the food in the house. During the first day or so, I managed to cook for them, just enough to make toasted sandwiches, a casserole, hot chocolate, and I washed their clothes. I got through the day hour by hour.
Until the telephone rang.
‘Mary . . . it’s . . .’ There was a sigh. A hesitation. ‘It’s David . . .’ I hung up immediately.
I stood for ten minutes, staring blankly at the wall ahead. My hand was pressing down on the receiver, pinning it to the base as if that would prevent it ringing again. It didn’t. He called twice more that evening.
‘It’s for you, Mary.’ Brenna answered and held out the phone to me. She frowned when I didn’t take it; when I didn’t stir from my chair. Even across the room I could hear him. Hello, hello? Each word ripped out another organ from my body. Piece by piece, David Carlyle was tearing me apart.
Stunned that he’d made contact, that he’d dared to enter my home – even if it was just his voice – I fell on to my bed and wept silently.
By Christmas Eve I was even worse. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t speak – although the words inside my head still flowed at a thousand a minute trying to unravel the mess, formulate a plan – but by now, my body had lost its tone, too. A fuse had blown in my brain, short-circuiting pretty much everything about me. I transformed from an active, stubborn, determined woman into an incapable, terrified shell.
‘There’s nothing to do,’ Brenna moaned, and the pair of them lurked through Christmas Eve, grumbling that they wanted a television, some sweets, something nice to drink. It wasn’t like Christmas at all. I dipped into my purse and fished out twenty pounds. They knew where the village shop was. It would still just be open.
‘What about you, Mary?’ My catatonic state had even prompted concern in Gradin. Before this, I’d been very concerned about his destructive behaviour. Now all I could think about was mine.
Christmas morning, they didn’t care whether I spoke or not. They’d already sniffed out the gifts I had hidden away and gorged on the chocolates, played the games and even read the books I’d bought for them. They were teens acting out a missed childhood and I was supposed to be helping them. It was all I could manage to breathe in and out.
In the afternoon, Julia arrived. She found me in the blue velvet buttonback chair that was only ever sat in when something was wrong. She didn’t know my heart was bleeding.
Today she’s back to take me to the hospital. ‘Are you still willing to have the tests, Mum?’ Julia sighs – all the weight of her worry pouring out. She is doing her best under the circumstances. I can’t even bring myself to look at her. I’m scared she would see the truth in my eyes. I twitch my finger. She knows what I mean. ‘Good. It’s cold out. Let’s get you into this.’
She holds my coat in a welcoming spread in the hope I will slither into it. When I don’t, she fumbles one arm into the sleeve, then the other, then hauls me upright by the hands. She truly believes she’s helping me; that her kind actions will make me better. What she doesn’t know is that there is no getting better.
‘Let’s get you into the car then, eh?’ Suddenly, everything is let us , as if that familiar, uniting use of words will make everything all right.
Oh, Julia . They say that what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
The hospital is busy and noisy. Doctors and nurses are rushing around and patients are shuffling along the polished floors. I look back at the entrance – a cluster of dressinggowned women are smoking outside. One of them catches my eye and turns away. Her dressing gown is as bright as the tumour on her leg. Already I am regretting agreeing to this. I don’t need any tests. They won’t find anything.
We wait in the neurology department for my appointment. Julia talks to me but I don’t hear her. My ears only pick up fragments of sound – shattered remnants of
Until the telephone rang.
‘Mary . . . it’s . . .’ There was a sigh. A hesitation. ‘It’s David . . .’ I hung up immediately.
I stood for ten minutes, staring blankly at the wall ahead. My hand was pressing down on the receiver, pinning it to the base as if that would prevent it ringing again. It didn’t. He called twice more that evening.
‘It’s for you, Mary.’ Brenna answered and held out the phone to me. She frowned when I didn’t take it; when I didn’t stir from my chair. Even across the room I could hear him. Hello, hello? Each word ripped out another organ from my body. Piece by piece, David Carlyle was tearing me apart.
Stunned that he’d made contact, that he’d dared to enter my home – even if it was just his voice – I fell on to my bed and wept silently.
By Christmas Eve I was even worse. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t speak – although the words inside my head still flowed at a thousand a minute trying to unravel the mess, formulate a plan – but by now, my body had lost its tone, too. A fuse had blown in my brain, short-circuiting pretty much everything about me. I transformed from an active, stubborn, determined woman into an incapable, terrified shell.
‘There’s nothing to do,’ Brenna moaned, and the pair of them lurked through Christmas Eve, grumbling that they wanted a television, some sweets, something nice to drink. It wasn’t like Christmas at all. I dipped into my purse and fished out twenty pounds. They knew where the village shop was. It would still just be open.
‘What about you, Mary?’ My catatonic state had even prompted concern in Gradin. Before this, I’d been very concerned about his destructive behaviour. Now all I could think about was mine.
Christmas morning, they didn’t care whether I spoke or not. They’d already sniffed out the gifts I had hidden away and gorged on the chocolates, played the games and even read the books I’d bought for them. They were teens acting out a missed childhood and I was supposed to be helping them. It was all I could manage to breathe in and out.
In the afternoon, Julia arrived. She found me in the blue velvet buttonback chair that was only ever sat in when something was wrong. She didn’t know my heart was bleeding.
Today she’s back to take me to the hospital. ‘Are you still willing to have the tests, Mum?’ Julia sighs – all the weight of her worry pouring out. She is doing her best under the circumstances. I can’t even bring myself to look at her. I’m scared she would see the truth in my eyes. I twitch my finger. She knows what I mean. ‘Good. It’s cold out. Let’s get you into this.’
She holds my coat in a welcoming spread in the hope I will slither into it. When I don’t, she fumbles one arm into the sleeve, then the other, then hauls me upright by the hands. She truly believes she’s helping me; that her kind actions will make me better. What she doesn’t know is that there is no getting better.
‘Let’s get you into the car then, eh?’ Suddenly, everything is let us , as if that familiar, uniting use of words will make everything all right.
Oh, Julia . They say that what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
The hospital is busy and noisy. Doctors and nurses are rushing around and patients are shuffling along the polished floors. I look back at the entrance – a cluster of dressinggowned women are smoking outside. One of them catches my eye and turns away. Her dressing gown is as bright as the tumour on her leg. Already I am regretting agreeing to this. I don’t need any tests. They won’t find anything.
We wait in the neurology department for my appointment. Julia talks to me but I don’t hear her. My ears only pick up fragments of sound – shattered remnants of