The Other Ida (32 page)

The curtain opened and a shaven-headed, bearded doctor stood at the end of Ida's bed. The woman was with him – the one with the auburn hair.

“Okay, well Ida,” he said, looking up at her. “You have had emergency surgery for an ectopic pregnancy.”

“Shit. I was pregnant?” She thought about the pain, and the sickness and the blood. All that sex without a condom – it was a miracle it hadn't happened before.

“I'm afraid so. We managed to save your ovary, which is the good news. You've been treated with chlordiazepoxide, which should allay your hallucinations and sickness – common symptoms of alcohol withdrawal – but your condition worsened. I asked Dr McRoberts to determine whether there was an underlying psychiatric disorder.”

“I take diazepam normally. Not from the doctor. My boyfriend gets it for me.”

“Well that may be part of the problem. Alcohol withdrawal can usually be managed with benzodiazepines. But if you've been abusing diazepam too… this complicates matters. We may need to take things more slowly.”

Ida looked up at the television. The credits were rolling – she'd missed another whole episode of
Batman
.

“Miss Irons, we also need to consider the effects of prolonged, excessive alcohol consumption on your physical health. Your liver function tests are still way up. The ultrasound scan shows clear fatty changes. It's not necessarily irreversible, but if you carry on like this…”

“I've got myself in a right state, haven't I?” she said, closing her eyes. “I'm sure I wasn't always like this.”

The auburn-haired woman was still by her bed. Ida felt like she'd slept for hours but perhaps it had been a minute or two. She looked at the woman's pale pink shirt from the corner of her eye. Was it a different shirt? She wished she'd paid more attention to what she'd been wearing before – most people, normal people, changed their clothes pretty often and it was a good way to track the days. That was the problem with the nurses, always the same clothes – perhaps uniforms had been invented to keep ill people confused.

On the side was a fresh jug of water and a tray of lunch. If she'd been on her own she would have reached out and touched it – although it was never hot it was normally warmish when they first brought it round – another good way of telling the time.

“What are you thinking?” asked the woman, “You look very serious.”

“I was thinking about your shirt.”

“What about it?”

Ida didn't answer.

“I'm not here to catch you out,” said the woman. “I'm here to help you. I told you everything you asked. You seem to be pretty aware of your problems anyway. Perhaps you can help me find a solution. They're not sure what to do with you when you leave here.”

“I've got a flat. I'll go back there.”

“That's good to hear. Well, we can help you as an outpatient, if you'd like us too. And can give you details of AA… and NA if you need that too.”

“I don't.”

“Ida, do you understand that if you keep drinking it's likely that you'll die prematurely? Have you been told that before?”

“Yes.”

“We can help you with your drinking,” the woman was leaning towards Ida now and talking quickly, warming to her theme. “The more you talk to me the more specialised help we can get you.”

Ida didn't reply.

“I've got other patients to see now. Dr Green's going to make some changes to your medication and will see how you respond – it should work pretty rapidly. Perhaps I'll come and see you tomorrow,” she tapped the side of the bed, picked up her bag and stood to leave. “There is a way through. And there are people who care about you, believe it or not. Have a think – I'll try to be back tomorrow.”

She slipped through the curtain.

Ida immediately put her right hand under the sheet. Her fingers were freezing against her bare skin and she shuddered. She pulled up her thin cotton smock and edged way over her stomach. It felt flatter than usual, and there was a patch of something attached to her, gauze held down with papery tape. She worked her fingers around the thing, feeling its edges, then lifted her hand and poked it right in the middle, quickly and very hard.

A bolt of pain shot down through her legs and straight out of her toes, zipping its way through the bars at the end of the bed. Waves of it flowed through her, right from the top of her head, and she went with them, leaning forwards as they swept down her arms and into her hands. Her fingers began to crackle as the pain came out of their ends – and she opened her hands wide, watching gleefully as sparks shot towards the horrible green curtain, making it twist and turn as they hit. She laughed out loud and wished the woman would come back – one touch from Ida and she'd be on the floor.

The waves subsided gradually and she lay back again in the bed. She stroked the patch on her stomach and pulled back down her smock. Above her Richard and Judy were giggling as they helped a fat chef to make a cake, while all around her other patients were talking to visiting family and friends, unaware of the sparks of pain that were shooting around them and making their curtains flutter.

She pulled the covers back up around her and patted them down, her fingers crackling one last time as they touched the acrylic sheets.

The opening credits of
Neighbours
had begun when the curtain was drawn back again. Alice was there, wheeling a large black suitcase.

Ida reached for her. “Ally. I'm pleased you're here.”

She sat down and touched Ida's arm. “Hello. How are you feeling?”

“Less confused – I went a bit mental I think.”

“Yeah, you properly did.”

“Where is everyone else?”

“You've been here for ages – five days now I think. They've all gone. Peter only went back this morning, he had a voiceover to do. Wants you to call him as soon as you can though.”

“What about Tom?”

“He's waiting outside.”

“He's good. He's good for you. He's not boring. He's lovely. God, I was horrible to him.”

“It's okay. We both went mad.”

“No, I'm really horrible. I mean it. Honestly – without self-pity. I thought about making a documentary about Ma you know – when I first heard she'd died. Or writing something for the paper.”

“You don't need to tell me this.”

“I know. I just… I want to say that I know I've been awful. Seeing how much work you put in for the funeral. Well, I didn't help, even a little bit.”

“It's okay.”

“And I'm sorry about the beach.”

“It's alright. I recovered. No lasting scars.”

Ida lifted the palm of her hand and held it out to Alice. “If you look carefully there's a bite mark.”

Alice smiled and rested her elbows on the side of Ida's bed. “Are you sad about the pregnancy?”

“It's for the best I suppose. Imagine if I had a bloody child. I would definitely call it Ida if I did, boy or girl. Imagine how fucked up it would be. It would be the most fucked up person who has ever existed. I could probably sell it to… I don't know, Stephen Hawking or someone to do experiments on.”

Alice laughed.

“Shit, sorry about your sheets though,” Ida said.

“It's okay.”

She grabbed Ida's hand and rubbed it hard, like their da used to.

“What happened to Agnes?”

“She came in to see you. She's gone now. Ma left her a share of the house you know – a third to each of us. That's what the solicitor says. A developer will buy it I guess – knock it down please God. Flatten it. There were loads of debts but we'll get a few thousand each.”

“What will you do with yours?”

“Go round the world I think. With Tom.”

“I might put it down on a house. Or a boat. It would be nice to have someone of my own. I am thirty after all.”

“I'll let the local rats know there's a new hotel in town.”

“Piss off.”

Alice paused and looked at the suitcase.

“I'm leaving – got to go to work. I didn't think you'd want to go back to the house. I brought your clothes in already, they're in the drawers, but here are the rest of your things just in case. There are some other bits I thought you might want too. Something little from Peter… he said you'd understand what it meant.”

“Oh, thank you. You heard from Elliot?”

“No. I'm sorry. Look, I don't want you to get angry or upset and I might be wrong –but I think he might have nicked some cash from my purse.”

“He probably did. He's a cock.”

“You can do better.”

Ida didn't reply.

“Perhaps you can make a go of things with Anna DeCosta,” Alice said.

They both laughed.

Alice stood up and kissed Ida on the cheek. “I better go – I've got a train to catch. When you go back to London, well, I'm not far.”

“Eat more, eh? Look after yourself.”

They hugged and Alice left through the curtain, the sound of her little footsteps fading as she walked away down the tiled hall.

Chapter thirty-six

Ida walked towards the back of the coach, panting and drenched, her suitcase cradled in her arms – she had refused to put it in the luggage hold below. There was a free double-seat near the loos and she slid into it as the driver started the engine and they began to reverse. Her boots and socks were soaking and she unzipped the bulky case hoping that Alice had packed her some dry ones.

There were clean socks inside, a whole unopened pack of them, as well as a brand new pair of blue Adidas Gazelles in a box. There was a card stuck to it with Sellotape:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

sorry it's so late!

A xx

Ida immediately put them on.

“Goodbye boots,” she whispered, and stuffed them under the seat next to her.

There was more inside: her Magical Days Book, her mother's blue kimono, and the red paper flower from Uncle Peter. She held it up to her nose. ‘Great things,' she remembered.

At the bottom was a large square parcel wrapped in brown paper.

She tore the corner, saw some thick acrylic paint, and ripped the rest of it open. It was the painting of her mother – the one they'd had on the wall when they were young – and she turned towards the aisle and held it at arm's length. There she was, her beautiful mother, her dark hair on her shoulders, her breasts bare, facing the image of herself. A note was tucked in the wrapping and Ida unfolded it.

Dearest Ida

I bought this a long time ago in the hope I could make peace with your mother. Your sister told me it had been promised to you when you were younger and it seems right for you to have it. Look closely and you can spot the differences.

All my love (I don't think you're the visiting type, but you would always be welcome at ours for a hot bath and a bottle of wine).

How wonderful to be 30.

Agnes xxxxx

Ida propped the painting against the back of the seat in front of her. There were differences between the figures, she could see them now – a wisp of hair, the angle of their index fingers, the slight curve of their mouths; two different women, rather than just one.

She opened the Magical Days Book to the final blank page and put the note inside.

Somewhere nearby there were sirens. The coach slowed as blurred yellow lights flashed through the misty glass and Ida wiped her window with the palm of her hand. There was a car at the side of the road, it had been hit by something, the dashboard pushed against the driver's seat, and the roof half caved in.

“Please let everyone be okay,” she whispered, and blew a kiss towards the smashed up car and one towards the roof of the coach.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank (most of these should also be apologies): The Masons (Martha, Philip, Joe and Ed), my grandparents Eileen and Lionel Jeffries, my lovely friends (especially those who have ever had to live with me and Abigail Algar), Tiffany Murray, Catherine Merriman, Richard Newton, Mrs Banks, Mr Waters, Arts Council England, the Dundee International Book Prize, Cargo Publishing, Sertraline, and Stefan Brugger (unless he dumps me, then please cross this out).

About the Author

Amy Mason is 32 and currently lives in Oxford with her boyfriend. Her autobiographical show
The Islanders
which she wrote and performed in won the 2013 Ideas Tap/Underbelly Edinburgh Fringe Fund, received 5 and 4 star reviews, and was a ‘must see' show in
The Stage
. The illustrated script was published by Nasty Little Press. She is currently working on a new show about her relationship with faith. Amy left school at 16 and has had more jobs than she can count. An evening class – which she took aged 25 – was where she started to write. Like Ida, Amy is very tall, but unlike Ida, she won't steal your purse.

www.amymason.co.uk @amycmason