When Mum came to get me on Boxing Day, Jimmy gave her a nice thank you card, which she has put up on the kitchen counter. It’s got flowers on the front. I wish I was able to open it to read it, because I’d love to know how he skirted around the Incident in it, amongst his profuse thanks. He’s so diplomatic, I’m sure he managed it somehow.
Eliza left that afternoon, too. She told Mum she needed to go home because she hadn’t brought any of her stuff with her. In normal circumstances, Mum would have seen through that lie in an instant, but these are not normal circumstances.
After we got home on Boxing Day, Mum just sat down on our sofa and stared into space for quite a while. She put me in front of the TV, turned it up very loud, and then went into the kitchen, from where I heard loud clatters of saucepans and plates, and occasional sobs.
The twenty-four hours since have been deadly. That period after Christmas, that annual anti-climax, it’s a time of hangovers and regret in most houses, I know. But here, this year, it’s been almost funereal. As the sun set on Boxing Day, Mum grabbed a large black bin bag from under the sink and started ripping down the decorations she’d taken weeks to put up. She did it with such force that she left the pictures on our walls awry, and she scratched the mantelpiece when she removed the angel candlesticks Eliza had made her in primary school. I watched her try to take the fairy lights down from the tree beside my bed. When she couldn’t remove them easily because they’d become tangled up in the branches, she simply grabbed a pair of scissors, snipped through the wires and chucked the whole set into the bag. Then, when she was finished, she took several large black bin bags to the tip, and with them, a whole host of my Christmas memories.
Then there was the tree. I watched her wrestling it inside a few weeks ago, sighing and panting with the effort of putting it up. She had spent hours getting the light-to-tree ratio just right, tying ribbons on the ends of its branches, and hanging decorations all over its broad expanse with delicate green hooks. Now, she ripped them off in minutes, apparently not caring if they were unusable next year, and instead of putting the glass ones in egg boxes for safe keeping, they went into a large plastic bag with the rest. Once these were off, she tipped the tree over onto the floor and took the lights off over the top of it, ending up with a massive ball of wires, bulbs and plugs, resembling tumbleweed. I watched her chuck this into another black bag which she then hauled upstairs and flung into the roof-space, so an enormous challenge is lying in wait for next year.
Finally, she unscrewed the tree trunk from its stand, grabbed the tree right where our family angel had been perched just minutes before, and dragged it through the hall and outside into our tiny front garden, scattering pine needles and decorations she’d missed in its wake. It’s still there, right outside my window, and sometimes the winter sun catches one of the small pieces of tinsel fibre in its branches and I catch it glinting. I see dog walkers looking at it curiously on their daily rounds, wondering why it’s been put out for collection so early.
This nausea is getting worse. And there’s pain now, in my bowels, I think. Oh my God, I need to poo.
This isn’t a common occurrence. In fact, due to my inactivity, I generally have problems going to the loo and I’m given laxatives to help. One of the carers has to sit me on the toilet for up to half an hour most days before I manage to produce anything. It’s both boring and awkward, but this, this is urgent, and there are no laxatives required.
I wail in the direction of the monitor. Oh God, I hope Mum wakes up fast. This is bad. Really bad. The pain is ratcheting up and I’m not sure how long I can hold on.
Here she comes, stumbling down the stairs, unsure of her footing in the dark. I hear her fumble for the light switch at the bottom and she runs into the room, calling out as she comes.
‘Patience! Patience!’ She’s with me now. Thank God.
‘Oh shit, I forgot to leave the light on. Shit. Hang on…’ She’s leaning over the bedside table, looking for the switch on the cord. Then she overbalances and falls briefly against the wall, before righting herself. She succeeds in finding the switch, and we have light.
There are snakes at work down below. They are writhing inside me, and they are angry.
She looks dreadful. Her hair is greasy, her eyes are bloodshot – and she smells. I think it might be alcohol; I’m allowed a taste of her gin and tonic sometimes and it smells a bit like this. Sweet and sour.
But never mind that. There are slugs in my gullet, too, and they are trying to come out of the other exit. I gulp them back down, praying I can keep them at bay.
‘Argggggh’ my mouth manages to exclaim. ‘Arrgggghhhhh.’
‘Oh crap! Patience, I’m coming. What is it? What is it, darling?’
She looks at me, holds my head in her clammy hands, as if willing me to form words, but of course I bloody can’t. She puts her hand to my forehead; no fever. She feels my pulse; it’s racing. I can see her panic increasing. She must be worried I’m about to have a fit, or that I’ve already had one. But then I let out a huge rriiiiiiippp from my bottom and she knows.
I can see Mum trying to work out what to do, battling the fog in her brain.
‘I’m going to get you to the loo.’ But Mum isn’t supposed to operate the hoist by herself. Someone is supposed to be with her. Usually, a carer sleeps in. But we don’t have night cover this week, because Dad is supposed to be here.
‘Right then. Let’s roll you over.’ That smell grows stronger as she nears me and grasps my shoulders. I’m worried that she might not be able to pull me up to sitting, but she manages it, with a strength I haven’t seen her display before.
The slugs in my gullet are nearing the exit.
It’s then that she realises that her hoist is out of her reach. It’s over by the toilet, a few steps away. I see her thinking about it, wondering what to do. And then she makes her choice. She leaves me sitting there on the edge of the bed, bending over towards my knees, just for an instant.
But an instant is enough. Within a second, I am falling.
Thump.
Crack.
I open my mouth as I’m about to hit the floor and a torrent of vomit emits from my throat. My pad fills with brown, stinking sludge.
And Mum screams.
PART TWO
17
Eliza and Patience
January 7
It was below freezing and the sun, weak but welcome, illuminated the ice crystals that had formed on the path outside Patience’s respite care home, making it sparkle. As Eliza walked up to the door, she noticed that someone had planted bulbs all along the lawn to her right and there were shoots just poking through, hinting at the new life and warmth to come. She knew that some of the families of the residents took turns to look after this garden, and she was glad that they did. The building itself – a 1980s red-brick box of a bungalow – could never be called beautiful, but it was wonderful that its residents could look outside and see flowers, green grass, bees and butterflies.
Patience had always loved butterflies. She giggled whenever she saw one and followed them with her eyes. When they were both small, Eliza had caught one once, on a warm summer’s day. She’d held it softly in her hands and carried it over to show to her sister. When she’d opened her fingers just a crack to show her, Patience had laughed with such intensity that Eliza had been shocked and let it go. It had flown right into Patience, bumping into her nose before heading back into the nearest honeysuckle. Patience had grinned with pure joy.
Patience’s smile had always been an extraordinary tonic for Eliza. It was an innocent smile, a pure smile, and it was something that she desperately needed to see. Her office had shut down over the whole Christmas break and since leaving her childhood home on Christmas Day she hadn’t seen a single soul. Surrounded by walls stripped of pictures and half-filled cupboards, Eliza had realised that her flat was now not so much a sanctuary, as solitary confinement. She desperately needed to see a friendly face, and that meant Patience. She
’d been sent here from hospital to convalesce after her horrible vomiting bug and fall, and Eliza wanted to reassure herself that she was comfortable and recovering – and she also had something very important to ask.
She rang the doorbell and one of the carers, a woman who she didn’t recognise, came to the door. Eliza introduced herself and the woman beckoned her in and told her to make her own way to Patience’s room.
Eliza found her sister sitting in her chair watching a DVD of The Muppets. The DVD had been hers first, like many of Patience’s collection. They must have seen it hundreds of times, but Patience showed no sign of getting bored of it. Eliza could see that her eyes were fixed on the screen, and her hands were still, resting, not wringing, a sure sign that she was concentrating. Eliza broke this bubble with a large kiss on her sister’s cheek.
‘Wotcha, Patience,’ she said, placing her face right in her sister’s line of vision. ‘I’m back, the prodigal sister. Now, let me see how bad it is…’
Pretty bad, sis. Pretty bad.
Eliza tried not to wince when she saw Patience’s face. Her alabaster skin was now black and yellow, and her left eye was only just visible through the swelling on that side of her face. They’d kept her in hospital for a few days after her fall, largely due to the horrible gastroenteritis she’d developed, which had left her dehydrated and exhausted. But they’d eventually been persuaded by Louise to discharge her here, with extra nursing support to keep an eye on her as she recovered.
Mum had wanted her back at home, but Dad had stepped in and refused to let that happen, emphasising his wife’s need for rest and Patience’s medical needs. That hadn’t been the real reason though, Eliza knew. He hadn’t said so out loud – to do so might have nudged the medical staff in the direction of a call to the police and all of the horror that would ensue as a result – but it was clear to both of them that Louise had been incredibly drunk while in charge of Patience and they were both still processing that.
When she and her father had met in hospital on that dreadful night, having bombed up and down their respective motorways after being woken by phone calls from a very sympathetic A & E nurse, they had looked at each other with mutual understanding. They both had to step up now.
Her mum had been sitting slumped on a chair beside Patience’s hospital bed, her head in her hands. A nurse had been standing next to her, rubbing her back as she retched into a cardboard bowl, more from shock, apparently, than booze, although they could both smell alcohol on her.
Dad had taken decisive action as soon as he’d taken in that distressing vignette. He asked the doctors to sign Louise off sick from work for a few weeks and Professor Larssen had been very understanding when Dad had called him to let him know, which she was pretty impressed by, as he had been fairly terse. They’d decided not to mention the booze, had just said that Mum was very unwell. The professor hadn’t questioned it.
What on earth had gone on that night, though? And why was Mum drinking so heavily? What had triggered it? Or maybe it had been going on for months or years and they’d been too stupid to notice?
Eliza turned the TV off and spun her sister’s wheelchair around to face her. Then she sat down on Patience’s single bed, sinking into its extra-thickness mattress topper, a measure designed to stop her getting sore.
‘So, hey. Sorry about turning the TV off, but I want your full attention. Here’s where we are,’ she began, moving her head from left to right to try to attract Patience’s gaze. After a few seconds she caught her eye and Patience looked at her, straight on, as if she was taking it all in.
Spill. I have all the time in the world.
Eliza took a deep breath and spoke softly, so none of the carers outside in the hallway could hear. ‘Firstly, I’m so sorry that I haven’t been home more. I got caught up with my own drama. And so I feel like all of this mess is my fault. If I’d been here more often, maybe I’d have been able to see what was happening with Mum? Anyhow, I’m going to try to be around more from now on.’
Eliza took one of her sister’s hands, noting how it relaxed as she did so.
None of this is your fault, Sis. Stop blaming yourself. You always do this, and you’re wrong. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I’m the one with the bloody useless body.
‘Secondly, I’m still pregnant. Or at least, I think I am. I haven’t had a period and I feel as shit as it’s possible to feel. I haven’t told Ed, before you ask, and I haven’t told Mum and Dad either, because – well, you know why. I’m not going to keep it though, don’t worry. My life is enough of a mess. Wedding-wise though, I’m afraid, my lovely, that we’re going to have to send your bridesmaid dress back, and that’s a shame, because you look lovely in green.’
Eliza paused for the sardonic response she knew, just knew, that Patience would make, if she was able to talk.
I don’t look good in any colour, you moron.
‘Anyway, I am going to let Mum and Dad know about the wedding stuff soon. Possibly today. I’m on my way to see her now. I need to find out what’s really going on with the two of them. I mean, have you ever seen it this bad?’ Patience moved her eyes a bit. Eliza took that to mean that she agreed.
Erroneously, as it turned out.
It’s always bad, sister mine. Surely you remember how bad it was, how strong and deadly the undercurrent often was, at home? That’s why you escaped and moved to London, isn’t it? But I don’t blame you. I’d also escape, if I could.
When Eliza had driven to Oxford impulsively on Christmas Eve, she had thought, in the far recesses of her mind, that she might be able to tell her mum the truth – both about the wedding being off and about the pregnancy. She had wanted to do so, badly; she had longed for Louise to hold her tight as she wept, to hear her say that she was loved and that it didn’t matter, like she had done when she was small, when something awful had happened at school. But she had known when her mum had met her at the door the next morning, with a look on her face more weary than she’d ever seen before, that she could do no such thing.
Growing up, Louise had been the driving force behind everything they’d done as a family; every celebration, every holiday, every nice meal. Outwardly, she had appeared to be incredibly organised, always full of energy. Neighbours and friends had openly called her superwoman. At home, however, her mask had sometimes slipped. And when it had, it had been miserable – for a teenage, hormonally-controlled Eliza, especially. She had struggled to empathise with her mother, embroiled as she had been in her own struggles. Eliza now realised, however, that it must have been incredibly exhausting to maintain that act daily, for decades.
That’s why she knew that telling her mum the truth about the detritus in her own life might cause what was left of Louise’s simulated stability to disperse completely. And she could never live with that. No, her secrets would have to wait a little longer to come to the surface, particularly because she also had to decide whether to take on the role of consultee for Patience in the gene therapy trial. She had taken her role seriously, doing all the reading she could about it, trying her best to understand the pros and cons. It was a minefield, she had discovered. She could see both sides of the argument very clearly.
In the one corner, there was Dad, determined to protect his daughter from even more harm; on the other, there was Mum, desperate to turn back time and take all of the harm away. She desperately didn’t want to play piggy in the middle between her two warring parents, but Louise’s forceful, persuasive personality had corralled her into a corner, as it had done many times over her childhood. She was only just beginning to realise that this was a pattern she was doomed to repeat.
The gene therapy trial team had sent her a form to sign. They needed her permission, on behalf of Patience, ahead of the Best Interests meeting where the final decision would be made. She had not signed it yet, because she hadn’t made up her mind. That’s why she was here. She wanted to ask Patience about it first.
‘Anyhow, there’s this thing I wanted to
ask and I’m not really sure how to ask it. Or even, why I’m asking, because you have never been able to answer me, damn it. But I so wish you could. You always look so wise.’
Eliza looked down at their joined hands and shifted position on the bed. ‘Anyway, here it is. Mum has entered you in for a gene therapy trial. You know about that, I think? Has anyone spoken to you about it? I expect they have.’
Nope.
‘Anyway, the scientists are promising all sorts of amazing things. Talking, maybe, or walking. Can you imagine that? And it might be great for you, Patience, it really might. But Dad doesn’t want you to do it. Because it’s untested and – and they are going to test it on you.’
This again. Still no detail. What on earth does it involve and do I want to do it? Tell me. Tell. Me. I can take it.
Eliza assessed her sister’s face. Patience’s gaze was now focussed on the mural on the wall behind her. Did she even know she was there at all? She sometimes wondered. But she persevered.
‘The risks are… worrying. You might get cancer. Or you might need brain surgery afterwards, to make room in your brain. Or you might just feel incredibly weird for a long time.’
Shit.
‘But then, I suppose you might wake up the next morning, and be able-bodied, like me. Although that’s not all it’s cracked up to be, as you know. Anyway, because Mum and Dad are disagreeing, they have asked me to decide. On your behalf. And the thing is… I wanted to know… Do you want to try? Do you want to risk it? It’ll mean a spell in hospital.’
Suddenly, Eliza was hit hard in the face by a memory of her own time in hospital; of blood, of pain, regret… She grasped Patience’s hand tighter.
The two sisters sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the hum of activity elsewhere in the care home; someone was washing up, someone was moaning, and the TV was prattling on next door. Eliza was clasping Patience’s hands which were, unusually, perfectly still. Then, Patience’s gaze returned to her sister. Her expression was blank, but her eyes – were they wet?
Patience Page 17
