by Beth Moran
I stepped in a puddle early one morning, up to my ankle in freezing water. Oh the thrill of squelching along, toes tingling, sock sopping, mud-spattered trainer well and truly out of retirement.
And the ache! From where overgrown nails pressed against the edge of my trainer, through soles, arches and heel, right up into the ankle. My throbbing, attention-demanding, hard days’ graft, worn-out muscles and tired bones gloriously ached.
I soaked them in long, hot baths, tears plopping onto the bubbles. The clamour from the physical feelings were continuing to wake up deeper – soul-deep – feelings kept carefully dormant for years. They stirred and stretched: thick, black grief rose alongside disappointment. Curiosity brought with it joy. Joy. Hope’s sister. The antidote to despair. It seemed these feelings were a package deal: fear and loss, wonder and anticipation. There were so many of them, the only way to make room for them all was to let some out: to cry and wail, laugh and sing.
I stored them up on my morning runs, my occasional night-time walks, and once Joey left for school each morning, I would let the feelings come, embrace the agony and the exhilaration as they swirled and ripped right through my heart and soul. To feel was to be alive.
I was living once more. Not a measly portion of me, a skin-deep, just-about-enough-to-survive part of me. Every blood vessel, tendon and cell hummed with life.
And, oh, I would feel it all.
I was now running every Wednesday and Sunday, and walking Joey home from training four weekday evenings. Each foray out was a new adventure. Although, like any real adventure, still scary and daunting and sheer hard work a lot of the time. I saw a fox, one evening. It stood and watched me from the opposite pavement, eyes glowing in the reflection of the street light.
As the nights grew longer, I started setting off a little earlier, walking different, longer routes. One evening, I made an extra detour to post a letter. Another day, I braved the local greengrocers, meeting Joey with a paper bag full of plums I had chosen myself, gently squeezing each fruit to check its ripeness, just because I could.
On a particularly bold Saturday evening, Joey and I walked to the square to get fish and chips for tea. We hadn’t talked about Sean again, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before Joey decided he’d been patient enough and a decision would have to be made. Until then, I was enjoying some uncomplicated mother and son time. This was a dream come true for me, heading out together to do something normal like actually taking away our takeaway, instead of having someone else deliver it. I squeezed my hands, stuffed deep inside my pockets, with glee.
‘He was, like, a giant, Mum,’ Joey marvelled as we crunched through the frost. ‘Taller than Nathan. And built. I was faster, but his turns were unbelievable.’
‘You don’t sound massively disappointed.’ A new competitor had pipped Joey in one of the races at a regional swim meet.
‘I have graciously conceded defeat to a superior athlete.’ He glanced at me. ‘This once. Next time he’ll be choking on my backsplash.’
‘That’s a solid attitude for someone who just lost for the first time all year.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s like that part in the film where the hero gets beaten by a stronger, fitter enemy. He might mooch about for a bit, but then he gets his head back in the game, decides he’s got to… Hang on, is that Cee-Cee?’
Up ahead, crossing the square, an old woman shuffled through the decaying remains of autumn leaves. Before I could react, Joey had sprinted over and skidded right in front of her.
‘Hey, Cee-Cee,’ he beamed.
‘Joey.’ She nodded, stiffly.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine.’ Woah. She did not look fine. Even in the dark, I could see the bitter lines etched across her face. ‘Raced today?’
‘Yeah,’ Joey was still smiling. ‘I came second in the backstroke.’
If possible, Cee-Cee’s frown sharpened even further.
‘But it’s cool, gives me more incentive to dig that bit deeper next time.’
Cee-Cee took a long moment to silently express what she thought about that lackadaisical attitude. The eyebrows said it all. ‘And your mother?’
Joey pointed me out, foiling my attempt at passing for a new Brooksby Square art installation. ‘Woman frozen in guilty horror’, it would have been called.
Cee-Cee’s face flinched, the equivalent of anyone else fainting with shock. ‘Right. Well. I won’t keep you. Nice to see you, Joey.’ She paused, managed a strangled, ‘Amelia,’ then shuffled off, considerably faster than before.
‘That was a bit weird.’ Joey bounded back up to me, where I was still imitating the frozen woman. ‘Did she seem different to you?’
I pressed one hand against my heart, as if that might get it back under control, and sucked in a slow, deep breath.
‘I mean, not old exactly. Like she’d sprung a puncture and the air was slowly leaking out. Do you think she’s okay?’ he asked.
Another long, slow breath. ‘I’m sure she will be.’
But I wasn’t at all sure. I also wasn’t sure that it was not my problem. Should I go after her? Call her up and invite her round for tea? Give it one more chance? The thought of letting Cee-Cee back into our lives still filled me with dread. I knew I wasn’t strong enough, still had too many difficult days to resist relinquishing control again and slipping straight back into our old pattern. But was it right to sacrifice the woman who had saved me, saved Joey, for my own freedom?
‘Let’s get food, Mum. I’m starving.’ Joey tugged on my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts and reminding me of one thing I did know: I had to get well, for Joey’s sake as much as my own, and in order to do that I had to put my needs first for now. At the moment, the Programme was working – I was here, after all, in the village square on a Saturday evening, and Cee-Cee would respect that I couldn’t risk messing that up.
I followed my son into the batter-filled warmth of the chip shop, sucking in a delicious lungful of salt and vinegar as the door jingled shut behind us.
‘All right?’ the woman behind the counter said. Kelly, her name was, or Kayleigh. Something like that. Her daughter had been in Joey’s class right through primary school. ‘Ain’t seen you in a good while. ’Ow you keepin’?’
‘Good, thanks. How are you? How’s Lucy getting on?’
A three-minute chat with Kelly (Kathy?). Handing over the money myself. Watching Joey blush when Lucy appeared.
I was keepin’ good.
I couldn’t contact Cee-Cee. Not yet.
22
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Fifty-Nine
Cee-Cee was still shuffling about in my head the next morning. I trundled along near the back of the Larkabouts flock, trying to ignore Nathan’s concerned glances.
So, when Dani made her usual invite to stay and have a drink in the Cup and Saucer, safe in the knowledge that dawn was a good hour away, I overruled my needling anxiety and said yes.
The fear was there, even as I ordered coffee and a cranberry granola square and found a seat with a decent escape route to the door. Chuntering in the background as Mel worried about Jordan’s new girlfriend (‘she’s all about herself, that one, Jord should know better’) and Dani showed off the photos of her niece’s Nigerian-style wedding (five hundred guests, and a whole lot of party), I did my best to ignore it as Selena loudly berated Audrey.
‘Sprinkling a few berries on the top doesn’t magically dissolve all the fat and sugar,’ she sneered. ‘It’s like you want to hear Dr Cooley tell you the prediabetic is no longer pre.’
Audrey carefully cut her waffles into twelve little squares, then deliberately proceeded to eat, seemingly deaf to Selena’s tuts and disgusted sips of beetroot coffee.
‘Looks great,’ I said, quietly. ‘I’ve not had waffles in ages.’
Audrey swivelled her eyes in my direction, briefly, before repositioning her plate a couple of inches away from me.
Right. Okay…
Thoroughl
y rebuffed, I nervously looked to Mel on the opposite side of me, hoping to slide back into her conversation, but she was already standing up to go.
‘Gotta get back to the rabble.’ Mel jammed on a turquoise bobble hat, stuffing her strawberry milkshake ponytail inside. ‘See ya later, everyone!’
I briefly debated getting up and joining Dani, now showing the photos to a different table, but before I could decide whether to leave Audrey alone with her waffles (despite that appearing to be her preferred seating arrangement, it would still seem rude to everyone else), Dani slid her phone back in her pocket and also made to leave.
‘Sorry, I have to run, too. Four incredibly brave young women are counting on me sending a particularly nasty piece of work to prison this week. I need time to perfect my killer lines.’ She blew us all a kiss and was off.
Great. I hunched awkwardly in the chair as Audrey worked on her second waffle. The other table laughed riotously as Bronwyn told a joke about some new guy she was seeing. I eyed the escape route, desperate to ditch the rest of my granola square and make a run for it.
But, then, if I left now, would I ever dare come back? My heart began to speed up, the all too familiar dizziness tossing and tumbling behind my eyes.
Stuff it, my mouth was too dry to eat the stupid square anyway.
I jerked back my chair with a screech, tried to find enough air to at least say goodbye to Audrey, hoping I could slip past the others without them noticing. Rallied the exhausted muscles in my legs. Closed my eyes, started counting to ten. Got to about six and then forgot what came next.
‘Hey,’ a soft voice said, from somewhere close by. ‘Aren’t you going to finish that granola?’
I opened my eyes. Nathan was in Mel’s vacated seat. He gestured towards the plate with his chin.
‘It’s important to refuel after pushing your muscles so hard.’
Unable to speak, let alone find the coordination to pick up a piece of crumbling grains and berries, I simply stared back at him, aware my eyes were probably bugging half out of my head.
‘You’re doing great,’ he murmured. ‘Just keep breathing, nice and slowly. Take your time.’
Easier said than done.
I tried to unscramble my brain and catch hold of one of the techniques that had been helping me so much lately. Breathe, yes. What else? Find a focus. Yes. I could do that. Find something to focus on. Come on, Amy, there must be something here. Concentrate.
‘So, Audrey, are you still in the bridge club?’ Nathan turned away, breaking the eye contact which had been keeping me tethered. I felt another flood of panic rolling up, but before it overwhelmed me, a warm hand gently prised mine off the arm of the chair and clasped it.
For a few moments, as my neurons righted themselves and my heart skittered back to a speed in the range of non-critical, I could focus on nothing else.
Nathan supplemented Audrey’s one-word answers about her bridge club with pleasant conversation and thoughtful questions for another few minutes, until Selena barked something about a microneedling regeneration appointment for her upper arms and they both left.
Once Audrey had trudged out the door, Nathan gave my hand a soft squeeze, then dropped it.
‘Better?’
Um…
‘You said it helped, having a hand to hold.’
Err…
‘That time when you needed to get to the pharmacy.’ His eyes grew wide with concern. ‘You said holding a hand helped. When we were crossing the road… I saw you starting to panic and I thought it would help. I mean, you were, weren’t you? Beginning to have a panic attack? Not that I hope you were, except, well, if you weren’t, and I just grabbed you for no reason in the middle of a café, then, honestly, I’m really sorry. And next time, please just pull your hand away, and tell me to get lost, or, I don’t know, slap me or something.’ His face creased up into utter horror and dismay.
Phew, Amy, get some air moving back through those vocal cords at some point today, can’t you?
‘Yes.’ I squeezed my own hands together now, hoping it might help. Stared at the remaining chunk of granola, a much safer and altogether more appropriate focal point. ‘It helped. Thank you.’
If by helped, I meant was the loveliest thing that has happened to me in forever. Or, perhaps, felt like I had found my true source of gravity, and all my haphazard, helpless, swirling through time and space could rest for a moment, that moment, tucked inside your hand.
‘Granola,’ Nathan said, thankfully intercepting the runaway thought-train.
‘What?’ Was this an impromptu word-association game? ‘Should I say something like “Bird seed” or “Veganuary”?’
‘You can say what you like, as long as you finish your post-run breakfast.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Do you ever switch off?’
He looked at me, as if baffled.
‘Kick back and relax, break a few rules, do something naughty but nice? Indulge in a guilty pleasure?’
‘I don’t see what breaking rules has to do with being relaxed.’
‘That depends on what kind of rules you follow.’ I deliberately pushed away my plate, signalling that, no, I was not going to finish my post-run, refuelling, muscle-regenerating breakfast.
‘I believe in the rules I follow. Adhering to them means I can relax, happy I’ve made healthy, positive choices.’
‘I disagree. Following some rigid system of rules all the time, with complete inflexibility, might ensure physical benefits, but it isn’t good for you mentally or emotionally.’
And I speak from experience, ladies and gentlemen.
Nathan frowned, sitting back as the café owner brought him a plate of two eggs on thick-cut rye bread. ‘The usual, mate. Sorry about the wait.’
‘Cheers, Chris.’
I don’t know where it came from, quite possibly some residual ooomf from the hand-holding, but I caught Chris before he went back to the counter, ‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ He glanced at my plate. ‘Is the granola okay? It was fresh this morning.’
Sheesh, I was never going to order granola again.
‘Does Nathan order the same food every time he comes in?’
Chris grinned. ‘He doesn’t need to order, we just plate it up, soon as he’s finished his pint of water. Breakfast: two eggs on rye. Lunch: chicken and avo salad. If he pops in for a client meeting, green tea and a gluten-free, dairy-free, processed-sugar-free date and banana bite.’
‘Thank you.’ I turned back to Nathan as Chris wandered off again, my eyebrows raised in vindication.
‘I don’t see your point. What’s wrong with eating well?’ He shuffled in his seat. He saw my point.
‘Eating well, or eating to an exact, rigid, robotic, Mr Boring spreadsheet of no fun?’
‘You’re calling me boring now? You, with the jam-packed, thrills and spills, whirlwind of a social calendar?’
If Cee-Cee had made that comment, I might have jabbed my teaspoon up her nostril. Instead, I had to fight back a smile. It had been a long time since anyone except Joey had teased me. At some point, Nathan had strolled on into the ‘knows me well enough to banter’ zone. I liked him being there more than was sensible.
‘At least I’m working on my issues.’ I pointed at him, accusingly. ‘What do you eat if you’re at a party? Or a wedding?’ Dani could probably have made use of my cross-examination skills in court today. ‘Do you eat chicken salad for Christmas dinner, while lecturing your family about refuelling and post-present-unwrapping cool-downs?’
He smiled at that. Then frowned again.
‘Seriously, do you ever eat something just because it tastes good, or you feel like it, or it brings back a lovely memory, or is a fun way to mark a special moment?’
‘I think what I eat does taste good.’
‘What did you eat on your last birthday?’
‘I can’t remember.’ Nathan shovelled in a forkful of eggs, stuffing his mouth too full to speak.
‘Ei
ther you ate what’s on the spreadsheet of boringness, or you didn’t. Don’t pretend you can’t remember whether you sometimes commit food crime or not.’
He chose not to answer that.
Intrigued, I waited until he’d swallowed the last mouthful, then pushed a little further. ‘When was the last time you did something spontaneous?’
Nathan sat back, eying me suspiciously. ‘Is this interrogation some kind of revenge for that second hill?’
I pressed one hand to my chest, as if shocked and affronted. ‘Interrogation? I’m just making conversation, trying to pick up some life hacks from my coach. Now I’m wondering why that question makes you feel uncomfortable.’
‘It doesn’t.’ He shifted, uncomfortably. ‘I like order and routine and following a system. I’m cool with that, and if the situation called for it, I could change my plans.’
Chris came back at that point to clear our plates. ‘Nathan, change plans? Maybe if there was a meteor strike. Or a terrorist attack. If he broke both his legs halfway through a training session, he’d drag himself through the rest on his backside.’
‘I can change my plans,’ Nathan said, his face turning an interesting shade of pink.
‘That’s like your mate Harry saying he can go a whole night out without a drink, he just can’t provide a single example.’ Chris winked at me and started to walk away. Then he froze, and backed up again. ‘Hang on, I just remembered. A few weeks back. The match. We thought you must have been hit by a bus or something.’
‘Okay, thanks, Chris,’ Nathan interrupted. ‘I think you’ve got a customer waiting.’
Chris glanced back. ‘There’s no one there, mate.’ He turned to me. ‘We were seriously worried. Nathan never misses a warm-up. He’s never even been late. To bunk off the first match of the season? Against our arch-rivals, Houghton? Couldn’t believe it. We lost, as well. The lads’ve changed his shirt name to No Show.’
