Blink of an Eye (2013) (18 page)

It’s getting so I dread his visits, because it’s like this massive reminder of the mess I am in, the terrible thing I’ve done, the thing we can’t talk about because what is there to say? And so we talk about stuff that means nothing. Each time he goes, there are angry red arcs on my palms where I’ve dug my nails in.

How long will it take for him to come to his senses, to go off me? To realize that I can’t be cheered up? That I’m hard work and could get harder? That I might be left with health problems as well as a criminal record? He won’t dump me, you see – he’s loyal. He feels sorry for me, he wants to show he forgives me for the accident, for the nightmare I set in motion. But I don’t want any of that. I haven’t earned it. I don’t want him visiting me in prison.

And if he won’t leave me, then I’ll have to leave him.

He’s talking about our friends Becky and Steve, who are planning a wedding and can’t agree on a venue. I cut across him, interrupt, no preamble or anything, straight to the bone. ‘I don’t think we should carry on.’

He’s confused, a half-smile flickering around his lips, and I put him straight, stop him trying to find a way to reinterpret my statement: ‘We should stop seeing each other.’

His eyes cloud over and for a second his mouth hangs open. He never expected this. My heart goes out to him and I’m close to back-pedalling. I love him so. Maybe there is a way to work it out?

My toes are curled rigid under the sheet, my spine set. I must not cry; no weakness or he might talk me round. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly, ‘I can’t go on any more.’

Something flickers through his eyes; it takes me a moment to work it out, but it’s relief. He’s glad! Deep down he wants this. I’m letting him off the hook and he can taste the sweet release of it. The freedom, the fresh start. As quickly as it came, the hint of relief vanishes and his eyes glitter. ‘Why?’ he says, his voice wobbling.

‘Everything that’s happened . . . it’s never going to be the same now and it’s no good like this.’ I plaster my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth to stop any tears arriving.

Alex wipes his face with his hand, gives a sigh. He doesn’t know what to say. Not that he needs to say anything. He just needs to go.

‘Please,’ he begs. The blood has drained from his face and he looks frightened. ‘Don’t.’

I sniff hard. I feel lousy, I’m shaking and I can’t get it under control. ‘It’s what I want. I don’t want to be with you any more. I’m sorry.’ The sentiment is brutal and he whips his head away, his throat tensing, his hands balled. I pray he won’t argue, or declare his love or propose marriage or make any other attempt to save the relationship.

Memories we shared, moments of connection, my love for him hover on the sidelines, just out of view, and I keep them at bay. Trapped behind the fences in my heart.

He swallows and gets up. I can’t watch. I listen to his footsteps on the hard floor, to the sigh and thud of the ward door as he leaves.

When I am sure he’s gone, I let go. Pulling the sheet over my head and weeping silently so no one will say anything. Already I ache for him, for the time we had and for the future we won’t share. But I have only myself to blame.

O
ne afternoon when I visited, I could see something was up. Naomi’s eyes were pink. She had been crying. I was allowed to wheel her to the canteen. She was desperate for a change of scene, a few minutes away from the ward. She said she wanted to go home, when could she go home? I promised to ask and add my voice to hers. In the canteen she stirred sugar into her tea, round and round, as though she was trying to drill through the bottom of the cup. I reached out my hand to rest on hers. She gave a small shrug of her shoulders, put the spoon on the saucer by the used tea bag.

‘I’ve broken up with Alex.’ She blurted it out.

‘No!’ My heart kicked with the shock. ‘But why? What—’

‘It won’t work, Mum. Not after all this.’

‘You still love him?’ I tried to grasp where this had come from, what her reasons were.

‘Of course.’ She fought tears, concentrating on the spoon, mashing it into the tea bag, dark orange liquid seeping out and circling the saucer. ‘But I can’t face him. This is so awful. It’s spoiled everything.’

‘But if you love him . . .’ I said lamely. ‘If he loves you . . . I know it’s hard, but together . . .’

She shook her head, her nose reddening and a tear falling on to the table. She wiped her eyes with her fingers.

‘Have you told him? What did he say?’

‘He was really upset,’ she said. ‘He was gutted.’ She looked at me, her face crumpling.

‘Oh darling,’ I moved to sit closer and held her. She was stiff, even with the release of tears, her back and shoulders tense. After a few moments, I let her go, found some tissues in my pocket.

‘I can see why you might feel like ending it with him, but you’ve been through a terrible thing, it’s not a good time to be making big decisions. Not when you’re at your lowest. And if you still love each other . . .’

‘That’s not enough, though,’ she cried. ‘I look at him and see his arm and leg in plaster, and then there’s the little girl. That’s all I think about when I see him – nothing else . . .’ She broke off.

I was so saddened at her decision. She was cutting off one of the few people she loved who could have supported her through the days to come. They had been such a perfect fit.

‘I hope you’ll change your mind,’ I said eventually.

‘I won’t,’ she said.

‘I think you’re wrong, I think you’re making a mistake.’

‘Another one?’ she said harshly.

‘Just don’t write it off, the relationship; you might feel very different in six months’ time.’

‘I could be in prison,’ she said.

‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Don will do everything he can to try and make sure that doesn’t happen.’

‘Alex should just get on with his life.’ Her breathing was fractured, the words coming out one at a time.

I felt she was being destructive, punishing herself, but she was in no mood to listen to me.

The news troubled me for the rest of the day. Phil too was disappointed to hear it. ‘You’re joking!’ he said. ‘I thought they’d make a go of it.’

‘He saved her life,’ I said. ‘How’s he going to feel now?’

‘I guess something like this – it changes things,’ Phil said.

‘Yes, but it’s too soon to really see how. Okay, in a year’s time it might be clearer: are they still in love, are they still happy, has it driven a wedge between them? But she’s not even giving it a chance.’

‘If she thinks it’s the right thing to do . . .’

‘She’s not thinking straight,’ I told him.

‘It’s her life, you have to let her get on with it. You can’t interfere,’ he said.

‘I know.’

But I did.

Monica answered the door. ‘Hello,’ she said coolly, no smile. Probably as upset as I was that Naomi was ditching Alex.

‘I’ve got some of Alex’s things, clothes and trainers. And I was hoping to have a word with him.’

‘He’s not here,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ I hovered on the doorstep. There was a soft grey rain falling, which brought out the scent of the roses in her front garden and the tarmac on the path.

‘When will he be back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Right.’ I handed her the bag. She took it and clutched it to her chest defensively. She didn’t invite me in.

She’s a striking-looking woman: the green eyes that Alex has inherited, a deep golden tan, sun-streaked hair. She was wearing make-up, carefully done, but still she looked tired.

‘Did he tell you Naomi had broken up with him?’

‘Yes,’ she said. That was it.
Yes.
No elaboration.

She wasn’t making it easy for me, but I ploughed on. ‘That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell Alex that I think she’s making a mistake. With everything that’s happened, the state she’s in, she can’t see sense. She still loves him, she’s told me that.’

‘I think it’s for the best,’ Monica said quickly, a flare of red blotching her neck. Had I misheard? ‘She could have killed him, killed them all, not just . . .’ Her eyes were simmering with heat. She was furious.

‘It was an accident,’ I said, trembling. ‘She’s never done anything like this before.’

She stepped back, shaking her head, her lips clenched in a bitter line. Preparing to close the door.

‘She didn’t do it on purpose,’ I said. ‘Please tell Alex—’

‘Alex told me she was thrown out of sixth-form college for drinking. If she was drunk, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?’ She shut the door.

A flash of temper forked through me, sharp as lightning. I wanted to kick the door down. Shake her till she understood.

I wrote a note to Alex while I was at work that evening. Explaining my fears and asking him not to assume that there was no chance for reconciliation. Telling him that Naomi still loved him and that perhaps in time, if he felt the same, they could try again. I didn’t talk about the accident or blame or the police or any of that. But I said I was really sorry about all that had happened and thanked him again for saving her life. I posted it first class so he would get it the following day.

I never told Naomi or Phil that I’d sent it, but I did tell Evie, who said she’d probably have done the same.

As Mum talks, I imagine it as a movie. Me in my blue dress and spotted shoes in the garden. Some of the background I can fill in from the photos she’s printed out – like where they’d put the buffet in the shade under the canopy and where the chairs were, the faces of the people I talked to.

‘Straight after you arrived, Alex opened the champagne,’ she says. ‘You made a toast. After that you cuddled Ollie.’ She hands me the picture of us together. ‘Then you had something to eat. Francine, this woman with Suzanne,’ another photo, ‘had just bought a flat in town, so you discussed the pros and cons of being in the middle of things. There was a girl there called Stella, she had a poncho on, one of those floaty ones, and she asked you about clubs in Manchester . . .’

As she talks, I wait for a prick of familiarity, for some word or phrase or image to puncture a way through to my memories. To tear through the screen and let them all come spilling out.

‘. . . You had a tuna kebab. That was just after we left, and you talked to Gordy about Newcastle,’ she says. ‘His daughter’s thinking of applying to uni there. There was a little boy, a toddler in dungarees called Adam; you read him a book on the swing seat. And you helped get the Chinese lanterns ready; that was just before seven. Pip, she’s the one from London who works with Jonty, discussed phone apps, and when you put the music on, she danced with you.’

I wait and listen, but the words have no resonance; there’s no echo in my head, no spark or tingle.

‘Pip said you drank some wine around then.’

I swallow. Mum’s told me that Suzanne reckons I was drinking a lot, but Alex says different. It’s something else I can’t recall. But I can’t imagine getting drunk and driving the Honda. I never drive when I’ve been on the booze.

‘I’ve not been able to find anyone who saw you leaving,’ Mum says, ‘but you waved goodbye to Suzanne at about eight. She was inside then; only a handful of people were left.’

Mum stops and looks at me. When I shake my head, I see her shoulders dip in disappointment. But she rallies and touches my arm. ‘Give it time, darling. After all, you’ve had a little bit come back; maybe it’ll be a gradual thing. You can always try listening to the playlist.’

‘Yes.’ I try to sound positive.

When she’s gone, I go through the photographs again, try and knit the pictures to the stories Mum has brought. Perhaps if I keep looking, keep trying, something will happen.

The brain can repair itself, I’ve read that; pathways are made in other areas when there is damage. I just have to keep trying. Find something more than that kiss and the buffet and Lily’s red dress and the sound of the collision.

Six weeks after the accident, Naomi was discharged from hospital. She was still convalescing, with a range of outpatient appointments to attend in the future. She was not supposed to lift anything heavy, no manual labour, no driving. She slid her eyes sideways and gave a sad little snort when the nurse said that.

I was on tenterhooks as I drove her home, anticipating that the experience of being in a car again, the motion, the noise, the smell of the interior might be the key that would unlock her memory. But she sat passive and silent all the way home. She looked washed out, her hair greasy, the layers grown out, her dark blue eyes ringed with deep shadows, the scar on her cheekbone a patch of puckered, shiny red skin.

I had cleaned her room up, asking her what she wanted to do with the photographs on her wall – mostly of herself and Alex. She asked me to take them down. Any attempt I made to talk about him, she stopped me dead.

‘I want you to take me to Suzanne’s, drive me home, past where we crashed.’

Mum looks alarmed. ‘Are you sure?’

I feel a bit wobbly about it, to be honest, but I won’t let that put me off. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got the dentist now . . .’ she begins.

‘Not now,’ I say, ‘later. After tea.’ A similar time of day to when it happened – part of me thinks that might increase the chances of it working. The weather’s different today, though, dull and overcast and warm. No sunshine.

I have to remember! Mum’s been bringing me morsels of information like a cat bringing dead birds into the house. I know she’s been trying her best, doing what she can, but it’s not enough.

Dad offers to come too, but I tell him it’s okay. The prospect of me freaking out is at the back of my mind, and they don’t both need to see that.

‘Don’t tell Suzanne,’ I say to Mum.

‘Okay, but if she sees us . . . ?’

‘Only then.’ I can imagine her mocking me, and I don’t want to be distracted by that. Her default setting is finding fault; she always looks for the negative. It drives me mad. I don’t know how Jonty stands it.

When we set off, I think Mum’s as nervous as I am. She talks too much when she’s anxious. She’s going on about the dentist, how much the treatment costs, but eventually she shuts up.