is, she now totally gets how you could sell your own mother to get your hands on some. Everything is at peace and she can’t think of a single thing troubling her. Any apprehension she had about the operation is melting away. She’s flooded with an overwhelming sensation of love, of well-being.
Joanne glances down, and for the first time in over twenty years she’s feeling A-Okay with her disastrous breasts. She looks at them for what is probably going to be the last time ever and feels almost sorry to see them go. She has a fond expression on her face, as if she’s saying goodbye to an old lover.
Joanne understands she’s not really with it and casts around the room to see the same spacey expressions on her ward companions’ faces. Each woman is smiling, hands resting neatly on her tummy, a vague trusting look on her face.
‘Joanne Aspinall?’
‘Hmm?’
‘We’re ready to take you down now.’
