The Woman Who Stole My Life (13 page)

‘How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.’

Extract from
One Blink at a Time

I was in a blissful floaty place, a white happy nothing-land. Every time I began to eddy to the surface, where hard-edged reality awaited, something happened and I tumbled back down to the pain-free paradise.

But not this time. I was coming up; I was rising and rising and rising, until I popped through the surface and I was awake and in my hospital bed.

Dad was sitting on a chair, reading a book. ‘Ah, Stella, there you are! You’ve been in the land of nod for the last two days.’

My head was fuzzy.

‘You had your EMG test,’ Dad said.

I did?

‘It took it out of you,’ Dad said. ‘They gave you drugs so you’d sleep.’

The horrible details started coming back to me. First there had been stuff to do with the legal responsibility of me: I’d had to be temporarily discharged by Dr Montgomery from this hospital into Ryan’s care – which went okay. But then Ryan was supposed to sign me over to Mannix Taylor until I reached the other hospital, and Ryan was bristling with hostility. And when Mannix Taylor said, ‘I’ll take good care of her,’ it had only made things worse. Ryan compressed his
mouth into a tight line and I’d been afraid that he was actually going to refuse to sign.

After about ten tense seconds, he scribbled something on the consent form and off we’d set. Four orderlies were required to get me from the ward into the ambulance. I’d been disconnected from my heart monitor and catheter – ‘Special treat,’ Mannix Taylor had said – but I still had one porter wheeling my ventilator, another manoeuvring my drip and two more pushing my bed. Everyone had to move at exactly the same speed, in case the ventilator man went too fast and whipped the tube out of my throat and I suffocated.

Also in my posse was a nurse and Mannix Taylor.

The day before the test, Mannix had brought a printout into the ward. ‘Would you like a Brazilian name for tomorrow? I’ve a list here: Julia, Isabella, Sophia, Manuela, Maria Eduarda, Giovanna, Alice, Laura, Luiza …’

I blinked: Luiza it was!

‘And what about me?’ he asked. ‘I need an Argentinian name. Santiago, Benjamin, Lautaro, Alvarez.’ He looked at me. ‘Alvarez,’ he repeated. ‘That’s a good one. It means “noble guardian”, which is appropriate, I thought.’

I didn’t respond, so he kept on reading the list. ‘… Joaquin, Santino, Valentino, Thiago –’

I blinked. I liked Thiago.

‘How about Alvarez?’ he said. ‘I like Alvarez.’

‘TH –’

‘Thiago? Really? Not Alvarez? Alvarez means “noble guardian”.’

‘SO YOU SAID. YOU’RE THIAGO.’

I was incensed. I mean, why had he read out the other names if he’d already decided?

‘Alvarez,’ he said.

Thiago.

He stared me down, then lowered his eyes in submission. ‘Thiago it is. You’ve a will of iron.’

God, he was a fine one to talk.

In the ambulance he said, ‘So, Luiza, you live in Rio, a city of constant sunshine, and you’re a star in a telenovela. After work every day you go to the beach. You buy your clothes from … well, wherever you like – you fill in the details. But listen to me, if the test gets too much, pretend you’re Luiza, not Stella. And,’ he added, ‘if it really gets too much, we can just stop.’

No. We wouldn’t be stopping. This was my one chance to find out when I’d be getting better and I wasn’t wasting it.

‘Think Brazil,’ he reiterated. ‘Right.’ He looked out through the little window. ‘We’re here.’

At the new hospital, I was unloaded with great care from the ambulance onto the tarmac, but we didn’t go in. We seemed to be waiting for someone.

‘Where the hell is he?’ I heard Mannix mutter.

A pair of shiny black shoes came striding towards our little party. There was something about them that told me their owner was aquiver with rage.

As the shoes got closer I realized they belonged to this new hospital’s version of Dr Montgomery – he had the same god-like air and the same collection of awestruck young doctors.

‘You’re unbelievable,’ he said to Mannix, in a shrill, angry voice. ‘The insurance headache you’ve created … Where’s the thing to be signed?’ Some craven helper-person stuck a clipboard under his nose and he tore an angry signature onto it.

‘Right,’ Mannix said, ‘we’re in.’

With my small army of helpers, we proceeded down corridors, up in a lift, down more corridors and into a
room. The mood, which had been almost festive, suddenly dipped. The orderlies and the nurse hastily withdrew and Mannix introduced me to Corinne, the technician who’d be carrying out the tests.

‘Thank you, Dr Taylor,’ she said. ‘I’ll page you when we’re done.’

‘I’ll stay,’ he said.

‘Oh, right …’ She seemed surprised.

‘If Stella needs to tell us anything …’

‘Oh. Okay …’

She turned her attention to me. ‘Stella, I’m going to attach an electrode to a nerve point on your right leg and send electricity through it,’ she said. ‘Your response will send information to the machine. I’ll move the electrode to various nerve points on your body until adequate data has been accumulated to inform us of the functionality of your central nervous system. Ready?’

Afraid, actually.

‘Ready?’ she repeated.

Ready.

When the first electric shock went through me, I knew immediately that I couldn’t do this. The pain was far worse than I’d expected. I wasn’t able to shriek, but my body jerked from the force.

‘Okay?’ Corinne asked.

I was reeling. I understood now what Mannix Taylor had been trying to tell me: this was really painful. So painful that I’d have to go to another place in my head to survive it. I tried to remember what he’d been saying in the ambulance – I was Luiza. I was Brazilian. I had a starring role in a telenovela.

‘Okay?’ Corinne repeated.

Okay.

 … I lived in a city with constant sunshine and – Jesus! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!

I looked at Mannix; he was so white he was almost green. ‘What do you need to ask?’ He had his pen and paper out.

‘HOW MA—?’

‘How many do you think you’ll need?’ Mannix asked Corinne.

She consulted her screen and said, ‘Ten. Maybe more.’

Jesus. Well, I’d done two. I’d do one more. And after that, I’d do one more.

Corinne was remarkably nonplussed. Presumably she had to face this sort of thing all the time. I supposed it was like when I had to laser a person’s hairy legs – in order to do my job properly, I had to disconnect from their pain.

‘Would you like to stop?’ After every bout she gave me the option of ending it.

No.

‘Would you like to stop?’

No.

‘Would you like to stop?’

No.

I focused on everything that Mannix Taylor had done, on all the red tape he’d battled, to make this happen. I didn’t want to let him down.

It was hard, though. Each shock ate into my endurance, and on the seventh one the force lifted me off the table.

‘Stop!’ Mannix was on his feet. ‘That’s enough.’

He was right. I couldn’t take this. It wasn’t worth it and I didn’t care any more.

Then I had a flash of Dr Montgomery and his mockery if I bailed on this. Keep-Her-Going-There-Patsy and all his underlings would have a great old laugh, as would the shrill, angry consultant at this hospital. The nurses on ICU would
probably break out a celebratory tin of Roses, because everyone wanted Mannix Taylor to fail, even my own husband.

‘NO.’

‘She wants to keep going,’ Corinne said.

‘Her name is Stella.’

‘Dr Taylor, perhaps you should step outside for the duration …?’

‘I’m staying.’

Corinne had eventually settled for twelve readings and, as I returned in the ambulance to my own hospital, I felt extremely strange. The oddest chemicals were flooding my brain, a mixture of elation and horror, like I’d gone a little crazy.

It was a blessed relief when Mannix Taylor asked the nurse to sedate me.

‘You need to sleep and sleep,’ he said. ‘Your body has been through hell. You need to recover, probably for a couple of days.’

Now I was awake, and looking at my dad and still feeling a bit dazed.

‘That Taylor chap was in looking for you,’ Dad said. ‘He’ll be back. He says it was hard going for you, Dolly, but you were very brave. Will I read to you?’

 … Er … grand.

Our current book was another hit from Georgie Taylor. It was about an imaginary despot in an imaginary country in the Middle East and told from the point of view of his wife. Dad was so impressed that, every couple of lines, he had to stop reading to marvel at how great it was. ‘Your man is one cool customer, isn’t he, Stella? Ordering all of them executions and then just calmly eating his couscous …’

He orated another half-page for me, then put the book down to deliver a few more comments. ‘You’d nearly feel
sorry
for the man. There he is with a fine-looking wife, who seems like a decent woman, but he’s neglecting her, for the job. Overseeing that torture when he’s meant to be taking her out for her birthday. But could you blame him? His so-called allies plotting and scheming against him … One slip-up and he’s a goner.’

He read on, but it wasn’t long before he felt compelled, once again, to pause the narrative. ‘Ah, dear, dear …’ he said sadly. ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown.’

A click-click of high heels announced the arrival of Karen. Her hair looked freshly done and her handbag was new. ‘How is she?’ she asked Dad.

‘Grand, I think. We’re waiting for the Mannix chap to come and give us news.’

‘Howya, Stella.’ Karen pulled up a chair. ‘You look a bit fucked, if I’m to be honest. I heard it was awful, but fair play to you. So tell us how you are.’ She took the pen and notebook from the sterilizer. ‘Go on. First letter.’

I blinked, trying to say, ‘Tired’, but it got all messed up, I didn’t have the energy and Karen didn’t have the patience.

‘Ah, feck it,’ Karen said. ‘Leave it, it’s too hard.’ She tossed the pen and pad back into the sterilizer and snapped it shut. ‘I’ll read to you instead.’

Dad twitched, all set to start again with the book.

‘No, Dad!’ Karen was firm. ‘I’ve
Grazia
here. Put away that shit you’re reading her.’

‘It’s far from shit –’

‘Hello, there.’ Mannix had arrived.

Dad jumped up off his chair. ‘Dr Taylor,’ he said with a mixture of innate humility and I’m-as-good-as-you chippiness.

‘Mr Locke.’ Mannix Taylor nodded.

‘Bert, Bert, call me Bert!’

‘Karen,’ Mannix said. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘Nice to see you too.’ Karen managed to wrap her hostility in a veneer of civility.

Dad blurted, ‘We’re reading another one of the books your wife sent in. She has excellent taste.’

Mannix Taylor gave a little smile. ‘Except in husbands.’

‘Not at all,’ Dad blustered. ‘Aren’t you a great chap? Sorting out the test for Stella and everything.’

‘How do you feel?’ Mannix had automatically produced the pen and notepad.

‘Tired.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me. But you did good.’

‘So did you,’ I blinked back.

In wonderment, Dad and Karen watched our exchange – me blinking and Mannix writing down the words.

‘God almighty,’ Karen said, the strangest expression on her face.

‘You’re very quick, the pair of you,’ Dad said.

‘Very quick,’ Karen echoed. ‘It’s nearly like a normal conversation.’ She narrowed her eyes at Mannix. ‘How are you so good at it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mannix said, evenly. ‘Practice? Anyway, I’ve the results of the EMG.’ He waved a sheaf of printouts at me. ‘I’ll give you the boring details when you’re stronger, but here’s the gist: at the rate your myelin sheaths are growing, you can expect movement to start returning in about six weeks’ time.’

I was stunned. I wanted to shriek and cry with joy.

Really? Really? Really?

‘You’re going to get better,’ he said. ‘But remember what I keep telling you. It’ll be a big job. You need to stay patient. Can you do it?’

Of course I could. I could do anything if I knew the end was in sight.

‘I’ll do a road map for you. I’ll tell you what you can expect, but it’ll be approximate. And we’re still looking at several months. It’s going to be a long, tough recovery. It’s going to ask a lot of you.’

‘How do you eat an elephant?’ I blinked at him.

‘How?’

‘One bite at a time.’

I’m lying on my bed, like a starfish, eddying on a Xanax and Jaffa Cake cloud and, in all honesty, things don’t seem
that
insurmountable. I am a strong woman. Yes. A strong, strong woman and … my phone rings and my heart almost jumps out of my throat. Very loud! Really, unnecessarily loud! Going round scaring relaxed people …

Then I see who’s calling and my fear increases. It’s Enda Mulreid! Even though he’s my sister’s husband, he will always be a policeman to me …

Quickly I sit up and clear my throat and try to sound together. ‘Ah, hello there, Enda!’

‘Stella. I trust you’re well. I’ll “cut” to the “chase”.’ I can almost see him doing the inverted-commas thing with his fingers. I will admit that the alliance between himself and my sister has always been a mystery to me. They are
so
different.

‘I hear,’ he says, ‘that you wish to involuntarily detain your ex-husband Ryan Sweeney under Section 8 of the Mental Health Act 2001.’

Oh my God. When he puts it like that … ‘Enda, I’m just worried about Ryan … He wants to give away all his possessions.’

‘Are they his to give away? He’s not, for example, harbouring stolen goods? Or profiting from criminal activities?’

‘Enda! You know Ryan. How could you even think that?’

‘Is that a no?’

‘It’s a no.’

‘Well, then.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘As there is not a serious likelihood that the subject in question may cause serious and immediate harm to himself or others, there is no legal basis for invoking the act.’

‘I see. Yes, you’re quite right, Enda. No need to, er,
invoke
the act. Thank you, you’re very good to take the time. Yes, thank you, goodbye now, goodbye.’ I hang up. I’m sweating. Enda Mulreid always does this to me.

Jeffrey comes thundering into the room. ‘What? Who was that?’

‘Enda Mulreid. Uncle Enda. Whatever name you have for him. Look, Jeffrey. Let’s try to put it from our minds that we considered getting Dad sectioned …’

‘It’s a no-go?’

‘It’s a no-go.’

My Xanax fog has finally lifted and I decide to ring Betsy.

‘Mom?’ she answers.

‘Sweetie. Something weird is going on with your dad.’ I explain everything and she takes it calmly.

‘I’m looking it up,’ she says. ‘Found it. Oh my gosh. Twelve thousand hits! I see what you mean.’

‘I just wanted to keep you in the loop.’ But if I’m honest, I think I rang her for advice.

‘It looks like he’s having a psychotic episode. It happens.’

‘Really?’ How does she know? How is she so wise? ‘It happened to a couple of guys Chad works with.’

‘Karen told me I should get him sectioned.’

‘Oh Mom, no,’ she says, softly. ‘That would be so bad. It would cause such bad feeling. And it would always be part of his story; he’d never be able to shake it off. But I do think you should talk with a doctor. Fast.’

It’s gone seven o’clock, so it’s too late to try to get hold of a
doctor this evening, but I have the brainwave of ringing a mental-health helpline.

A woman with a gentle, kind voice answers.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘My ex-husband … I don’t really know how to put this, but I’m worried about him.’

‘I see …’

‘He’s behaving strangely.’

‘I see, I see …’

‘He says he’s going to give away everything he owns.’

‘I see, I see …’

‘All his money, everything, even his house.’

The voice of the anonymous woman becomes animated. ‘You mean Ryan Sweeney? I just saw him on YouTube.’

‘… Oh … you did? Well, do you think he’s, you know, ill, mad, insane?’

‘I see, I see …’

‘Well, do you?’

‘I see, I see … But it’s not for me to say. I’m not a doctor. I couldn’t diagnose him.’

‘So what are you there for?’

‘To be sympathetic. Say if you were feeling depressed and you rang me, I’d listen and say, “I see, I see, I see.”’

‘I
see
.’ Tearful rage rises in me. ‘Thank you for your help.’

Sleep eludes me. My whales, normally so friendly, sound sinister tonight. As if, within their high-pitched cries and songs, there are coded threats.