A simple intervention, p.7
A Simple Intervention, page 7
So I spent the day in her sleeping company. I knew I shouldn’t start on the stool without her. I read, washed my clothes, took a shower, then lay in bed listening to her breathing.
She woke as dusk was falling, reproaching me only half-heartedly for not waking her sooner. I brought her a coffee and a few slices of bread. We went looking for sandpaper, primer and paint in the cellar, then went outside and stood with the stool in the setting winter sun.
‘It was a long night,’ she said. ‘I wish I could have stayed awake and spent the day with you.’
My cheeks flushed.
‘Sometimes I hate them.’ She reached into her coat pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one.
I shook my head. I picked up the sandpaper and got to work.
‘The patients. Sometimes I hate them. With every fibre of my being. I could kill them all.’
The glowing match lit up her face. She held it between her fingers, and I thought: she’s about to set fire to the stool; it’s about to go up in flames in my hands.
‘I hate the way they’re treated.’ She lit her cigarette and blew out the match. ‘I think it’s their own fault – why are they so stupid, anyway? I hate the fact they’re in pain, and that you can see it. Then I realize how unfair I’m being, and I hate myself, and I want to kill myself.’
I said nothing. There it was, that familiar nausea between my ribs. Not like at other times, when I had to breathe through it and count. But it was there.
‘Don’t you ever feel that?’
‘No.’
She furrowed her brow. Then another pause, because she didn’t believe me. I recalled the despair. That pitch-black despair always lurking on the ward, waiting for hopelessness to set in.
‘It can be hard,’ I admitted, ‘but hatred… It’s good work. It does so much…’ Good, I wanted to say. I couldn’t get the word out. She nodded.
Outside in the courtyard, the two of us alone together, I wanted to tell her everything in detail. I wanted to tell her about the young man who, thanks to the intervention two days ago, had been cured of his destructive rage and could do no more damage. I wanted to tell her about the strength I’d needed to get him through the intervention. Hold on to me. I’ll make sure you get through this.
But something about her stopped me. A scepticism in her eyes whenever we talked about the hospital. All the certainty and strength my work gave me shrank to a vague pretension in her presence. So I didn’t talk about it much. If I mentioned the older nurses, the patients, the intervention, I’d see her sceptical expression and change the subject. She did the same. She’d start telling me something, only to break off mid-sentence, saying that that was enough, that we’d said we wouldn’t talk about it, that it just tainted everything, and had I seen the story in the paper today about the fire?
She took a last drag, then stamped out the cigarette on the floor.
‘Your family home.’ I blew some dust off the stool. It swirled in the air and landed on her coat. She didn’t brush it off. ‘What was it like?’
‘What was it like?’ Haven’t I told you enough? her eyes seemed to be saying.
There was her and her mother. There was a neighbour who sometimes came over for a cup of tea and then stayed for days. There was the rusty old car her mother picked her up from the station in when she went home. The passenger door would spring open without even a ‘hello’, and she’d be met by the first torrent of Justlookattheweather, Whyareyoustandingbackhere, Whatonearthdoyoulooklike.
Her house was on a large plot of land. There was so much sky, it tired you out. There were photos of great-aunts, grandparents, all of them gone before Sarah was born.
The rooms in her house were damp. Like the cellar in the nurses’ hall, where we’d rummaged through the rubbish, looking for sandpaper. Like in the hospital, in the changing rooms. ‘Sometimes I stand in that hospital,’ said Sarah, ‘and suddenly’ – she snapped her fingers – ‘I feel like I’m back at my mother’s. As if she and I are breathing the same air. Because it smells exactly the same. Because I have the same feeling here inside.’ She placed her hand on her stomach.
‘That’s happened to me before too.’
‘Really?’
I shoved her shoulder, harder than I’d intended. ‘Don’t you believe me?’ I cried. She had to step back to keep her balance. I saw this, and all my audacity ebbed from me. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured, lowering my head.
She came towards me, took hold of my chin and pushed it upwards. ‘I’m not made of glass,’ she said.
In that moment, I wanted to sink the weight of my head into her hand. I wanted to close my eyes and rest there.
We carried the stool from one corner of our room to another and back again. We couldn’t seem to find the right place for it. Eventually we stood it in the middle of the room. ‘Our lighthouse,’ said Sarah, putting a candle on it.
Now, with this unnecessary piece of furniture standing in it, the room seemed stark.
‘Can I see the postcards from your sister?’
I nodded. I took the little pile from the drawer and showed it to her.
She whistled appreciatively through her teeth. ‘We should pin them up,’ she said. ‘Your sister’s travelling all over the world.’
‘Not exactly.’ I turned over a postcard and began reading it out: ‘Dear Meret… I’m still working on the farm, and for two weeks now the sky has looked like it’s about to drop a bucket of divine shit all over… which is why I’m sending you this postcard from the South of France…’
‘There’s no need to cry,’ said Sarah.
‘I’m not crying.’
I wasn’t my sister. I didn’t sit in front of others, crying shamelessly, as if I were proud of my pain.
‘I’m going to buy a houseplant,’ I said, ‘for the stool. From the florist’s at the station.’
‘No.’ She put her hand on mine. ‘We’ll do that together. You and me. Agreed?’
Why wouldn’t I agree?
9
She was kneeling by her bed, her elbows propped on the mattress, resting her forehead on her folded hands.
That’s how I found her in the semi-darkness. The snow lying outside cast a cold light into the room. It took a moment for me to make out her shape. But I knew she was there. We knew each other well enough now to sense the other’s presence before entering the room.
The door was slightly ajar. I opened it a little, gently. It was already late; night had fallen.
I blinked. I wasn’t sure I was seeing right. She was whispering, her eyes closed. She didn’t notice me.
Closing the door quietly, I went downstairs. I sat alone at one of the long tables and ate my dinner. I’d been a witness to something intimate, more intimate than a naked body, more intimate than tears.
Lost in confusion, I listened to the noises of the house. The wooden beams creaking in the cold, the whooshing in the walls – the unmistakable sound of nocturnal visits to the toilet. Eventually her footsteps on the stairs too. She stopped in the doorway. ‘Come into the warmth,’ she said.
I was beyond tired. I didn’t want to lie down. I knew that if I did, I’d spend the night with my thoughts. ‘I’m going out again.’
‘It’s freezing out there.’
Ice crystals were branching across the windows. The last throes of winter. It was the end of March.
‘Come with me,’ I said.
Taking our bikes, we rode to the end of the asphalt road. Usually the wood greeted its visitors like a wall of black, but now the snow gave it contours, made it softer, almost inviting. We parked the bikes and took the pathway we’d gone down on Christmas Eve, knowing it would bring us back again.
We were silent. The snow had spread its blanket over every sound. All we could hear was the crunch of our feet on the ground, our breath, and every now and then something snapping in the thicket.
Many of the nurses were afraid of the wood. When it was dark and they were cycling alone, they took a long detour to avoid it. There were stories, and they were all frightening in their own way. I wasn’t afraid of the wood. I trusted in the path I travelled, day in and day out. I was sure this familiarity protected me.
Sarah went on ahead. She could never stay beside me for long when we were on the move. I knew her back so well by now. I knew the way it tilted slightly on the bike. I knew its upright posture when she walked, and the pride she took in it – I knew how she defended it against exhaustion.
It started snowing again. At first I thought it was an illusion, just snow being scattered from a tree by a gust of wind. But then the flakes came more heavily. They fell on the ground, the trees and the bushes. On Sarah’s hair. She stretched out her hand and caught a few.
I took a deep breath and held it in. I didn’t want to see its frozen clouds. I wanted to see that hair, and the snow slowly turning it into a landscape.
When we got back from the wood to our room, the window was wide open. Neither of us could remember opening it. Snow lay on the floor. ‘No!’ I cried. Now we’d freeze all night long. Sarah laughed at how hurriedly we’d left.
I got changed quickly and climbed into bed. I was still warm from the journey, but that didn’t last long. The sweat cooled on my skin. I curled up, making myself as small as possible, arms wrapped round my knees to keep in the rest of the warmth. I looked at Sarah. She was freezing like me, a shivering little ball in her bed. She wasn’t immune.
‘Come and lie with me,’ Sarah said eventually.
It wasn’t unheard of. Nurses often slept in the same bed. To warm each other up, to comfort each other, to deaden the hopelessness. That’s what I told myself as I accepted her invitation. She put her arm around me; I felt her in my back, in my neck, in my hair. She was shivering, but her body was warm. She took my hand. I kissed her knuckles. Her wrist. Her forearm, following the arteries running down it.
10
I was convinced it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me who’d stripped naked so her hands could be with my body. It wasn’t me who’d kissed her ears in this ice-cold room, who’d surrendered my tongue to hers, offered up my hair and neck when she reached for them. It wasn’t me who’d run my fingers between her thighs, or pushed them apart so I could touch her. It wasn’t me who’d felt her body start to quiver, one hand gripping the sheet, the other pulling me towards her until my forehead was touching hers.
It wasn’t me who’d stopped at some point, opened my eyes and exchanged this astounded look with her. It wasn’t me who, still naked and sweating, had rested my head on her shoulder and succumbed to a fast, black sleep, like unconsciousness. It wasn’t me, because, well, how could it have been?
Me – the person who woke in the middle of the night, peeled herself, bewildered, off this other body, stepped into her shoes, hurried to the toilet, slapped cold water on her face and said to herself in the mirror: that must have been someone else. And then stumbled back into the room and saw Sarah sleeping soundly, perhaps even contentedly, perhaps even dreaming sweet dreams. I was the person who let the remains of this night turn into morning and started her day, a day barely distinguishable from any other.
That was the story with shame.
There was also one without.
I kissed her forearms.
I kissed her collarbone.
I kissed the place between her breasts.
I kissed her mouth, the mouth my eyes had lingered on so many times.
She reached for my hair. My neck. She whispered into my mouth that she was wet. That I made her wet.
I ran my fingers between her thighs and pushed them gently apart. I touched her hot wetness, felt the pull in my abdomen, and realized I was wet. That she made me wet too.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘Inside,’ she said. ‘I like it inside.’
I looked at her. I wanted to see what was happening on her face. And because there was barely any light, because we had to be quiet, only her breathing could help me find my way: not there. Or: right there.
Then I moved away from her. I wasn’t close enough to my fingers. I pushed myself down her body, my head between her thighs, so I could see exactly what she looked like, even though most of her was in the shadow of my own face. I felt my way forward with my tongue. I didn’t just want to smell her. I wanted to taste her.
Her body started to quiver, one hand clenching, gripping the sheet and the other groping about for me, unsure whether to stop me and at the same time insisting I should absolutely not stop because with each touch more and more was falling from her and she could hardly bear it. I carried on, pushing my fingers deeper inside her until the quiver became a spasm and she grabbed a pillow and placed it over her face. It barely stifled the gasp of surprise that escaped her lips.
I followed her hand, which pulled me towards her. We exchanged an astounded look. I let her kiss me. I watched her trace her lips with her tongue, smiling.
‘Now you,’ she said.
But I didn’t want to leave the moment. ‘Just stay like this with me?’
I lay naked, soaked in sweat, my head on her shoulder, and a deep, fast sleep came over this happiness, like unconsciousness.
In the middle of the night I woke. I peeled myself, bewildered, off her warm body. I stepped into my shoes, hurried to the toilet and slapped cold water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror. The little groove between my nose and lip, covered in fine down. The one eyelid hanging lower than the other. I traced my fingers along the bones that stood out under my skin: my cheeks, my jaw, my forehead.
That was me. That’s how I looked.
When I crept back into the room, she was sleeping soundly. I could still fit perfectly into the hollow formed by her body. Lying like that, I let the remains of the night turn into morning. At one point, I took her hand, kissed it, and marvelled at my own smell on her fingers.
Eventually she woke up. We started the day together.
11
Sixteen square metres, two beds, a wardrobe, a table, a chair. A stool that needed a plant on it, like in a proper home.
We left things for each other. Books, chocolate, a freshly picked flower. Little notes telling each other what we’d been doing. She wrote about a stubborn bike chain, and about her mother, who’d gone to get her jacket during a phone call only to then forget about her daughter altogether. I wrote about Bibi’s last postcard from Australia and about the ant colony in the toilet.
In the evenings following our first night together, I lay in bed, my eyes lingering on these things, feeding off the snippets of daily life that Sarah chose to share with me. They got me through the nights I was alone.
The time we spent together in this room:
Saying ‘hello’. Taking off my jacket and hanging it in the wardrobe.
Attending to a few important things before turning to one another: going to the bathroom, washing the hospital off me, if not off my whole body then at least off my hands, arms and face.
Patching up my uniform, which had torn at the sleeve. Closing my eyes and going through the handover with the night nurse again so I could erase the hospital from my head too.
Eventually being interrupted by her voice: ‘May I?’
‘Yes.’
She came towards me, placed her hands on my cheeks and kissed me. We laughed. Our laughter cleared my head.
Trying so hard to stay awake that my temples hurt because my body was tired, because it wanted to lie with her and sleep. Protesting because I wanted to stay conscious and catch everything she said.
Sleep, sinking me like a stone.
Sounding out her past: ‘Who was your first kiss?’
‘A girl from my village. To thank me, because I’d given her my bike.’
Sarah came and stood behind me as I looked out of the window. She wrapped her arm round me so it lay on my collarbone, stroking my shoulder with her thumb. I could have closed my eyes and stayed like that for hours.
‘She was my first time, too. It all went wrong. It was as if we couldn’t tell top from bottom. But—’
‘But?’
‘It felt like home. Like being home.’
She leaned her head against mine.
‘And you?’
‘A girl from my school.’
‘A girl too?’
‘All the girls kissed girls back then.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Her hand wandered along my arm. She clasped my hip and pulled me closer to her.
Casting off these things when our time ran out. As the alarm clock ticked away the final minutes, we detached ourselves from one another. We took off the clothes we’d been together in. We combed our hair and put it up. We left the room and slapped cold water on our faces.
We never kissed each other goodbye.
There were cool hours too. It could suddenly switch. We were sitting together when she said, ‘At some point, I want to show you where I grew up. Introduce you to my mother. She’s a bit like an out-of-tune piano. I think you’d get along.’
I nodded. I didn’t want to leave this room. Things were simple here: one of us came home, and the other was already there. One of us closed the door, and the rules of the outside world no longer applied.
She stood up. She reached for her pillow, went to the window and shook it out. She smoothed out her sheet and blanket more than ever before. She’s about to go and get the broom, I thought. And then she did. I took a deep breath. One of her characteristics: turning anger into order.
I waited until she’d finished sweeping. Until even the books were freed from their thin layer of dust.
Then she stood by the door. She wanted to leave. I would have let her. She knew that.
Sarah sat down beside me on the bed again. She opened her mouth, shook her head and moved away when I tried to put my hand on her shoulder. Slowly, very slowly, exhaustion came and drove the hardness out of her.
