Together Apart (14 page)

20.

9 January 1999

S
ometimes, I wonder if I imagined Richard telling me he’s leaving. He hasn’t said anything about it since New Year’s Eve, and it’s almost like it never happened. Of course, it did. The fact that everything between us is way more intense now proves it. It’s like knowing that he’s leaving has made it all seem so much more important. I’m happy when I’m with him, but I really wish the days would stop going by so quickly, because every morning I wake up is a step closer to the day he leaves.

18 January 1999

It’s the anniversary of Dad’s death soon, and Mum’s completely wrecked. She always gets like this. When I got back from
Richard’s
after school, she was slumped on the kitchen table next to an empty bottle of wine. She hadn’t made any dinner, and obviously she wasn’t in any kind of fit state to be able to. Peter wasn’t home, so I went to find Claire, trying not to cry because I really don’t like to see Mum like that. Claire’s so practical. She found some money in Mum’s purse, called us a pizza and then tried to persuade her to go to bed. The whole time, I was praying that Peter wouldn’t come home. I didn’t want him to walk in and see her like that because he hates drinking, and he’d have gone berserk. I bet he wouldn’t even care about why she was in such a state.

In the end, we had to put her arms around our shoulders and try and carry her up the stairs, but she was swaying all over
the plac
e. It was like holding up a dizzy elephant, and the smell of the wine on her breath made the back of my throat tingle. We finally made it to her room, and she fell on the bed, passed out. She’s fast asleep now, and Peter’s downstairs watching TV. We didn’t tell him what happened, but I’m pretty sure he could guess. There’s no way he could have missed the smell of alcohol when he went into th
eir room.

Poor Mum.

20 January 1999

Peter’s thrown away every last drop of wine in the house. I must admit, I expected him to have a go at Mum for getting so drunk, but he hasn’t so far. She didn’t leave her room all day yesterday, and now he’s called a family meeting. I say ‘called’, but all he’s done is stick a note on the fridge.

I wish I could go with Richard and get away from all this. He keeps promising he’ll stay in touch, and we’ll still go out with each other. He reckons he’ll be visiting all the time anyway, to see his grandparents, but I felt like I was going crazy when I didn’t see him over Christmas, and that was only for a few days. How the hell will I cope with not seeing him for months at a time?

The thing is, I know I could wait for him. I just don’t know if he could wait for me. I know he loves me. He tells me every day. It’s just that he’ll be surrounded by all these cool American girls. He’s hardly going to hold out for little old me, is he?

26 January 1999

We went to the cemetery today to lay some flowers on Dad’s grave. It still feels like it was only yesterday. I hate how quickly time goes sometimes. I really wish he could come back for just one day, or even an hour. I just want him to hug me and tell me everything will be okay. Everything would be so much better if he were still here. He was the best dad in the world. I love him so much.

I miss you, Dad.

1 February 1999

We had the family meeting earlier. It was a bit heavier than I was expecting. Apparently, there’s to be no more alcohol in the house because Mum’s finding it hard to resist the temptation, and she needs to concentrate on living the virtues of Jesus. What a load of crap! Peter’s so bloody weird. Why can’t he just say the truth instead of preaching all the time? It’s obvious – she’s an alcoholic. I don’t know why he can’t just say it as it is instead of being so bloody dramatic.

Mum didn’t say anything. I think she felt embarrassed. He was talking about her like she wasn’t even there, and really, she might as well not have been. Sometimes I wonder if she has a voice at all. I really don’t know why she married him. There’s nothing appealing about him at all. When I get married, I want to be head over heels in love. I want to be able to imagine myself growing old with my husband and having lots of kids. I want it to be with someone like Richard.

We still have a few weeks left until he goes, but he’s changed. He’s less cuddly, and he’s more distracted. I think he’s trying to put some distance between us. We still spend time together, but it’s like his head’s somewhere else. I thought I’d have him right up until the day he left, but now I think he’s trying to finish it before he goes.

I understand why. Really, I do. But I don’t want it to happen. Not right now. I’m so happy with him. He has no idea how much I love him. I can’t put it into words. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.

21.

A
dam stepped out of the lift and looked at the sign in front of him. What was it that made hospitals smell so bad? Did they pump something through the air vents? Along with the squeaky floors and bright lighting, they were depressing places, full of death and cancer . . . and strokes. His mum’s voice had faltered when she’d said that word, and the words on the report he’d been typing at the time jumbled together, swimming in front of his eyes. He’d left the office and raced to the hospital, trying not
t
o
think the worst.

He turned left and frowned as he walked down the corridor. What was that film he’d watched years ago?
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.
That was it. Snippets of it came back to him. The stroke victim, lying in his hospitable bed, completely paralysed and unable to speak, eat – do anything. His dad had just had one of those.

He loosened his tie and shook his arms out. His mum was sitting on a plastic chair up ahead. He couldn’t show any fear.

‘You’re here.’ She smiled up at him, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. The relief on her face was palpable.

He sat down and hugged her, suddenly aware of how small she was. ‘Where is he?’

She linked her arm through his. ‘Having some more tests.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘We were sitting on the sofa, talking about Christmas and whether to have turkey or goose, and he said his arm felt funny, like he had pins and needles. And then he started slurring. I remembered that advert off the telly about the signs of a . . . you know.’

Adam nodded, rubbing his hand over hers. She must have been terrified. ‘I’m sure he’s fine.’

‘We’re not young anymore, Adam. This is it. This is where it all starts.’

‘Don’t talk like that. He’ll be absolutely fine. Let’s just wait to see what the doctor says.’

He hoped he sounded confident and strong. The last thing he wanted was for her to worry even more. It was all well and good to tell her to wait for the diagnosis, but all he could think about now was that bloody film. His mum squeezed his arm as a doctor walked through the double doors, but he carried on straight past them.

‘Where are Joe and David?’

‘Joe’s driving down, and David’s away somewhere. Some kind of business trip.’ She shook her head as a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘What if we can’t reach him? John might—’

‘He won’t,’ Adam interrupted and put his arm around her. She smelled of Chanel No. 5. It was the only perfume she ever wore, and it had been a staple Christmas and birthday present for as long as he could remember. He shuffled in the hard plastic chair. His dad would be fine. He had to be.

Adam watched as the doctor shone a light into his dad’s eyes.

‘How are you feeling now, Mr Thompson?’ the doctor asked.

‘Fine. As right as rain,’ John replied.

‘Good.’ The doctor nodded and put his light back in his jacket pocket. ‘You suffered what’s called a TIA – a transient ischemic attack. It’s caused by a disruption of blood flowing to the brain, and because of that, it’s sometimes referred to as a mini-stroke.’

Adam swallowed as his mum’s hand flew to her mouth.

‘So it
was
a stroke?’ Joe asked.

‘Not exactly. The symptoms are very similar, but with strokes they’re usually permanent, and as I’m sure you’re aware, they can be very severe or even fatal. With a TIA the symptoms are short-lived, generally going within twenty-four hours with no lasting
tissue
damage.’

‘So he’s going to be okay?’ Angela asked, reaching out to hold John’s hand.

‘He will recover, yes.’ He looked at John. ‘Your symptoms are all but gone, but you will need to be admitted for further monitoring, and following that, you’ll need to make some lifestyle changes.’

‘What kind of lifestyle changes?’ John asked, and despite their surroundings, Adam stifled a smile. His dad had reacted as if the doctor had suggested he run up and down the ward naked. ‘You just said I’ll be fine.’

‘And you will be. But a TIA is a significant risk factor for stroke, and studies have shown that one in ten people do go on to suffer a stroke within a year if untreated.’ The doctor looked down at the clipboard in his hands. ‘Your blood pressure is higher than we’d like, and you have high cholesterol. In order to mitigate any further risks, I’d advise a change in diet – more fruits and vegetables – that kind of thing – and regular exercise. It’s nothing insurmountable, and you’d be surprised how small changes can go a long way.’

As the doctor carried on, Adam’s thumbs sped across his mobile phone to write a text message, and the first name he went to in his address book was Sarah’s. It was only when he saw her name on the screen that he realised what he was about to do. It was an automatic response to tell her something so huge, and
whilst he
knew she’d be supportive, he also knew it was a bad idea. He had to break the need for intimacy with her completely. Instead, he sent the message to David. It was their dad in hospital, after all. For the first time, the concept of his parents, the backbone of his family unit, not being there was a reality. Sarah’s dad had died, and she’d estranged herself from her mum. Adam shook his head at the thought. He would never understand it, and he realised that
he neve
r wanted to.

The next day, Adam stood under the shower spray and shook his head. Being in the hospital all evening had tired him out, and to say he felt groggy was an understatement. When Joe had texted
to say
their dad had been discharged, a load had been lifted from his shoulders. There’d be none of his mum’s legendary Victoria sponge cake and custard with Sunday dinners now, but it was a small price to pay for the health of his parents.

Adam turned the hot water tap down, bracing himself for the jet of ice-cold water, and forced himself to stand under it. The water pelted his skin like frozen bullets, and after a few seconds, he stepped out and wrapped himself in his towel, warm from being hung on the radiator. He had to get his head out of the world of strokes and teenage diaries, and an afternoon watching football at Carl’s would do it.

His head jerked up at the banging noises coming from the hallway. He swung open the bathroom door to see Sarah throwing bags and boxes from the storage cupboard onto the floor. Water dripped from his hair onto the laminate floorboards.

‘What are you doing?’

She ignored him and continued to search frantically through one of the boxes before pushing it to one side.

‘Sarah?’

‘I need to find something. It’s a box of old books of mine – have you seen it?’ she asked without looking up.

Shit. He swallowed as goose bumps peppered his skin. She knew he had her diaries. Why else would she be so interested in getting them now? They’d been in the cupboard, undisturbed for months.

‘Well, have you seen it? It’s really important. I need it.’ She stopped rummaging and looked up at him. Her voice sounded weird. He didn’t like it.

‘I was looking in there for something a couple of weeks ago, and I didn’t see anything. If it’s there, it must be right at the back.’ He clenched his jaw, ignoring the way his head was screaming
lying scumbag
at him. ‘Look, it’s really dusty in there, and some of that stuff’s pretty heavy. Why don’t you make us a cup of tea or something, and I’ll look for it.’

She looked back towards the cupboard, and he gripped his towel. She needed to go. He had to put the diaries back.

‘Okay.’ She nodded and got to her feet, pulling the sleeves of her sweater down. ‘It’s a red and blue shoebox.’

She hovered next to the cupboard door before leaving him in the hallway. He waited until he heard her fill the kettle, before going to his room and pulling on some jeans and a T-shirt. The cotton stuck to his back. He’d come close to getting found out, and after seeing her frantically searching for them, he realised just how important they were to her. He had no right to invade her privacy the way he had.

He carried the box of diaries from his room into the hallway and put them on the floor before pulling on his coat and heading into the kitchen. Sarah was leaning against the worktop staring straight ahead.

‘I’ve found it. It’s in the hallway. And don’t worry about the tea, I’ve got to go out anyway.’ Adam looked at her, but she said nothing back. ‘Right, well, I’ll see you later then.’

He left the flat and stepped out onto the street, sucking in a deep breath. That was all way too close, and the way she looked had freaked him out. He’d thought about mentioning his dad’s TIA, but it was obvious she wouldn’t have even registered his words if he had. He glanced down at his watch. If he left now, he might just catch kick-off. He looked up at the window to their living room. She probably wouldn’t tell him what was wrong with her anyway, and now she had her diaries, he was right back to where he’d started.

He climbed into the car and set off for Carl’s house. After TIAs and secret diaries, his mind was in a haze, and Sarah was the least of his worries.