by Chloe James
‘No I’m fine,’ I wave my hand.
‘I thought he was looking for a dog and I’ve got this colleague, Jan – you know the one with the husband with the ridiculous amount of body hair and none on his head?’
‘Erm …’ I can’t remember actually. I get confused with who’s who amongst all Erica’s friends, though you’d think I’d remember a description like that.
‘Well he’s busy at the moment as he’s working two jobs – taken one as a delivery driver as well as his other job, because they’re desperate for delivery staff. You know all the supermarkets and stuff – and besides they need the money.’
‘Yeah.’ I’m still confused as to what Erica’s on about.
‘And Jan is having to work long shifts at the hospital as always, so their dog, Tilly, is being left long periods of time and she’s begun to get separation anxiety.’
‘Oh that’s a shame. Dogs hate being left alone all the time – they’re social creatures.’
‘Well this one certainly is and she’s started getting really distressed – the dog that is, not Jan although she is upset about it as she loves Tilly. Anyway the long and short of it is that they’re looking for a home for her.’
‘Oh.’ I stop my rummaging and pay attention. ‘What breed of dog is she?’
‘A small spaniel I think – you know one of those King Charles?’
‘Cavalier King Charles?’
‘Yeah something like that. Anyway she’s red and white. With a cute little face, lively little thing from what I remember. I only met her once when I went over to Jan’s for dinner. Jumped all over me, which was annoying.’
‘You’re not really a dog person though are you?’
‘Not really. Give me a cat any day; you know where you are with a cat. But she’s quite sweet – has a thing for socks, carries them round in her mouth.’
‘She sounds lovely. How old is she?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked Jan. I wasn’t sure if you were still looking or not. But I told her you’ve got an old friend who lives on his own who would never leave the dog for long and she would get loads of attention.’
‘She would – it would be perfect. Have you got a photo?’
‘Yes somewhere on my phone. Give me a mo.’ She scrolls through her photos.
‘How many have you got on there?’
‘Millions,’ she replies drily. ‘Oh here she is. She’s very cute.’
She holds the phone up to reveal a photo of a small Blenheim-coloured Cavalier King Charles spaniel, looking up at the camera with the breed’s trademark beseeching eyes.
‘Oh my gosh, she is gorgeous,’ I say admiringly. ‘You have to text her now that we’re interested. Bertie would love her. Absolutely.’ I throw my agreement with Jack to the wind, excited that I’ll have something positive to bolster Bertie with after we give him such difficult news.
‘Ow!’ I realise I’ve been clutching Erica’s arm and I’ve totally creased the clean freshly ironed shirt she’s got on. Having said that, to be fair it’s always me who irons it.
‘All right, all right, I’ll text her. Don’t forget to have the pancakes,’ she orders as she leaves my room.
Once I’m dressed, I wander out into the kitchen to discover the bowls and the pan, all left in the sink. That’s the thing about Erica: she might occasionally cook, but likes to use every single pan in the cupboard and seems to forget they all need washing up. The banana pancake tastes delicious anyway and I enjoy the sugar hit whilst texting Jack.
Hey, are you awake? Thanks for last night.
Hey, nice to hear from you so early, he replies.
It’s 10 a.m.
I know; that is early.
Okay, I put a laughing face emoji, anyway I think we might have found Bertie a dog!
That’s great, but weren’t we waiting ’til we’d dealt with the other thing?
Yes we were, but I don’t think we can pass up this opportunity. Erica’s work colleague is having to rehome her dog because of their working hours and she looks perfect for Bertie. Look! I post the pic of Tilly with a smiley face and puppy faces and hearts next to it.
I can see you’re sold then.
She’d be going to a perfect home with Bertie.
She would – he would make such a fuss of her, he writes back. So what are we going to do about the other thing?
What do you think we should do? I don’t want to lose this dog so maybe I’ll speak to Jan first and see if Bertie wants to meet her.
Good plan. The letter can wait. It’s been hidden for however many years; a few more days won’t make any difference.
Erica comes bouncing into the kitchen. ‘Jan was pleased to hear about Bertie. She’s going to be really upset of course, but she loves the idea that Tilly will go to a home where she’s given all the love she needs. She says she’s a right little cuddle monster.’
‘Can I go round soon?’ I ask.
‘She wants you and Bertie to meet Tilly this weekend if at all possible. She says she’d rather get it out of the way if it has to be done.’
‘That’s understandable. Okay I’ll just check with Jack and see if he thinks I should message Bertie or if he should?’
‘Jack this and Jack that. You two are like an old married couple already.’ Erica laughs.
‘We aren’t,’ I say, feeling flustered. I don’t know what we are. ‘I mean I like to ask him about stuff, but you know, only important things …’ I look up and see Erica’s expression. ‘Oh right, you’re joking … ha-ha.’
‘You are seriously joined at the hip.’
‘We do have a bit of a connection but we haven’t even met, so we’re not exactly an item.’
‘You so are.’ Erica laughs, going out and shutting the door before I can stick my tongue out at her.
Okay so are you going to tell Bertie about this dog or am I? I text Jack.
You can and send him the pic, see what he says.
Hey Bertie, I type on WhatsApp. Hope you’re well, I know we were talking about you maybe having a dog one day and I know you were only thinking about it after this lockdown. But here’s the thing. Oops I’ve pressed send before I meant to.
It’s very kind of you, love, he comes back to me before I can get the next part written, but no it doesn’t seem the right time and I’ve been feeling very low lately. I’d be pretty rubbish company for any dog. Maybe after the lockdown. Oh, no.
That’s the thing, Bertie, this little dog needs a home now. Her owner is having to work long shifts and the dog is miserable. Please at least look at her photo. She’s very sweet. I attach the photo of Tilly that Erica has just airdropped to me and sit and look at the screen, waiting anxiously. No one could resist that face. No reply. Okay maybe he can resist that face.
Ping, another message comes in.
Poor little soul, it’s gorgeous. The shame of some people. Why on earth do they get a dog if they can’t be bothered to look after it?
Oh great, Marge is on the case. I didn’t realise I’d sent my message on the group chat. I seem to have lost brain cells during this pandemic.
It’s okay, Marge, I type back. The dog has been really well looked after and the owner has just had a change of circumstances. It could happen to anyone.
Happens all the time. People just don’t think. In any case she should put her on a rescue site. They check who might be adopting, much more sensible. Otherwise you get all sorts of weirdos. Puppy farmers and stuff, they might breed from her poor little mite.
She’s spayed so I don’t think that’s going to happen, I respond. And of course I’m sure Jan will keep looking until she finds the right home for her.
She doesn’t have to. Oh it’s Bertie; he’s back. She’s a grand little dog. I’d love to have her. Sort me out a meeting – socially distanced of course, Sophia love. I would do anything to look after such a sweet little girl. She won’t have to worry about being left alone with me around.
Before I can reply, Marge is back on
the case. You want to be careful, Bert, you never know what the dog’s like. She could have all sorts of vices. I knew someone in Granthorpe who rescued a little white dog, looked like butter wouldn’t melt. I never saw such a sweet little dog. She’d only had it three days and it bit her hand. She ended up with four stitches and it went septic.
Marge is something else. If she can find a problem with something, she will.
I’ll be fine, Marge, thank you for your concern. I grit my teeth as I write back. Cavaliers have very sweet natures. More likely to lick you to death than anything else.
Well don’t say I didn’t warn you. I can imagine her sanctimonious expression as she types this.
I put Marge to one side and go back to the matter at hand. Okay, Bertie, I’ll organise a time with Jan to meet Tilly, although I’ll meet her first, just to make sure she’s friendly (to stop Marge from worrying) and then I’ll sort out a meeting for you – outside of course – and we’ll go from there. As long as you’re sure.
Sure? I think it’s meant to be. This little dog needs a home and a warm lap and I need some company. It’s a match made in heaven.
I make the arrangements through Erica and tell Jack the happy news, well, as long as it all works out anyway. My phone bings and announces I’m due on the video call with the hospital at 3 p.m. I sit myself in front of the screen having checked the view behind me is not offensive. I mean you don’t want left-over washing up, or anything embarrassing like Fifty Shades of Grey on your shelf when talking to the doctor. Mind you, they’ve probably seen it all. Whilst I’m checking the image, I accidentally press a button and for some reason my forehead becomes enormous and my cheeks puff out like a hamster. I look hilarious.
Erica wanders past casually and glances at the screen. ‘What are you doing? You look like a chipmunk.’
She peers at the screen and immediately her face changes too and we both roar with laughter. ‘Try this image,’ she snorts and our eyes swell up like comedy googly eyeballs and our teeth chatter like frenzied rabbits. We are in the middle of making stupid faces and laughing uncontrollably when my epilepsy specialist hoves into view.
Erica, still doubled up with laughter, rushes off into the kitchen and I am sobered up immediately by the sight of my doctor’s earnest and concerned face in front of me.
‘Just a second.’ I fiddle with the screen and after a couple of false starts, during which my face stretches as wide as the screen and my eyes become just two straight stretchy lines, the image goes back to normal. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say breezily as though I had just had some interference on the line or something.
‘No problem at all, computers can be tricky things.’ He twinkles at me and I relax. This is nice actually, sitting at home with a coffee instead of having to drive all the way to the hospital, struggle with parking, park three streets away, run all the way into the hospital, realise you need the toilet because you really shouldn’t have had that last coffee. Then rush to your appointment, worried you’re going to be late, panic at the length of the queue at the desk because you know you’re really late, then be shown into the waiting room to discover you’ve got a fifty-minute wait and you could have taken things a bit more steady on the way and not got half so stressed after all. But you never know; that’s the problem.
‘This is very civilised,’ I say to Mr Zivan, ‘and the clinic is on time.’
‘I know,’ he says cheerfully. ‘I haven’t had to step out of my home and I’ve managed to complete half my afternoon patients without overrunning.’
After our discussion I wander across to the balcony, stunned. ‘After more than two years seizure-free, if you are unhappy with the side effects of your medicine, you can always try coming off them,’ Dr Zivan had told me.
I had assumed I would have to stay on them for life. Of course, as the specialist has pointed out, if the seizures return as I reduce the meds, I will have to stay on them permanently, or I might even have an increase in seizures, which are harder to control, although there might be a faint possibility that, if the electrical activity in my brain is in one place, I could have an op that could make me seizure-free for the rest of my life.
‘This is a really personal decision,’ he said, ‘and because of the pandemic, I wouldn’t come off the meds until that has settled, whenever that is.’
‘What about my kids at school?’ I whispered. ‘I can’t risk having a seizure in front of them.’
‘You could lower the dose in the summer holidays,’ he suggested.
It all sounds so simple in theory, but as he had pointed out, there is always the risk I could have a seizure even in several years’ time and that thought will always lurk in the back of my mind like a marauding shark, silent, deadly and constantly there. I wouldn’t be able to drive for two years if I have a breakthrough seizure. My freedom, everything I’ve now built up slowly, painstakingly again from the beginning – that would all go and what about my family and friends? How will it affect them?
The thought of coming off my meds is a wonderful one, but at what cost? This has become my normal, this new existence on epilepsy meds – not one I’ve chosen admittedly, but now just like the idea of leaving lockdown, I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave the security of what I know to move forward into the unknown.
Chapter 32
Jack
I hear a noise from below, whilst I’m hovering restlessly on my balcony. I feel so trapped by this wretched lockdown, I want to be with Sophia to support Bertie when he reads that letter – he’s an old mate after all. I so badly want to go and meet Tilly with her, just walk to the park. It’s a simple enough request in ordinary circumstances. I look out over the rooftops and the scene below in the courtyard and wonder if this is what prisoners feel like. Although probably not; even they’re allowed outside for exercise every day.
As I observe the suburban mass in front of me I imagine what it would be like if we could see this virus, as though it were visible in blue and red clouds, spiky round shapes suspended in the air like in the images on the news on the television, like in some weird sci-fi video. I guess at least if we could see it, we would know what we were avoiding; as it is, we all see suspicion in each other’s presence, in everyday objects, in the very air we breathe.
I hear the noise again, suspiciously like a sob.
‘Sophia?’
There’s no response, but another muffled sniff.
‘I know you’re there.’ I suddenly realise if Greg or anyone is out on their balcony, they’re going to think I’m mad out here talking – for all I know – to myself. But I know she’s there, I can sense it.
‘Yes?’ she finally answers.
‘What’s wrong? Are you okay? I mean obviously you’re not because I can hear you’re crying.’ Oh shut up, Jack, you’re babbling now.
‘No I am okay, it’s just I had to talk to the specialist at the hospital and …’ She breaks off. ‘You know how it is.’
Her words bring back a flood of memories. A stream of well-meaning specialists and doctors, one after the other, throughout my childhood and teenage years, telling me my life wasn’t going to be how I planned, that it would be full of restrictions, then asking me how I felt about it. ‘I know exactly. Many a time I’ve come away from the hospital wanting to cry or shout and break a few things. Mind you I’ve only had one doctor who really wasn’t too understanding.’
‘No,’ she sniffs again, ‘although I know what you mean. I had one like that too, but mine’s lovely. It’s just he’s said I can maybe come off my meds.’
‘But that’s amazing … isn’t it?’ Then I feel stupid for saying that. I know how it is; I’ve been there. You just get used to one thing, which takes goodness knows how long, and then things change and you have to readjust all over again. ‘I don’t mean that, Soph, I mean it’s positive you maybe could come off the meds if you want, but I’m sure you have a choice.’
‘Yes I do, but it all feels a bit much at the moment. I just want to shut my epileps
y in a closet and forget about it.’
‘I know how you feel. Just give me two minutes.’ I rush inside, grab some Dairy Milk and a wad of clean tissues, go back out on the balcony and pop them in the basket, carefully lowering it down to her. ‘Watch out, incoming.’
‘Oh, Jack!’ She’s laughing and crying now. ‘I’ve got the mixed emotions!’
‘Just have a good old nose-blow and some chocolate and you’ll feel better, I promise.’
I can hear her trying to blow her nose, but it sounds more like a mewing cat and we both burst into laughter. When we manage to stop, I call down again, ‘I thought maybe you’d rescued a cat for Bertie rather than a dog.’
She laughs. ‘No, although speaking of which, I’d better get ready. I’m meant to be going to see this little dog. I just don’t feel like facing anything. Somehow talking about my epilepsy brings it all back again.’
‘That’s okay,’ I say brightly. ‘Look, the specialist said you can’t do anything about it for a while anyway, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ she replies.
‘So I know it’s tough and easier said than done, but try dismissing it as much as you can for now. You don’t need to make a decision yet. Just mull it over and in time, over the next few weeks, how you feel will become clearer.’
‘I guess.’
‘Of course the other option is, like my mum says, do a “for and against” list. Sometimes, though I won’t admit this to my mum, it does help you work through your thoughts.’
‘That’s just the sort of thing my mum suggests,’ Sophia says.
‘Did it work?’ I ask.
‘Last time I tried it I was deciding whether to stay with an ex-boyfriend at teacher training college, and yes I think it did kind of work.’
‘There you go then.’
‘I’m sorry, Jack.’
‘For what?’
‘Bleating on, about my meds when you probably can’t …’ She breaks off.
‘Can’t what?’
‘You probably can’t stop taking yours.’
‘It’s okay, I didn’t even think of that.’ It dawns on me that for once I wasn’t thinking about myself. Sophia matters to me more than anything. ‘My meds are a fact of life. I’m so used to them I don’t even remember what it was like before I started taking them. Anyway as you know, I’ve done my fair share of running away and rebelling against them. As a teenager once I didn’t tell my parents but I hid my meds and didn’t take them for two days.’
