Imprisoned by Love

by C. S. Brahams

  Before we leave, my thirst for knowledge still needs quenching. The “home” is so quiet that it feels like a place to die as opposed to a place to live. I want to know what the activities are and where they are held. Mary marches us off to a small lounge at the end of the corridor; it has a large flat screen television and a noticeboard with a printed schedule. There’s one activity every morning and another in the after­noon. Each session lasts no more than forty-five minutes.

  There are about six elderly people sitting on mauve chairs watching the television screen. Oddly, there’s no sound. The carer in the room tells us that they’re all enjoying “film night” even though it’s still morning. No wonder they’re confused in here. We sit down again though I am conscious that we may be disturbing the residents; these seem to be the ones without visitors. A woman in grey jogging trousers and a frilly flowery dress tries to talk to us. She thinks we have come to visit her. We go through the pretence to keep her happy. It is truly pathetic.

  I get the impression that Mary has better things to do with her time as she fetches another member of staff to relieve her; his name is Angel. He’s from the Philippines and fortunately he has a sunny disposition. He’s the total opposite of Mary. I ask him about the activities, besides watching the televi­sion. Michael and I don’t watch many programmes but when we do, they come with subtitles as the only Danish word we have learned over the years is “tak”. Angel proudly escorts us to the Arts and Crafts Room which is next to the lounge that we have been sitting in. There’s a large blackboard on the wall. I haven’t seen one of these since I was at school myself and even then, they were a rarity. There are several plastic bottles of poster paint on a table which is generously covered with a red plastic cloth. The paintbrushes are huge. It looks like a kindergarten. My mother and I exchange glances once again. We do not need to speak. Angel continues to tells us about the home’s “activities” which include gardening (but not in the snow); singing; exercise in the gym (which is full of hoists and crutches) and cookery without knives or sharp objects. The highlight of the week is Saturday’s bingo night.

  Before we leave, I have a sudden urge to make footprints in the back garden as well as the front. I ask Angel to show us the outdoor areas. The care home is so overheated that he’s only wearing a short-sleeved shirt (it has the home’s logo and name emblazoned on the pocket). He tries very hard to put me off, as does my mother, but I stand firm on this one. We walk back through the reception and take a different and rather narrow corridor towards a door marked exit. As soon as he opens it, there’s blast of cold air that smacks us in the faces like wet fish. I venture outside but my mother and Angel don’t. As I stump about in the snow, I notice that there are cigarette butts near the fence. I ask Angel about this. He admits that the residents do have a smoking area and some will even smoke in a blizzard. It never occurred to me that residents would be allowed to smoke. At least they have rights.

  We return to the car which is all iced up again. I tell my mother to get in and start the engine. I will wipe the screens, back and front. I am no longer the ten-year-old child two steps behind my mother and Mary. I can breathe the fresh air again and be myself. We slam the BMW doors shut and chat about the home as if it were a daytrip to a National Trust property.

  We return to “Shingles” which is nearly as big as the care home. The twins are still out and I’m guessing that they won’t be back for ages. Michael is in the kitchen slicing up bread and stuffing overly thick slices into the toaster. He is easily frustrated and thrusts his hand down onto granite work surface. My father is reading the newspaper in the sit­ting room listening to Schubert. It’s very loud. He is totally oblivious to Michael’s temper tantrums.

  I am still recovering from the cold but offer to help Michael with the toaster. He is in a foul mood. He tells me to leave him alone. He once again reprimands me for interfer­ing and emasculating him. He must be allowed to do some­thing for himself. He raises his hand towards me but sees my mother in the hall. They look at each other like two seagulls fighting over a discarded portion of chips. The male seagull has to be content with his toast on this occasion. I leave the kitchen unscathed, this time.

  Chapter 13

  New Year’s Eve

  Although we have grossly outstayed our welcome, my nuclear family has decided to encroach on Sheila and Henry’s hos­pitality until the 2nd January. I love my parents but I miss seeing people of my own age: my friends. I have been ignor­ing their texts or fobbing them off with lame excuses about being too tired or too busy. I am only harming myself. They have a right to know what’s going on. I promise to confide in someone. Maybe Emma? Maybe Rosie? Probably both. They doubtless share all their news anyway; it must be par for the course when you work as closely together as they do.

  I return to school on the 5th. I am starting to think about having a sabbatical but my mother thinks I will regret this. I wonder whether I will ever be a grown-up in her eyes. And besides, there too many little piranhas swimming around the school pond. Once I leave, I will never be allowed back in.

  It is already New Year’s Eve and it’s Michael’s birthday on the 1st January. He is genuinely depressed about being washed-up at fifty. The twins have made arrangements to meet friends at a beach bar near the Palace Pier; it sounds horrible to me. Too loud and too trendy. My parents, Michael and I, decide to have dinner at Otello’s in Hove; it’s a short walk from their house and at least the atmosphere there will be lively. We don’t even need to make polite conversation as the waiters will do that for us. I am conscious that we should reciprocate in some way and give Michael a wad of cash to put in his wallet. I want him to pay for the restaurant bill later. I want to restore some of his dignity. But I ruin this by telling him not to lose it so he loses his temper instead. I apologise for being a teacher on holiday; at least this makes him laugh. The bruise on my face is a barely traceable yel­lowish green now – much easier to conceal – so I really don’t want to receive another one, especially before the beginning of term. I need to be more careful around my altered hus­band. I keep telling myself that he can’t help it or at least I hope he can’t. But his deterioration is horribly swift. It’s almost surreal.

  Before we go out, I lie down on the bed with the pretty blue eiderdown and think about all the things that I haven’t done. There are too many to put on my list. I haven’t re-read Macbeth or Lord of the Flies but reassure myself that I have taught them so many times I could teach them in my sleep. I haven’t looked at my emails; I haven’t prepared the induction day for the new teacher, Samantha Fox. I haven’t updated or printed out any of my worksheets. I haven’t even planned my first week back. I begin to feel all panicky and anxious again. I retrieve the laptop from my little suitcase; its battery is flat so I plug the charger into the device and leave it to do its magic. I won’t be able to do anything until Michael’s birth­day and probably not even then. I’m beginning to feel com­pletely overwhelmed. And that’s just my work. What about the twins? What about Michael? What will he do when I’m back at work? How will he fill the whole day? Will he remem­ber to eat lunch? Go to his appointments? Go to the day-care centre that we have found for him? I can feel my blood pres­sure rising. I feel sick. And tired. And stressed. And I don’t feel like putting on “a nice dress” and pretending to be happy. I don’t even care if it’s New Year’s Eve.

  I’m enjoying wallowing in my own self-pity when my father comes into the room. He wants to talk to me about money. I really don’t want to have this conversation. I tell him I don’t want their money. If Michael ends up in care we will be means tested. We are only allowed to keep £23,000. This may sound like a decent amount of money, but we have been trying to save up for years. Neither Michael nor I want our children to emerge from university with a tonne of debt dragging them down like a dead albatross. If my parents sub­sidise us, they will have nothing for themselves and the gov­ernment will take everything we do have anyway. I feel like giving up. What is the point? My fath
er sits down on the bed next to me. He has a plan. He’s discussed it with Sheila. In fact, they have spoken of little else since we have been stay­ing with them here in Hove. They will pay for the children’s university tuition fees and help them get through the next few years. I will have to worry about Michael. I think this sounds fair. I feel so relieved that I sink into my father’s soft cashmere jumper and cry. He kisses me on the forehead and puts his arms gently around me. I never want him to let go.

  Our table is booked for 9 pm No one wants to spend five hours in a stuffy Italian restaurant, even if it’s lively, and so a late meal is agreed. My mother suggests we make a bit of an effort with our clothes though it is still bitterly cold outside. We have to wrap up. The twins are still out. I ask Michael to come up to our room and change. He has been wearing the same clothes for two days; these also double up as his pyja­mas. He won’t borrow my father’s nightclothes under any circumstances. Reluctantly, like some recalcitrant school­boy, he plonks himself down heavily on the armchair which he moved the other night. I open the cupboard and take out a pair of black jeans and a blue shirt and a V neck jumper. I also carefully place a clean pair of boxer shorts and socks on top of his other clothes. I watch him as he struggles to remove one item and replace it with another. I can really see the decline in his motor skills. I dread to think what his brain scan is going to reveal.

  Otello’s is quite a large family Italian restaurant in Hove. It’s clearly a popular venue for New Year’s Eve as we are sit­ting cheek-by-jowl with neighbouring customers at their tables on both sides. Michael finds the restaurant claustro­phobic. It’s also much too hot. It feels even hotter than the care home. We order from the main menu and hope that we won’t have to wait until midnight for our food. Luckily, it comes very quickly and we are spared this anguish. Michael tries to befriend the people on the adjacent table, thinking that they’re friends of ours. We have never seen them before. But Michael is convinced that they both know him but that they are deliberately ignoring him. He has become deeply paranoid. I whisper that we don’t know these people but he shouts at me instead, saying that he can’t hear me. The restaurant is too noisy.

  We decide to get on with the business of eating. My par­ents and I make polite conversation and I wonder what they think of the twins finding work experience near them. Michael is offended that he’s not included in this tête-à-tête. I’m fearful that he will erupt. His recent spate of anger has no boundaries. I try to comfort him, and make him feel loved by putting my hand on his leg; this proves to be a futile gesture. Michael criticises us all for excluding him from the conver­sation with the people on the table next to us (the strangers) and also for not consulting him about the twins (guilty as charged). He lashes out (verbally) at the youngish woman on the next table, telling her that she is horrible too. At least he doesn’t touch her. I am horrified. We all are.

  My father pays the bill and gives the waiter an overgener­ous tip. We leave the restaurant. My parents are shaking their heads with anger and disbelief. This is their local. They will have to return there at some point. The pavements are full of ice so I start walking in the middle of the partially grit­ted road. Everyone follows me. But it’s here that my father decides to rebuke his son-in-law. He tells him that he could at least be civil; grateful even; pleasant and polite. He doesn’t need to talk about pensions or Brexit. No one expects him to appear on University Challenge. He just has to behave him­self. My mother and I try to intervene. We both know that the man whom my father is talking to isn’t really my hus­band anymore. Fragments of him remain but much of him is disappearing almost daily. It is totally unnerving. Michael is a bad-tempered, volatile and depressed. His first-class brain is atrophying faster than the melting snow.

  Even Michael, in his altered state, does not know how to react as my father is a match for him both in height and intelligence. He used to look on my father as his father. As I said before, he calls him dad when he remembers. Once again, Michael looks totally bewildered. He plunges his big hands into his coat pockets and fishes out his woollen gloves. Michael doesn’t answer my father back this time. We carry on walking. No one is talking. I wonder whether we would have had a more enjoyable New Year’s Eve in London.

  When we enter “Shingles” again, I try to lift the mood by asking Michael what he wants to do on his birthday. He doesn’t want one. My father, who is still seething from his spoilt dinner, says that sometimes death is not the worst option. When we go up to our room, this phrase buzzes in my head like a grating earworm. I start to wonder whether an early death would save him from a great deal of suffering. And it would save us from financial ruin. But I can’t even think that.

  I try to behave as though we have returned from a normal evening out. I get into my towelling robe and wander over to the family bathroom. Someone has left the window open so it’s like being outside inside. I turn the taps on and add bubble bath. I want to sink into oblivion. I can’t bear to be with this form of Michael. He is whimpering on the bed, feeling sorry for himself. He refuses to apologise because he refuses to admit he is at fault. He says he can’t remember anything. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. He has changed. He seems to revel in his nastiness knowing full well that one day he will be exonerated on the grounds of insanity. He has become so unpleasant. I know I should feel sorry for him but I also know that he doesn’t want my pity. He is hard to love at the moment. I mourn the loss of my per­fect partner.

  He tries to have a conversation with me when I am already in the bath. We have lived together for more than twenty years and known each other for over thirty. We have never been inhibited in front of one another. But it feels so differ­ent now. Michael doesn’t feel like my husband anymore. I don’t want a stranger sharing the bathroom with me.

  I ask him politely to leave me alone. I have nothing more to say to him. I’m tired and cold, a little depressed and totally overwhelmed. I just want a few minutes to myself. Is this a crime? I close my eyes and let myself submerge beneath the warm bubbly water; it’s ecstasy. I don’t want to come up to the surface, in case he’s still lurking over the bath. My peace is short-lived. I can feel his ominous presence over the water’s edge.

  A large, broad-shouldered man, with stubble on his face, puts his clothed arm into the water and reaches in. I open my eyes beneath the surface – immediately raising my head above the water – and sit up in a state of shock. His large hand covers my mouth, preventing me from screaming.

  A few moments later, he lets go and pins himself to the door. It is as if he has suddenly woken up and realised his misdemeanour. He clasps his head in his hands and cries. It is a pitiful sight.

  We cry in unison. We are partners again.

  Chapter 14

  Back to School

  I can’t accept my parents’ offer to look after Michael. I don’t think they’re safe. I know that I am not either. I promise them that I will take steps to protect myself. Michael will never touch me again, not abusively. I won’t let his illness turn me into a helpless victim. I am doubtful that we will ever be intimate again.

  Instead of Michael staying in Hove, Eddie and Olivia do instead. They have been offered work at the Beach Bar and the Brighton Theatre Royal respectively. I am relieved that Olivia will be working at the theatre but my father isn’t at all pleased. He won’t have her walking the three miles back to Hove in the dark and has insisted on collecting her every evening. Or she must take an Uber. She thinks he’s overpro­tective but agrees to abide by his rules. Anything is better than coming back to London with their so-called father.

  I am desperate to return to work. I pretend that I start on the 4th, as opposed to the 5th, just to escape from Michael. I’m also ludicrously behind with all my admin and prepa­ration. I have never been so unprepared for the onslaught of a new term. I have arranged for Michael to visit a day-care centre in the Swiss Cottage area. He doesn’t even need to get on a bus. I’ve put money in his wallet (since the cash I gave him in Brigh
ton has disappeared) and made sure that his Oyster card, should he need it, has £20 on it. There’s food in the fridge and a loaf of sliced bread on the table. I can’t wait to get out of the house.

  I cycle furiously through the half-empty slightly icy streets of London. The temperature feels relatively mild. The freezing weather has ceased for the time being. When I arrive, I drag my bicycle into the hallway. Hardly anyone will be here today so I can leave it where I like. I prop it up against the large iron radiator and don’t bother to use the padlock. The reception area is empty as Louisa doesn’t come back until tomorrow. I wander down the corridor to see if anyone else is in. Principal Peter is reading the Times at his desk. We exchange pleasantries. We’re quite close, in a professional sort of way, and I think it’s time to tell him the truth. I don’t ask for a sabbatical as not only do I think he won’t grant me this but I don’t even want it anymore. I don’t want to be Michael’s carer. It isn’t Michael whom I would be caring for anyway. He’s all Hyde and no Jekyll these days. The person I really want to confide in is Abbas but that will have to wait until tomorrow.