Just between us, p.21
Just Between Us, page 21
Still, I do quite value my time in the bathroom. On the days when I really can’t get my act together, I come here to be alone. Obviously there’s a lock on the door, and so this is where I hide. I hide from Dad seeing how hard everything is, how overwhelmed and lost I sometimes feel. The thing is, though I can hide my fear from Dad if I need to, I can’t hide from myself. The horror of my own exhausting shapeshifting, my blanks and fractured states follows me into the bathroom. So over these past few months there have been a number of times when I’ve cried hot, fat, silent tears in the bath and emerged blotchy-faced, red-eyed. I always pretend to Dad that I got shampoo in my eyes or took my bath a fraction too hot. He pretends to believe I’m very clumsy. We have a number of coping strategies that we share to protect one another from the harsh reality of our situation.
This morning, however, despite the furry mouth and nagging headache, I feel quite excited. I want to get an early start, freshen up, and then talk to Dad about the progress I made yesterday. I know he found it less than ideal that I sneaked out of the house, but I’m sure once he hears how successful the trip was in terms of helping me recall, he’ll endorse another jaunt. If I promise to wear a mask and socially distance, etc., what possible objections can he have?
Despite my optimistic mindset, the bathroom seems even less appealing than usual, as surprisingly the window is closed and so the air is especially torrid. I would have to precariously balance on the side of the bath to reach up to open it, and I haven’t the energy, so I decide to simply breathe through my mouth as I take a very quick shower. I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel and dash to my bedroom. It could be my hangover, but that room feels stuffy too; it needs airing. I pull on underwear and a T-shirt, then open the blinds. This window is also shut. I wonder whether I slept through heavy rain last night, which might be why Dad closed all the windows. Or did he perhaps close them when he set off to find me in Lyme Regis, knowing he was going further afield than usual and feeling security-conscious?
I attempt to open the window, but it’s stuck. I’m slow processing because of the hangover, and it takes me a second or two of straining to understand that it isn’t stuck, it’s locked. They are ugly white plastic window frames, a questionable ‘home improvement’ that must have happened in the nineties because it was fashionable then and Crittall windows were seen as inconvenient and old-fashioned. Again I marvel and despair that my memory knows this but has lost all the important stuff. There are locks on every window in the house, but I’ve never seen a key, or even thought about it before. I try the second window in my room. It’s also locked.
It’s peculiar, but my body reacts faster and more violently than my mind. I don’t know why, but I immediately start to sweat and shake. My palms and under my arms feel clammy despite the fact that I’ve just emerged from the shower. My mouth is dry; my breathing is thin and rapid. I actively try to slow it down, but I can’t. I gasp and gulp like a fish out of water. I feel I’m suffocating.
I pull on shorts and stride onto the landing. I try to open the window there. It’s locked. The one in Dad’s bedroom is too. I rush downstairs, my legs shaking so badly now I fear they might give way beneath me, like when you have severe pins and needles. My jaw is chattering, I feel my top teeth bang against my bottom teeth and I push my tongue to the roof of my mouth in an attempt to stop that. I have no idea why my body is responding in this disproportionate way to Dad becoming security-conscious. It’s not a big deal. I assume he has been spooked by the hordes of rowdy holidaymakers he saw last night. Now that he has become aware that they are just a few miles up the road, maybe he fears marauders and intruders. Perhaps he believes someone might break in, although I’m not sure why he’s especially worried, since we have nothing of value to pinch.
I try the front door, as it’s the first in sight. It’s locked. I rattle violently at the handle. I rush through the kitchen, almost slipping on the floor in my haste. The back door is locked as well. I hammer on it and force myself to swallow back demands to be let out. That’s ridiculous, but it also feels instinctually like the right thing to do. I think I have been locked up before. The thought is terrifying. I check the windows downstairs, but even before I do so, I know that they will all be fastened tight, and I’m proved right. I tell myself I’m just frustrated, but I feel stunned by a sense of terrifying claustrophobia. The thing is we’ve slept here without locking the doors for as long as I can remember. Why are they locked now? My mind is spinning. An out-of-control rocket hurtling not towards the stars but towards a dense, infinite oblivion. A black hole. Another one.
I start to root about for keys, flinging open kitchen drawers and scrabbling through cutlery, elastic bands, paracetamol, stray biros and random lids for plastic tubs. My heart is pounding. Where is Dad? Why has he left me locked up and alone?
What the hell is happening here?
I don’t know exactly, but it’s nothing good, that’s for sure.
33
Stacie
‘Hey, love, I’m home.’ Dad’s voice shatters the solid silence. In an instant I am on my feet, striding the few paces across the sitting room into the kitchen. The back door swings wide open, fresh air floods into the house. I dart to the door and hang onto it. Ronnie leaps about, almost knocking me over, as my legs are still quivering. I am half in the house, half out. I could run. Just go. Now.
What am I thinking? Run from what? Run to what?
‘You all right, love?’ Dad looks concerned.
I take enormous gulps of air. Try to steady myself, try to sound sane and reasonable. I fail. ‘You locked me in,’ I yell, my tone a hundred per cent accusatory.
‘What?’ He seems confused.
‘You locked all the doors and windows. I was trapped. Why did you lock me in?’ I don’t step back into the kitchen, but instead am set like a runner on the blocks. Ready, steady, go.
‘Oh, sorry, love. God, how silly of me.’ Dad playfully slaps his forehead. ‘I didn’t plan to, obviously. I locked up last night before I set off to find you. I forgot I’d done so. I locked this door behind me when I left this morning without giving it much thought. You were still asleep. It’s only eight o’clock now. I didn’t even expect you to be up.’ Ronnie is licking my hand reassuringly. Dad looks concerned. I tell myself that everything is as it should be. ‘I’m so sorry. You’re as white as a sheet. Did something happen? Why were you so worried? I wasn’t out long.’
‘All the windows were locked.’ I’m already beginning to feel foolish, but try to explain my panic. ‘We never so much as close windows, let alone lock them.’
‘There are more people hanging about now that things are opening up. Innocent holidaymakers maybe. Strangers definitely.’ He smiles. ‘You have your own key, don’t you?’
‘No,’ I snap. Then I realise I sound like a sulky teenager and so try to be more reasonable. ‘At least, if I do, I can’t remember where it is.’
Dad looks sheepish. ‘Sorry, love. I never thought. We’ll get you a new key cut as soon as we can. Today, if we can’t unearth the original one. You’re shaking. Sorry. I’m home now.’ He smiles, his broad, kind smile. The only thing I know and trust. Right? ‘Do you fancy a cuppa?’ he asks. I nod. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘No.’
‘Leave it to me. You rest up.’
I sit down on the stoop, lean against the back door. Dad makes the tea and toast without another word. Then he potters about the garden while I eat and drink. I watch him pick up the odd piece of litter that has blown in onto the pile of sea glass. He brushes the stones with a long-handled broom and then gets out the hosepipe and washes them. The water splutters, then forms an impressive arc that catches the sunlight and glistens.
I feel a need to normalise things and make conversation. ‘You tend those as though it was a rose bed,’ I observe.
He grins. ‘Damn sight easier than any plants.’
I’m not certain, but I think I recall Dad once bragging he was green-fingered. I can’t be sure about anything, apparently. The seagulls are entitled and curious; they swagger around about a ruler distance from me. It feels too close. They’re waiting for me to share my breakfast toast. I break off a corner and toss it at them. The sense of claustrophobia hasn’t quite subsided. Screeching, they fall on it and start to tussle, reminding me of fat boozed-up men falling out of a pub door when someone calls time. They don’t have any grace or sense of decorum. The pigeons come right up at me; one of them pecks a crumb off my Croc. I crush my instinct to flinch and scare it away. It feels like a moment when I need to hold my nerve. I know what I have to do.
‘Tell me more about my illness, Dad.’
‘Oh, what a topic. I’d have thought you’d had enough of talking about that.’ Dad straightens, looks up at the sky. ‘It’s going to be another beautiful day.’
I am not going to let him avoid the subject. I force myself to grin at him. But it’s hard, I don’t feel like smiling. ‘I know you’ve spoken of it before, but the problem is, I keep forgetting what you’ve told me. I’ve forgotten the treatment.’
He nods at me. ‘They said you might.’
‘Did they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who are they?’
He laughs. ‘Well, the doctors and nurses, obviously.’
‘And the specialists, the consultant?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘They said I’d forget my treatment?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Dad stares at me, trying to figure me out. ‘What’s up, Stacie? What in particular is bothering you? Are you still feeling weird because I accidentally locked you in?’
‘What’s his name again? The name of the man who was in charge of my treatment.’
Dad turns off the tap. The water from the hose slows, splutters, then stops, before he finally replies. ‘Now, let me think. There was a Mr McDougal, for a start. He was the main consultant, and then along with him there were a number of other doctors and nurses. Off the top of my head, I remember Rosie, Deja and Jamal were the nurses’ names.’
‘Were they all nice?’
‘Nice?’
‘Well, I realise they’re heroes, saved my life, et cetera, but were they nice? Did I like them?’ Why can’t I remember them? You’d think they’d be a big deal to me, right?’
‘You liked them all, except for maybe Dr Brookfield; she could be a bit cautious and that depressed you. You always wanted to hear just the good news.’
The sun falls on my thighs. Tingles. It’s going to be a scorcher. ‘Tell me a bit more. Give me some details.’
Dad sighs and starts to coil up the hosepipe. ‘Frankly, I’ve no idea why you want to dwell on this morbid subject, but if you insist. The anaesthetist was rather dour. He was in charge of your tracheotomy. You didn’t like the EEG cap, but it was there to measure seizures. Your sleep wasn’t solid.’ I try to imagine the situations he’s describing. I try to recall the feel of the cap.
‘When did my hair fall out?’ I touch my head; there is a uniform covering now, just a couple of centimetres long.
‘What?’
‘Did it come out bit by bit, or did I cut it all off before the treatment?’
Dad looks awkward. ‘I can’t recall.’
‘You can’t recall that?’
‘Can you?’ He laughs. It’s a joke, but I don’t find it funny. He catches sight of my expression and then says, ‘Sorry. I think you cut it off. Yes, you did. I remember now.’
‘Did we keep it?’
‘What, the hair?’
‘Yes. Did we keep the hair?’
‘No. No, you donated it to a charity for kids with cancer who needed wigs. Yes, that’s right, it’s all coming back to me now.’ He smiles broadly. ‘It’s growing back well, though, isn’t it?’
I nod. ‘It’s growing back darker than I was in the photos.’
‘A little, perhaps. That happens.’
I stare at him for a long time. ‘When did I visit them last, the consultants, the hospital?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure.’
‘Before lockdown?’
‘Well, obviously. You’ve seen the news. They aren’t exactly keen to bring vulnerable people into hospitals. Thousands of people are dying, Stacie.’
‘I understand, but I’d have thought there would be online consultations.’
‘No internet.’ Dad shrugs. ‘Besides, you were at the end of your treatment for now. God willing, for ever. You’re in remission. You don’t need to see anyone at the moment. You know all this, Stacie.’ A muscle in his cheek is quivering. It looks like he’s chewing a moth.
‘Are there letters?’ I probe.
‘Letters, what sort of letters?’
‘Appointment notifications from when I did go in. Details about my treatment and consultations. You don’t have internet, so nothing was emailed. There must be letters. Physical ones.’ I can hear my voice tightening. I try to remain calm. I don’t want to sound as though I’m accusing him of anything. Although I am. But what exactly? A terrible thought is beginning to seep into my mind. Did he abandon my treatment? Maybe the hospital called me in for further appointments during lockdown, but he decided I shouldn’t attend because he’s so afraid of damned COVID. It sounds odd, but something is not right. I’m not in control of my treatment, or anything come to that.
‘Well, yes, of course there are letters.’
‘So where are they?’ I should have asked this before, this and so much more. How could I have not asked? I should have taken more interest in my condition, treatment and prognosis. I’ve spent my time thinking about my past, but obviously the most important matter is my future.
‘I’ve shown you the letters. You’ve just forgotten them again,’ says Dad with a sigh. His patience seems less abundant than usual.
‘I thought the operation took away past memories; are you telling me now that my memory since my illness is spasmodic too? Am I supposed to live with this going forward?’ I rattle the questions out at the speed of gunfire. Dad bends his head; he won’t meet my eye or answer me. In frustration, I stand up and stride past him.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks.
‘For a walk.’
‘Are you taking Ronnie?’
‘You’ve just brought him home,’ I point out.
‘We didn’t go far.’
That doesn’t ring true; he was out for over two hours and Ronnie is settled on the sofa in the sitting room, bathing in a shaft of sunlight that’s flooding through the window, obviously tired. I bristle, because there seems to be a level of control that comes from the suggestion. It feels restrictive. Everything Dad does feels like a rope is being wrapped around me, and even if that rope is made of silk, I want to snap it.
‘Show me the letters again.’
‘What?’
In all the times I’ve tidied the house, and today when I searched through drawers, boxes and cupboards looking for the keys, I’ve never come across a single medical letter. ‘Where do you keep the letters from my doctors? I have a right to see them.’
‘In my room.’ He blinks, once, twice.
I turn back into the coolness of the cottage. I can’t storm off; I need to get to the bottom of this. I need to understand my treatment. He follows me, and the moment we are both in the kitchen, I hear the back door bang closed and the key turn in the lock. I feel like I’m climbing on a bouncy castle. Walls sloping, floor sinking, everything trembling and moving, nothing solid. I turn and see an expression on his face that I haven’t seen him wear before but somehow I still recognise.
Betrayal.
34
Stacie
‘Who are you?’ For months I’ve been asking Who am I? I now realise that was the wrong question. So terribly wrong. My mind starts galloping at a hundred miles per hour. I see, and sense, and feel, and maybe even remember so many things at once that I feel sick and dizzy. ‘Open the door.’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘Give me the key.’
‘Darling, you look terrible. I’ll get you some water. I wonder if you’ve picked up something in town. We need to check your temperature. It could be COVID.’ His face is a picture of concern. An expression I’ve melted into for months but abruptly no longer trust. The strange thing is, my father calling me darling was something I wanted in the past; I know that, I recall that. But this man calling me darling doesn’t feel right.
‘Who are you?’ I ask again. My voice rattles around the house. It seems to ooze through the scruffy furniture, the dusty books, the ornaments and the mug tree. I focus on these things, telling myself that I have grown up with these objects, that they are familiar and known, but they are not. Not really. My voice mooches in and out, over and through, as though exploring. Looking for the answer, which is hidden just out of sight. It pushes at the locked doors and locked windows. Unable to escape.
‘I’m your dad, silly. Are you having an episode? Is your memory playing up again? Don’t worry, darling girl. This happens. You’ve been very ill. Remember?’ I shake my head. He takes the gesture to mean that I don’t remember, so he repeats things he’s said to me before. ‘You had brain cancer. You were operated on before lockdown. You have no long-term memories. You can’t recall anything that happened to you before the cancer, and sometimes you get confused about events that have happened since. You lose some short-term things too.’ He squeezes my shoulder; a little too long, a little too hard. It feels awkward.
I have longed to wake up from the living nightmare of not remembering. I’ve actively wished for as much every few minutes of every day, for months. And now I am waking up, becoming fully conscious in every sense, and I fear my reality might be worse than the nightmare I was living. I breathe deeply. My mind is processing dozens of things all at the same time. I fight through the mishmash. I examine the idea that my father stopped my cancer treatment because of his fear of COVID. On some level it makes sense. My lack of memories about the treatment, the lack of letters detailing consultations … Something doesn’t add up. My mind swirls with more thoughts and, yes, memories. I allow them space.
