One Moment, One Morning (5 page)

*     *     *

Karen is sitting in the cafe opposite the hospital, watching the clock on the wall. Only a few more minutes until Anna arrives. She wants to wait for her, she needs her help, guidance, before going back. Karen has never in her life needed rescuing, not from anything serious; she has always been the one to take care of others. Even when she was a little girl, she was the elder sister or bossy friend taking charge. But today has made up for forty years with one catastrophic event. She seems caught in a nightmare she cannot escape; she wants someone to wake her up, tell her it is all a mistake, it is not happening, she can go home. She feels completely disconnected from the world about her. The room she is sitting in looks unreal, the proportions all wrong for a cafe: it is too big, there is too much space between the tables, the strip fluorescent lights are eerily bright, the counter from which she collected her tea looks oddly one-dimensional, flat. And though she can hear voices – the cafe is sadly empty but still there are people, an elderly couple, for instance, and a woman cooing at her baby nearby – they sound distant, echoing, distorted.

When she was an undergraduate, she dropped acid once, with Anna. She hated the experience; she felt so out of control. This is like that, but worse, because somehow even then, through her fear, she knew she was hallucinating, that it would end; that it was just a trick of the mind. Plus she’d had Anna with her, who was also tripping, but who had done it before and was rather enjoying it. She had helped ground Karen, talk her down.

But here she is alone, and now she has no idea what to do. The person she would normally ask is Simon, so in her head she asks him, yet at the same time a voice in her head – the doctor’s from earlier – reminds her: he is dead. The two thoughts can’t co-exist: it is all very confusing. She can’t believe he has gone. She feels numbness, and suffused through the numbness, stabs of panic, like shards of glass. The panic is horrible, horrible – she feels she can’t control it; the numbness is better. It is the panic she wants to go away.

Perhaps she should make a list. She is good at lists.

She’s got all those legal papers in her bag; that’s good, she can write on the back of one of the sheets of A4. And yes, there’s a pen. She remembers putting it in the front pocket earlier; she’s been caught without a pen before on the train and it has irritated her. Though to feel mere irritation – she can’t imagine that will ever happen again. It was a lifetime ago.

Still, at an utter loss what else to do, she forces herself to draw upon her memories; she can use the experience they had with Simon’s father to help. Five years ago he’d died, also unexpectedly. He had an aneurysm and one day it popped. And if she’d told Simon to get himself checked out afterwards, in case it was heriditary, she had told him a dozen times, but did he? Of course not. Among the shards of glass comes a tidal wave of fury. She almost likes it though; it feels sort of normal. She has been cross with Simon before and she recognizes the sensation – this is the same, just more powerful, and she wants to scream. But in a split second it has gone, and she is back to the shards of glass, the numbness and panic.

When Simon’s dad died, she and Simon helped Simon’s mother to make a list of what to do. Karen puts all her focus into the task, and slowly, automatically, she begins to formulate the words.

1. Phone Tracy. Collect the children.

How odd, her writing looks pretty much the same as usual, slanting loops of black ink. She had expected it to look different.

2. Tell the children.

She has no idea how she is going to do this, but before she has a chance to feel any pain she adds,

Bring them to the hospital to say goodbye?

Next she puts:

3. Go home. Phone:

•  
Simon’s Mum

•  
Alan

•  
Simon’s work

Oh gosh, Simon’s work. She should phone them at once. They will have been expecting him. Lord, and the solicitor. They have missed the appointment. These people can’t wait until later, till she is home. They all need to know right now.

She reaches for her phone again. The little stickers glitter and twinkle at her and she has a pang of affection for her daughter, Molly, who insisted on putting them there, so deliberately, in places that presumably mean something to Molly but appear random to anyone else. There is a star covering the circle of the logo, for instance, and tiny flowers round the screen. Karen starts to dial Simon’s work. But again she stops. She just can’t manage it. She can’t find it in herself to explain what has happened. Perhaps she can wait till Anna gets there. Anna can help. She puts the phone down, berating herself for not being able to cope. She always copes with everything.

‘Karen, hello.’

She looks up. Thank God, a familiar coat, bag, face: it is her friend.

*     *     *

Before Anna does anything else, she steps forward and wraps her arms around her friend’s shoulders. Karen gets up and hugs Anna too, and they hold each other for a moment like that, in silence. Karen sits down again and Anna takes a seat opposite, but instantly feels too far away, so shifts the chair round and leans forward to take both her friend’s hands in hers.

She is struck by how Karen’s face has been transformed by the morning’s events. Usually her friend looks healthy and vibrant, but the flush in her cheeks has vanished. She looks wan, grey; her long hair, generally shiny as a conker, is soaking wet, drab; and her hazel eyes, which normally sparkle with warmth and feeling, are glazed, unseeing. The joy and energy have been replaced by fear and confusion. And it is not just her face that has changed – it is her whole body. It is as if she has literally been gutted, or had the wind sucked out of her by some giant vacuum cleaner. She is bowed, deflated. She is also shaking badly, her hands especially. Although – bless her – Karen has clearly been trying to write. Anna can see from the piece of paper opposite her.

Anna wishes she could lift her up and take her back to her cosy living room, dry her off then ease her into her most comfortable armchair, wrap her in a blanket and light the fire. She would make her a hot chocolate and give her biscuits, too. Instead they are here – she glances around – in a place that would be bleak at the best of times, let alone on a rainy day in late February. It is utterly charmless; a big room lit by strip lights with ugly, battered metal furnishings, as far from consoling as a cafe can get.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, gently, and gives Karen a small, utterly half-hearted smile. She is sorry; she has probably never been as sorry about anything in her life. She can feel tears pricking, but she must not,
must not
cry.

Karen shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

Anna exhales. ‘No.’

‘I think I’m in shock.’

‘Yes, sweetheart, I think we both are.’ She looks down at her friend’s hands in hers. We both have the faint beginnings of liver spots, Anna notices. We are getting old.

‘Heart attack, they said.’

‘Right.’

Karen takes a deep breath. ‘I guess we could go now – I was waiting for you.’

‘Where is he?’

‘This special room; they were sorting it out.’

‘Sure,’ nods Anna. She wonders if they are going to do a post-mortem. She thinks it will mean waiting longer for a funeral. But it also might provide some answers. She has many questions herself; doubtless Karen has more. Then again, maybe Karen won’t want one. It won’t bring Simon back.

‘But before we go, I wondered; could you make a couple of calls for me?’

‘Of course. Who to?’

‘It’s just I really can’t face it.’

Anna smiles sympathetically. ‘It’s OK – that’s fine. Who do you want me to ring?’

‘The solicitors, if that’s all right. It’s just they were expecting us. And Simon’s work . . .’ She trails off.

Anna takes control. ‘No problem. Have you got the numbers?’

‘Yes, here. Or it might be easier to ring on my phone, I guess.’

‘Sure.’ Anna picks up Karen’s mobile, with its familiar leather case and peeling stickers, from the table. ‘So, let’s ring the solicitors first.’ In one way she hates to be so down to earth and practical; in another it is a relief to be able to help with something relatively mundane. ‘Just tell me, had you exchanged on the house yet?’

Karen shakes her head. ‘No . . . We were signing the papers today.’

Phew, thinks Anna. This means there is room for manoeuvre. She switches into let’s-do-it mode. ‘Right. I’m going to ring the solicitors. Tell them you’re putting it on hold.’

‘They’ll be very cross,’ says Karen, suddenly engaging with other people’s reality.

‘I don’t give a bugger about that! And nor should you. Let’s not worry about that, shall we?’

‘No.’

‘So, where’s the number?’

‘The vendors will be upset too . . .’ adds Karen. It’s typical of her to be preoccupied with other people.

‘Never mind them either.’ Anna is brisk. ‘They can wait. At this moment we’re looking after you.’

Karen nods.

‘Number . . .?’ she coaxes.

‘Here you are.’ Karen, whose mind clicks back into gear with Anna to steer her, locates it.

‘OK,’ says Anna, getting to her feet. ‘But I’m going to do this outside, the signal in here is crap. You all right, waiting here for a bit?’

‘Mm.’

As Anna pushes open the door of the cafe, the cold air and rain hit her. The signal is actually just as strong inside as it is out here; she has told a white lie. She thought it diplomatic Karen didn’t hear her go through the whole explanation of Simon’s death – it will only cause unnecessary pain. Given that it is sure to be the first call of many, it seems kind to soften the experience wherever and however she can.

‘So, Miss, you one of them lesbians then?’

‘Sorry?’ Lou is having a one-to-one session with fourteen-year-old Aaron, and although she comes across a broad spectrum of issues in her line of work – drugs, abandonment, poverty, rape – the question catches her off guard. She counsels pupils who’ve been excluded from so many schools – ‘expelled’, her mother still insists on calling it – that there is nowhere else in the state system for them to go. Instead, they continue their education in a special establishment with a much higher staff/pupil ratio, where Lou is a recent fixture. In addition to lessons, the children can opt to have a once-weekly session with her. She sees fifteen pupils in total, and all, without exception, have had it tough.

‘You heard me, Miss.’ Although Lou likes to be addressed by her first name, Aaron can’t shake the habit of ‘Miss’, which he associates with those in authority – though in his case it hardly denotes respect, more of a challenge. He continues, crossing skinny legs draped in baggy low-slung jeans and leaning back in his chair with practised nonchalance: ‘One of them, you know,
lesbians?
You fancy women? You a dyke? Or what?’

Lou’s personal life is strictly off bounds to Aaron, something he well knows. He is being deliberately provocative, and she refuses to rise to it. Yet she also knows this is not an area to avoid completely: as an adolescent, Aaron is exploring his own sexuality. She strives to handle their dialogue with care.

He shifts in his chair, eyes her. ‘Why won’t you tell me, Miss? You ashamed?’

She is not going to be drawn on herself, but his attitude is revealing. She wonders where he has learnt to associate being gay with shame. ‘You think it’s something to be ashamed of, Aaron?’

He sits back, gratified. ‘So you are, then.’ Again Lou says nothing. ‘Why not tell me, Miss?’

She is firm. ‘We’re here to talk about you, Aaron, not me.’

‘How can you expect me to talk about me when you won’t talk about you?’

Reasonable point, thinks Lou, but that is not how it works, and Aaron is using the subject to deflect attention from himself. Were she not his counsellor, she
might
let Aaron know she is gay. But telling him goes against the therapeutic dynamic and may not be useful, especially if he is asking chiefly to satisfy his voyeuristic needs. Nonetheless, it is enlightening that he has latched on to the subject at this particular moment; he had been talking about his drug use – skunk, to be specific – and Lou knows this is an evasion tactic. She smiles inwardly, appreciating. Evasion: they are both at it.

‘Kyra thinks you’re gay, too,’ Aaron adds.

Oh, great, Lou thinks. So they have been discussing me behind my back. That means other students probably have, too. Lou wants to keep her sexuality out of her counselling sessions, not just because confession isn’t befitting to her role, but because the kids she deals with can be belligerent; some are extremely intolerant of difference. She has heard it first hand – the mickey-taking of one of the teachers deemed ‘posh’, the bullying of pupils who work too hard, the cruel laughter at the overweight caretaker. She has no intention of letting her personal life provide similar ammunition. She has only been at the school just over a term, and hasn’t told the head or any of the other teachers that she is gay. After all, she thinks indignantly, why should any of them need to know?