A Special Relationship (27 page)

I said nothing.

‘Brought you …’

He placed his gifts on the bedside locker, then looked for a chair, wondering whether to sit down or not. He decided to stand. He also decided to focus his attention slightly away from me – since my sickly, catatonic state so obviously disturbed him.

‘I’ve just been in to see Jack. Good news – he’s awake again, and from what the nurse told me, he gobbled down two bottles he was so damn hungry. Which, she said, is a good sign that he’s completely back to normal.’

Because he’s out of my tender loving care.

‘Anyway, the nurse also said that you can visit him …’

Stop it, stop it, stop it. I don’t want your kindness. I don’t deserve it.

I pulled the pillow over my head.

‘She also said you’d been doing a bit of this too.’

I pulled the pillow around my ears.

‘If you want me to leave, I will.’

I didn’t move. Finally he said, ‘I hope you’re better.’

I heard him leave. I removed the pillow. And then I heard a voice opposite me.

‘Who are you?’

It was my roommate, Agnes. She was sitting up in bed, looking unfocused and fogged-in. But hey, I wasn’t exactly one to brag about my lucidity right now.

‘You here yesterday? Don’t remember … You were here, right? But maybe …’

She broke off, looking confused – as if she couldn’t hold on to this jangled train of thought.

‘Agnes – that’s me. You always put a pillow over your head like that? Agnes … you got that?’

Yeah – and I’m glad to see I’m not the only resident of Planet Weird.

‘Agnes. As in
Agnes.
A-G-N-E …’

Nurse Patterson came in here.

‘She’s a woman of few words, our Sally,’ she said.

‘Sally?’ Agnes asked.

‘That’s what I said. S-A-L-L-Y. And she’s not really talking much today. But we’d all like it if you kept trying – ‘cause sooner or later, we’ve got to hear that American accent of hers.’

Agnes blinked several times, trying to filter this information.

‘Why’s she American?’ she asked.

‘
Why?’
Nurse Patterson asked with a laugh. ‘Because I imagine she was born there, that’s why. And she’s got a little baby boy, just like you.’

‘He’s called Charlie?’ Agnes asked.

‘No – your son’s called Charlie …’

‘I know, I know. I just thought …’

She interrupted herself again, sounding lost.

‘Jack,’ Nurse Patterson said. ‘He’s called Jack.’

‘And I’m … I’m …’

‘A little scrambled, that’s all,’ Nurse Patterson said. ‘Just like last time. But, I promise you, by tomorrow morning you’ll be all-clear again. Now what do you want for tea?’

Agnes shook her head.

‘Ah now, we’re not going down that road again,’ Nurse Patterson said. ‘Especially since that’s what got you …’

‘Oatmeal,’ Agnes said. ‘I’ll eat oatmeal.’

‘And oatmeal you shall have. And what do you fancy, Sally?’

I did my now-usual silent routine.

‘This is not doing you any good, Sal.’

She approached me with a glass of water and another small cup.

‘Now I’m not going to force food down your throat, but I am going to have to ask that you take these pills. Which are exactly the same pills you were taking last night …’

And which allowed me to poison my son.

She rattled the plastic pill cup by my ear.

‘Come on now, doctor’s orders and all that. And the payoff is: you get to sleep through the night. Oh – and as your husband may have mentioned, Jack is up-and-about, and ordering us all around. So …’

She shook the pills again.

‘Please, Sal. Don’t make me …’

She didn’t finish that sentence. Because she didn’t need to. I sat up. I took the pills. Then I forced myself on to my feet and shuffled into the adjoining bathroom, Nurse Patterson loudly congratulating me for getting up. Once inside, I avoided looking at myself in the mirror. Instead, I just emptied my bladder and returned to bed, and pulled the bedclothes over me, and waited for the pills to kick in.

Then it was morning. My head was somewhere high up in a vaporous stratospheric zone. When I began to work out the
‘where am I?’
question, I noticed that there was a needle in my arm, and a feed bag suspended above me. My roommate was absent. There was a new nurse on duty who was positioning another delectable repast in front of me. She was short and Scottish.

‘Good sleep?’

I responded by getting to my feet, taking hold of the trolley with my feed bag, and pushing it towards the bathroom.

‘Need some help there?’ the nurse asked.

No, I’m a fully-fledged veteran of assorted hospital drips.

In the bathroom, I peed, then went to the sink to wash my hands and splash water on my face. That’s when I saw the nightmare that was myself. My face puffy, my eyes streaked with red, my hair matted, my …

Oh, forget it.

I walked back into the room. The nurse helped me back into bed, repositioning the drip bag to my left. ‘Now there’s oatmeal, and toast, and some fried eggs, and some good strong builders’ tea—’

I turned away. The nurse continued talking.

’—and after breakfast, I’m sure you’ll want to go visit your baby. So what do you want to start with first?’

I ate nothing. The nurse tried to interest me in a slice of toast. I turned away.

‘Okay so,’ she said. ‘But I know that Dr Rodale will not be pleased.’

She left the breakfast by the bed. Agnes came back into the room. Standing up, I could see that she was a tall, elegant woman – despite the shell-shocked exhaustion and her slightly tentative gait.

‘You were here yesterday, right?’ she asked, getting back into bed. ‘The American, right? Or are you someone new? My memory …’

Another of her fractured sentences. She peered at me quizzically.

‘Why don’t you talk? Baby got your tongue?’

She laughed hysterically. And I thought:
Got it in one, sweetheart.

Then, abruptly, the laughter ceased.

‘You’ve got to eat,’ she said. ‘It’ll get you into trouble if you don’t. I mean, big trouble. I know it. Because I had it. And you don’t want it.
You don’t want it.’

Then she lapsed into silence again.

‘You are American, aren’t you?’

She put her hands over her face.

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to keep repeating myself. But …’

And then she went quiet again.

Dr Rodale showed up around three that afternoon. My untouched lunch was by the bed. She glanced at it, then turned her eyes to my chart.
What’s up, Doc?

‘And how are you today, Sally?’

I stared at the wall. Dr Rodale’s lips twitched, then she made a note or two on my chart.

‘Right … I see that you refused dinner last night, as well as breakfast and lunch today. Once again, this is your prerogative – but do understand that we are keeping you on a drip. And within the next day or two, we will have to make a decision about how to assist you out of your current state. I also gather you had a trouble-free night. Sleep well?’

No response.

‘No side effects from the sedatives … bar the usual slight grogginess on waking?’

No response.

‘And I see, as well, that despite several offers, you’ve shown no interest in seeing your son, Jack. Which, of course, is not an uncommon facet of your condition – though one which also cannot be doing either you or your child much good. Now, if you like, we do have a resident psychotherapist who can speak with you about the emotional issues you’re facing. But in order for her to perform her function, you must be able to speak. Which puts us all in something of a Catch-22 situation, wouldn’t you agree? So, can you please try to talk to me now?’

No response.

‘I cannot emphasize how difficult you’re making things for us … and ultimately for yourself.’

No response.

‘Very well then. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’

Then she turned her attention to Agnes. From her cowed response to this approaching figure, it was clear that Dr Rodale genuinely scared her.

‘And how are we feeling today, Agnes? Appetite back?’

‘I’m eating.’

‘No after-effects this time?’

‘My memory …’

‘That’s just short-term. Within another twenty-four hours, you’ll be back to normal.’

‘Is that the last one?’

Dr Rodale did not look up from her chart.

‘We’ll see.’

I pulled the covers over my head. Because I now knew – or, at least, I think I knew – the sort of treatment which Agnes had been undergoing.

But though I understood that I had to talk and eat … well, it was that old bit of tortured logic all over again:
to talk I have to talk … to eat I have to eat.
Which, right now, was impossible. Because though I instinctively knew how to talk and/or eat, it was as if I had lost the ability to carry out these two functions. My DOS operating system was down – and try as I wanted to, I could not trigger the mechanism that would get me to open my mouth. And though I felt a certain rising panic, it was overshadowed by a desperate inertia. I just didn’t care enough about anything any more.

Tony arrived at eight that night. He had obviously been briefed by Nurse Patterson – now back on duty – because he eyed the untouched dinner tray with unease, and sat down on the bed, and looked at me with a mixture of hopelessness and distaste and worry (yes, my complex husband had the singular ability to radiate all three moods at the same time, with just a few minor facial contractions). He didn’t kiss me or touch my hand – and, once again, he had a hard time looking at me straight on. But he did say ‘Hello.’ When that got him nowhere, he then said, ‘Jack is good.’

And then, ‘They’re genuinely worried about you not eating or talking.’

And then, ‘Okay … I’ll go now.’

Is that his way of saying: ‘I know when I’m not wanted’?

Agnes’s husband (or partner or significant other or whoever he was) showed up that night. He surprised me. I’d envisaged some elegant, muscular Jamaican – well-dressed, exuding confident swagger and easy charm, and every other cliché about Afro-Caribbeans you care to mention. As it turned out, he was a quiet, reserved white guy in his late thirties, dressed in a standard-issue grey suit, blue shirt, dull tie; slightly hesitant in manner and careful about his comportment in this situation. But what was also abundantly clear was that he adored Agnes – and was also genuinely unsettled by her present situation. He sat next to her, holding her hand, talking in a low reassuring voice, even making her laugh on one occasion. You can never fathom other couples, can you? Never work out the spark of attraction in two such opposites, let alone the complex ties that bind, and whether they are robust enough to survive a crisis like … well, like this one.

What a grey little man he was – and how I so suddenly envied her such predictability, such ongoing stability (while well knowing that appearances are always deceptive). When Nurse Patterson arrived during the visit with my sleeping pills, I took them at once, without prompting. Because I didn’t want to watch this happy scene anymore.

Once again, the sedatives did their wondrous chemical work and I slept for a massive eleven hours, waking up just after six-fifteen the next morning. God, how fogged in I felt. Because these pills didn’t really induce sleep. Rather, they clubbed you over the head and left you stupefied. It took me a good twenty minutes to find the equilibrium necessary to stand up and pull myself (and my feed trolley) to the bathroom.

The day followed a similar pattern to the previous days. The Scottish nurse offered me breakfast. I remained silent. Agnes tried to engage me in conversation. I remained silent (even though I was pleased to see that a degree of mental clarity was coming back to her). She went off to play with her son Charlie. I squandered the morning staring at the ceiling, and wondering why I was squandering the morning like this, and also having no energy to do anything but squander the morning like this.

Then it was lunchtime – and I didn’t eat lunch, except courtesy of the tube in my arm. Then it was three pm, and Dr Rodale walked in. Like actors in a bad play, we knew our prosaic lines off by heart. Or, at least, she knew her lines, whereas I simply had to maintain my weak, silent stance. The interview went according to form … with the good doctor making her usual noises about the increasing gravity of my situation, and then finally saying, ‘I will be calling your husband at his office this afternoon to discuss your situation and the options open to us.’

Tony arrived around eight that evening. This time he did kiss me on the cheek. He did pull up a chair close to me. He did take my hand. And said, ‘You have got to start eating.’